15541	----	WHAT TWO CHILDREN DID BY CHARLOTTE E. CHITTENDEN NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1903, BY GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. _Published, September, 1903_ [E-book Transcriber's Note: Obvious typos have been corrected and missing punctuation provided.] Contents I. ON THE WAY II. AT THE SHORE III. BETH AND HER DOLLS IV. THE WEDDING V. THE NEW WAY VI. A PLAN VII. THE SECRET VIII. THE REWARD IX. ONCE A YEAR X. BETH'S BIRTHDAY XI. THE DAY AFTER XII. SUNDAY XIII. THE FOUR TOGETHER XIV. THE WEDDING AND THE VISIT XV. THE LOST INVITATION XVI. THE MAIL AND ETHELWYN'S VISIT XVII. OUT AT GRANDMOTHER'S XVIII. HOW THEY BOUGHT A BABY XIX. BOBBY'S GRANDFATHER XX. THE VISIT TO THE HOME What Two Children Did _CHAPTER I_ _On the Way_ In the train we're watching Outdoors speeding by: Endless moving pictures, Framed by earth and sky. "Mistakes are very easy to make, I think," said Ethelwyn, with an uneasy look at her mother who sat opposite, thinking hard about something. The reason Ethelwyn knew her mother was thinking, was because at such times two little lines came and stood between her eyes, like sentinels. "Do you think God made a mistake when He sent us here?" asked Beth. They were in a Pullman car which was moving rapidly along in the darkness. Inside it was very bright and beautiful, and would have been most interesting to the children, had it not been for those two lines in their dear mother's face. "She is thinking about the naughty things we have done," said Ethelwyn to Beth in a tragic tone, at the same time taking a mournful bite out of a large, sugary cooky. They had eaten steadily since starting, and any one who did not understand children, would have been alarmed at possible consequences. On the seat between them there was a hospitable-looking basket with a handle over the middle and two covers that opened on either side of the handle. Underneath the covers and the napkins the children, entirely to their joy, had found sandwiches without limit. Some were cut round, others square, and all were without crust; inside they found minced chicken, creamy and delicious, also ham and a little mustard, and best of all were the small, brown squares with peanut butter between. "It's like Christmas or a birthday, having these sandwiches," said Ethelwyn. "They're all different and all good, and each one seems better than the others." Then they began on the cookies, and bit scallops out of the edges, while between times they thought about their last mistake and their mother's forehead lines. Sitting up straight against the velvet cushioned seat, the two children looked about the same age; the two heads were nearly on a level, as were both pairs of feet stuck out straight in front of them; but Ethelwyn's came a little farther out than Beth's, and her golden head came a little farther up on the seat than Beth's dark one. Just now there was a small cloud on their horizon. Although they found the interior of their palace car, the porter, and the passengers, fascinating, and the luncheon an endless feast, they both felt that before they slept they must straighten things out; hence their first question. Mrs. Rayburn came back presently to a realizing consciousness of the two anxious faces opposite hers, and with a smile dismissed the sentinel lines. "God never makes mistakes," said she, with refreshing faith and emphasis. "It is we who do that." "I think," said Beth, slowly pondering on this, "that the old surplus in the garden of Eden who bothered Adam and Eve has something to do with it." "Serpent, child," said Ethelwyn crushingly, beginning on cake. "Surplus, I mean," said Beth, getting out a piece of cake for herself. "I'd give a good deal, sister, if you wouldn't always count your chickens before they're hatched!" Whereupon she climbed down and went over to sit by her mother, where she glared indignantly at her sister. Her dear "bawheady" doll was in her arms. This doll was so called because early in life he had lost his wig, and thereby developed a capability for being a baby, a bishop, or a boy. There was a fascinating hole on top of his head, thus making it possible to secrete things like medicine or food until they were fished out with a buttonhook or darning needle. He was fed on cake now, but was generally given crusts, when there were any, because Beth did not like them. "Why did you ask that question?" asked their mother. "We thought you looked as though we'd made you an awful lot of trouble," said Ethelwyn, regarding the gorgeous ceiling of the car. "Yes, you did, although I was not thinking of it just then; you ran away--" "Walked, mother," corrected Beth, "to the 'lectric car, with grandmother's gold dollar, to go down to buy a trunk specially for our dolls--" "It was fun, mother," put in Ethelwyn, "only when we stood up and fussed to see who'd push the button to get off, the man slowed up so fast we both fell through a fat man's newspaper into his lap and upon his toes. He was angry too, for he just said 'ugh,' when we asked him to excuse us, please. The trunk man gave us back four big silver nickels with the trunk; we put them inside, and you can have them, mother, to help heal your feelings." "Your mistake was in not asking--" "We thought you'd better not be 'sturbed, 'cause ever since grandpa and brother died, you've thought such a lot, and looked so worried--" "But I was more worried about you when I found you weren't in the house or grounds; I thought you might be lost, and I was about telephoning to the police station about it, when you came, and there was just time to catch the train." Then Ethelwyn got down, and went over to squeeze in on the other side of her mother. She knelt on the cushions and patted the dear face until the little smile they loved, came out again, and drove the care lines away. "Children are such a worry, mother," she said in a funny, prim fashion, "that I should think you'd be sorry you ever bought us." "But we are going to be good from now on, so good you'll nearly die laughing," said Beth, getting up to pat her side of the face. Their mother laughed now in a bright fashion they loved, and squeezed them up tightly. "No, no, chickens," she said, "I'm never sorry I bought you; you were bargains, both of you, but I've had much to think of, and plan for, in the last few months, and perhaps I've neglected you somewhat." "Can you tell us 'bout things, mother?" asked Ethelwyn. "P'raps we could help some." "Yes, I am going to, but not now, for the porter wishes to make up our beds." "There are stickers in my eyes," said Beth, yawning. "There's one more question I'd like to know about though," she said as they moved across the aisle. "If God can't make mistakes, why does He let it be so easy for folks to?" "That I don't just know," said her mother, "but it's a good sign when we know they are mistakes." It was only a short time after this that they were all asleep in their curtained beds, and while it was still dark, and the children were too sleepy to realize much about it, they reached their destination and were driven to the seashore, cottage where they were to spend the summer. _CHAPTER II_ _At the Shore_ Underneath the washing waves The requiem of the sea, For those whose hopes are buried there, Is tolling ceaselessly. It was interesting to go to sleep in a Pullman car, and to wake up in a dainty room hung with rosebud chintz draperies, and with an altogether delightful air of coziness about it. But there was something outside their room that, like a magnet, drew them out of bed. They climbed on chairs, and gazed eagerly out of the windows. The house they were in, was on a hill. Pine trees grew near, and there below them and very near, was the great silvery blue sea, with the sunshine flashing on its tossing waves? The children gasped with delight. "It's another door to Paradise," said Ethelwyn. "The gold place that shows where the sun sets is another one," said Elizabeth. Then they heard their mother, who had come in quietly, and in a moment was cuddling them up in her arms. "We've lost a lot of time, I'm afraid," said Ethelwyn after they had given her a bear hug and a kiss. "That ocean is the prettiest thing, mother. P'raps that's the way to Paradise where father and grandfather and brother have gone." "Yes," said their mother, helping them into their clothes. "It is one of the ways." "Tell us about this place, please," begged Ethelwyn, "and how we happened to come to such a de-lic-ious place. Will you have to work so hard, motherdy, here? And will the little lines come between your eyes?" Whereupon Elizabeth at once abandoned to their fate, her harness garters with their many buckles, and climbed up to see. Yes, the lines had gone, and she kissed the place to make sure before she climbed down again. "Hoty potys is the twissedest things," she remarked, worse tangled than ever. "Hose supporters, dear child," corrected Ethelwyn with the exasperating air that always roused Beth's wrath. "This cottage," mother hastened to say, while she untangled the buckles with one hand and buttoned Ethelwyn's waist with the other, "belongs to Mrs. Stevens and her daughter, Dorothy. I have known them for years. Recently they wrote asking me to bring you children and come to them for the summer; they, too, were lonely, and they knew that I needed rest, quiet, and time to plan for the future. There are few people living here but fisher folk--" "Christ's people?" "Yes, like them in trade, at least. They are poor and need help--" "Are we rich people now, and can we buy things for them?" "Your grandfather left you a great deal of money, children, and you must learn to use it generously. It was his wish, and mine, that you should begin at once to think about such things before you learn to love money for its own sake, and what it will buy." "O, we don't care at all, do we, sister?" said Beth, stretching up on tiptoe to get her "bawheady" from the bureau. "We'd just as lief give it away as not, 'cause we've always you, mother dear." "Is the money more than grandmother's gold dollar?" asked Ethelwyn. "Much more." "O, then we'll have fun spending it for folks; I'd like to. But, oh, I'm hungrier than I ever was before." "Me, too," said Beth. "I feel a great big appeltite inside me." They decided at once that the dining-room also was charming, with its cheery open fire of snapping pine knots, for the air outside was chilly. Then, too, there was a parrot on a pole, who greeted them with, "Well, well, well, what's all this? Did you ever?" Miss Dorothy Stevens had the kind of face that children take to at once. There never could be any question about Aunty Stevens, who laughed every time they said anything, and who on top of their excellent breakfast, brought them in some most delicious cookies--just the kind you would know she could make, sugary and melty, entirely perfect, in fact,--to take down on the beach for luncheon. After breakfast was over they at once started for the beach. Sierra Nevada, their colored nurse, following them with small buckets, shovels, wraps, and cushions. "Mother, this is the nicest place, and I love the Stevenses; but why are they sad around the eyes, and dressed in black, like you? Has their father gone to Paradise too?" asked Ethelwyn, as they walked along. "Yes, dear. Besides, the young captain whom Dorothy was going to marry went away last year and, his ship was wrecked and he has never been heard from. So they fear he was drowned." "O, mother, can this pretty sea do that? What was it they were saying about a tide?" Their mother tried to explain all she knew about the tides, and when she had finished, Ethelwyn said: "I think it would be easier to remember to call it tied, and then untied." _CHAPTER III_ _Beth and Her Dolls_ Dollie's poor mother is quite full of care, As she who lived in a shoe, For this child is tousled, this one undressed-- Mother has all she can do. More dollies there are, than possible clothes, Some of them must go to bed. And some to be healed by mother with glue, Lacking an arm or a head. Then others, wearing the invalid's clothes, Care not a fling or a jot Nor know that to-morrow their own fate may be The bed, or the mucilage pot. The first Sunday that the children were at the seashore was warm and beautiful. Mrs. Rayburn and Mrs. Stevens went to church in the picturesque stone chapel built by a sea captain, as a memorial to his daughter who was drowned on the coast some years before this. "We'll be really better girls to stay at home some of the church time," said Ethelwyn at breakfast, "we'll go this evening with Miss Dorothy." "My dolls are needing a bath and their best clothes for Sunday-school," said Beth to Ethelwyn, who had decided to go down on the beach; "and I can do it all comfy and nice while you are gone." So Ethelwyn and 'Vada went for a run on the beach, and mother Elizabeth, with a look of happy care on her face, and her beloved six dolls in her arms, came out on the porch, where she had already taken a basin of water, soap, a tiny sponge, and towels. Directly she became aware of some one near her, and looking up saw a girl with dark eyes and short, straight hair watching the proceedings with much interest, her hands clasped behind her back. "My name is Nan," said the visitor as soon as she caught Elizabeth's eye, "Who are you? Is this your house? We've just come, and mother is in bed with a headache, and father's gone to church, so I'm roaming around seeking something to devour--" "Does that mean eat?" said Elizabeth, a scene in one of her picture books of lions devouring their prey coming into her mind. "I think it's what my father calls a figure of speech. He's a minister--a clergyman, you know. We've come down here to board, and he's going to have the services in the Chapel of the Heavenly Rest. Mother's sick about always, so I have to roam around--Say, I know a game; let's baptize your children." "They don't need it; they're not born in sin--" "Everything is," emphatically. "Don't try to teach a minister's child things, for pity's sake. I'll do the baptizing. Come along." The rainwater barrel, half sunken in the ground, was at one of the rear corners of the house. "We are not allowed to play in that, I think," said Elizabeth uneasily. "That doesn't mean me, I'm older'n you. Here, give me the doll without a wig." Down went the beloved "bawheady" with a thud that carried desolation to Beth's tender heart. Four others followed in quick succession before Beth could protest. Then clinging to Arabella, she started to run. Nan tried to run after her, but caught her foot on the barrel's brim and straightway joined the five dolls. Elizabeth opened her mouth to shriek, when in an opportune moment, a young man appeared on the scene, and speedily fished out Miss Nan, who dripped and coughed and choked; inarticulate, but evidently wrathy sounds wrestled for utterance in her throat. At last she shook herself free. "I'm perfectly degusted with this whole preformance," she said as she went stalking off, dripping as she went. Then the young man laughed and laughed, until he became aware of Elizabeth wistfully staring at him. "What is it?" he asked. "My dolls. They're baptized clear to the bottom; please get 'em out." "I'll do it, if you will take this note to Miss Dorothy Stevens," said the young man, at once throwing off his coat and pushing up his shirt sleeve. Beth, before she trotted off, saw that he had a blue anchor on his arm. When she came back, the rescued five lay stretched on the grass in a pathetic row, and she at once ran to her prostrate children. "You are to go to the parlor and tell Miss Dorothy all about it," she said, in passing, to their rescuer. "Your note made Miss Dorothy cry; and she was all white 'round her mouth. Thank you for the dolls," she called as an afterthought. So busy was she drying her afflicted family that it was some time after the others had reached home that 'Vada, wildly excited, came to find Elizabeth and to tell her that Miss Dorothy's sweetheart had come back. "From Paradise?" queried Beth, getting up at once and bristling all over with questions she wanted to ask him about that interesting place. "Mighty nigh," said 'Vada, rolling her eyes. "He was shipwrecked on the raging main, and hit on de head wid somefin that done knock all de sense out of him, so he's pick up by some folks dat didn't know 'im, an' he went cruisin' aroun', till he come to, and, by 'me by, back to see his sweetheart." Elizabeth went into the parlor later on, and stared so insistently at the young captain that her mother drew her gently to one side and whispered to her. "But I'm anxious to see a sweetheart that has been in Paradise, mother," she explained. _CHAPTER IV_ _The Wedding_ Bells ring, Birds sing, Every one is gay; Hearts beat, Chimes sweet, On a bridal day. It was one of the things for the children to remember always, that Miss Dorothy was married while they were there to help. They helped so much in the matter of scraping all the cake and icing pans, stoning, and especially eating, raisins, that it was a wonder they were not ill. The morning on which the wedding was to take place dawned as bright and golden as could be desired. It was a very simple, pretty wedding in the stone chapel, towards which, in the early morning, the bridal party walked. Nan, Ethelwyn, and Elizabeth went ahead, bearing flowers, and after them came Miss Dorothy in her white gown, clinging to the arm of her sailor lover. Mrs. Stevens and the children's mother, together with a few friends, awaited them in the pretty church, and Nan's father married them. They then all went to the bride's home for breakfast, immediately after which, the young couple were going away for a year. This fact, and the mother's sad face impaired the appetites of the guests, with three noble exceptions. The trio at the end of the table ate with zest and unimpaired enthusiasm, of the good things that they fondly believed might never have reached their present point of perfection had it not been for their skill. "Should you think," Elizabeth paused to say, in a somewhat muffled voice, entirely owing to plum cake and not grief, "that one of us is married too?" "My father," returned Nan loftily, "is not given to making mistakes of that kind. There weren't husbands enough to go 'round anyway." "What is a husband?" "You've been helping make one, child, and you ask that!" So Elizabeth concluded it was a small portion of the refreshments that had escaped her notice. Afterwards they went down to the harbor from which the bride and groom were to sail. "Like the owl and the pussy cat," said Ethelwyn, cheerfully. As they kissed their friend good-bye, they placed around her neck a pretty chain, hanging from which was a medallion with their pictures painted on it. "You can look at us when you get lonesome," suggested Beth. The last good-bye was said, and they drove sadly home in a fine, drenching rain that had suddenly fallen like a vail over their golden day. 'Vada had started the open fires and they were cheerfully cracking, while Polly from her pole croaked crossly, "Shut up, do! Quit making all that fuss!" Mrs. Rayburn took Aunty Stevens away with her, and by and by in the afternoon, they found her tucked up on the couch in their sitting-room looking somewhat happier. "Aren't you glad you have us, and specially mother?" asked Beth, kissing her. There was only one answer possible to this, and it was given with such emphasis that Ethelwyn nodded and said, "That's the way we feel. Mother knows how to fix things right better'n anybody, unless it should be God." "Let's sing awhile, sister, while mother thinks of a story or two," suggested Beth. So they squatted in front of the grate and sang, "Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee, I am so glad that Jesus loves me." Then they sang what they called "Precious Julias," "Little children who love Mary Deemer." "Why," Beth stopped to ask, "does it say Precious Julias when it's 'bout Mary Deemer, sister?" "Middle name, prob'ly," answered Ethelwyn; "anyway that's Mary Deemer," pointing to a picture of Murillo's "Magdalene," "and the reason that she's loved by children, is because she is pretty and good. If you are good, Elizabeth, people will love you." "I'm as good as you are, anyway," began Beth wrathfully, when she saw Nan in the doorway. "May I come in?" she asked, wistfully. "Mother has a headache, father's gone fishing in a boat, and I've a toothpick in my side." "Come in, deary," said Mrs. Rayburn, who felt an infinite pity for sturdy little Nan, with her invalid mother. "Bless me, what cold hands! What's this thing you have in your side?" she continued, cuddling Nan up in her lap. Nan breathed a contented breath. "O, it's gone now. It's a sharp, pointed thing that sticks me when I'm lonesome." "We're having Sunday-school, the singing part, and you may come if you're good, and know a verse, and won't baptize the Sunday-school," said Beth, multiplying conditions rapidly. "I know a verse that father says he thinks ought to be in the Bible," said Nan. "Let's not have Sunday-school," she continued, snuggling down on Mrs. Rayburn's shoulder. "It's so nice here, and I want to tell you 'bout my dream I had the other night. Dreamed I went to heaven awhile, and when I came home I slid down fifty miles of live wire and sissed all the way down like a hot flatiron." "There's a gold crack in the sky now that shows a little weenty bit of Heaven's floor, I think, right now," said Ethelwyn, going to the west window. They all followed her, and sure enough there was the gold of the sky shining through the misty rain clouds. "Now, if God and the angels would just peek out a minute, I'd be thankful," said Elizabeth. _CHAPTER V_ _The New Way_ It's--hard--to--work-- And easy to play; I'll tell you what we've done, We play our work And work our play, And all the hard is gone. The children were always glad when Mrs. Flaharty came to wash, for she was never too busy to talk to them, nor to let them wash dolls' clothes in some of her suds, nor, in her own way, to converse, and to explain things to them. One Monday morning the two were in the back yard with gingham aprons tied around their waists for trails, and with one of Aunty Stevens' bright saucepans which they put on their heads in turn. In this rig, they felt that their appearance left little to be desired. They were having literary exercises while Mrs. Flaharty was hanging the white clothes on the line, and, by reason of her exceeding interest in the proceedings, she took her time about it too. In the midst of Ethelwyn's recitation of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," she paused to say, after, "The eager children cry," "What do you s'pose the silly things cried for?" "'Cause they didn't have any lamb, prob'ly," promptly replied Elizabeth from the audience, where she sat surrounded by her dolls. "Hurry up, sister, it's my turn." "Is it ager, children, you're askin' about?" asked Mrs. Flaharty, flopping out a sheet. "If you'd ever had the ager, what wid the pain in your bones an' the faver in your blood, you'd be likely to cry--whin you had the stren'th." "Is it shaking ager?" asked Elizabeth doubtfully. "Oh, I didn't know that. Come and sit down on the steps, Mrs. Flaharty, and I'll tell a story I made up for this special 'casion." "It's troo wid the white does I am, an' I reckin I can sit and take me breath before I begin on the colored; besides, I'd have to be takin' away the foine costumes ye has roun' your waists, if I wint now." So Mrs. Flaharty sat down ponderously. "I've a poem, too," said Ethelwyn, taking her place in the audience, and Elizabeth began: "Once there was a little boy whose father was cross to him, and kept him home all the while, and when he let him go anywhere, he said he 'mustn't' and 'don't' so much, it spoiled all his fun. Once the boy went in the woods where lived a fairy prince. 'Go not near the fairy prince,' had said the boy's father so much that the boy thought he'd die if he did. So the fairy prince looked over the back fence and said, 'Avast there,' so the boy avasted as fast as he could. 'I'm in trouble,' said the fairy prince. 'What about?' said the boy. 'I can walk only on one foot till somebody cuts off my little toe,' said the prince. "So the boy did it with his father's razor, and it thundered and lightened, and his father came and scolded over the back fence, but the prince waved his magic cut toe; then they all banged and went up on a Fourth of July sky rocket, till the father fell off and bumped all his crossness out of him, and like birds of a fevver, they all lived togevver afterwards." "The saints be praised," said Mrs. Flaharty, fanning herself with her apron. Then Ethelwyn came forward. "This is my poem," she said, bowing to the audience. "A little girl lived way down East, She rose and rose, like bread with yeast, She rose above the tallest people, And far above the highest steeple. She kept right on till by and by She took a peek into the sky--" "Oh, what did she see?" asked Elizabeth, interested at once. "That you can guess," replied the poet with dignity. "Mother says she likes poems and pictures that you can put something into from your own something or other, I forget what--you let folks guess about it." "My sister is smart," complacently remarked Elizabeth to Nan, who had just come over. "So am I, then," said Nan, not to be outdone. "I can make up beautiful poems." "Let's hear one." So Nan came forward, bowed profoundly and began: "I have a little kitty, Who is so very pretty, Tho' growing large and fat, I fear she'll be a cat. One day, my sakes, she saw a dog, Her tail swelled up just like a log; He barked, she spit, She does not love dogs, not a bit." "What color is she?" asked Ethelwyn. "That is left for your guessing part," said Nan promptly. Mrs. Flaharty now reluctantly arose. "It's a trate to hear ye," she said, "but I mus' git troo, and go home. There's a spindlin' lad named Dick nex' door but wan to where I live, that can walk only wid a crutch an' not able to do that lately. He'd be cheered entoirely wid your rhymes an' tales." "O, maybe mother'll take us to see him this afternoon. We'll ask her. She's intending to go down that way herself, I know, and she'll be so good to Dick; she just can't help it," said Ethelwyn, and at once they dashed off to see, leaving the saucepan crown rolling down the yard, and their gingham aprons lying on the steps. _CHAPTER VI_ _A Plan_ It's nice to get gifts, But better to give: For giving leaves always a glow That warms up a part In every heart; The joy of it never can go. There was woe in Ethelwyn's heart and pain in her throat, and the woe was on account of the pain; for Elizabeth and her mother had gone to town to arrange things for Dick, who was to be taken to the hospital, where he was to undergo an operation that would, in all probability cure him. And now Ethelwyn, ever desirous of being at the head and front of things, had taken this wretched cold and could not go. Very shortly after Mrs. Flaharty had told them about Dick, their mother had taken them to see him. His home was a long way from their cottage, where the fisher people lived, and the sights and smells in the hot summer air were hard to bear even for those who were well. Poor little Dick, lying day after day on his hard bed, with no care except what the kind-hearted washerwoman could give him, felt that life was an ill thing at best, and he was fast hastening out of it, with the assistance of ill nutrition and bad ventilation. Dick's own mother and father were dead, and his stepmother, a rough-looking creature, when she remembered him at all, looked upon him as a useless encumbrance, and by her neglect was making him very unhappy. Ethelwyn and Elizabeth, quite unused to suffering of this sort, sat soberly by, during their first visit, and watched their mother bending tenderly over the feeble little invalid, and ministering to his needs. In a week's time they had changed things marvelously. The stepmother had, for a sum that meant a great deal to her, relinquished all claim upon Dick, so he was placed in the care of a sewing woman, who, by reason of rheumatism in her fingers, could not sew any more; and she filled the starving sore spot in her childless heart with a loving devotion to Dick. The sum paid her for this care kept them both in comfort, and Dick, with flowers and birds about him, and with wholesome, dainty food, gradually lost his gaunt, hunted look and began to take a fresh hold of life. The doctor attending him gave it as his opinion that in one of the city hospitals the little fellow might be cured, and it was to see about this that Elizabeth and her mother had gone to town. The night before they were all in their sitting-room, talking it over. Aunty Stevens, who was greatly interested, had brought her knitting and joined them. "It would be a lovely work," said Mrs. Rayburn, thoughtfully looking at the fire, "to make a home for Dick and many such poor little weaklings, somewhere up on these heights where, with fresh air and good, well-cooked food, they could have a fighting chance for life." "There's our money," said Ethelwyn, cuddling her hand in her mother's. "Let's make one with it." "Would you like that?" "Yes, indeed we should," they answered in a breath. "But it would take a great deal of money, and instead of being very rich when you grow up, and being able to travel everywhere and have beautiful clothing and jewels, you might have to give up many things of that sort." "But," said Elizabeth, climbing up into her mother's lap, "isn't doing things for poor children like Dick, better than that?" "There's no doubt about it," said their mother, her eyes shining as she kissed the tops of the two round heads now cuddled on her shoulders, in what Beth called her "arm cuddles." "Well, we don't mind then, do we, sister?" "No indeed," said sister promptly, kicking her foot out towards the fire. "Dresses are a bother, and always getting torn, and traveling makes you very tired, only the luncheon's nice. But I'd lots rather build a home." "Let's see," said mother, "if you are as ready to give up something now. Elizabeth's birthday is next week and Ethelwyn's next month. I had thought we might take a short yachting trip,--all of us, Nan, Aunty Stevens--" "O, mother," they cried, turning around to hug her. "Then there is a doll in town that can walk and talk. Beth, deary, you choke me so I can't talk;--and a camera for sister. Would you mind giving up these things to help pay the hospital expenses, or to buy a wheel chair or some comfort for Dick?" Down went the heads again, and dead silence reigned except for the crackling of the fire and the clicking of Aunty Stevens' needles. "May we go away and think it over?" said Ethelwyn soberly. "Yes." So they slid down and disappeared to think it out alone, as they always did when obliged to settle questions for themselves. Ethelwyn went outdoors, and crawled into the hammock on the porch. The wind blew mistily from the sea and was heavy with dampness and cold, but the child paid no attention to that; she was so busy thinking. Surely, she thought, there was money enough for Dick and the others without giving up her camera and the sea trip. She had longed for a camera all summer. Nan had the use of her mother's and had taken their pictures in all places and positions, and she did so wish for one. But then, there was poor Dick, how uncomfortable he had looked. Elizabeth, meantime, went to the bedside of her beloved doll family. They were lying serene and placid, exactly as she had placed and tucked them in at bedtime, with her own motherly hand, and the memory of Dick lying racked with pain on the comfortless bed where she had first seen him, almost decided her at once. But a doll that could walk and talk, though, would be lovely. "But then, darlings," she said, after a little, "you might think I would love her better than you, and you are such dears, you don't deserve that." So Beth kissed them all with fervor, her mind quite made up. While they were away, Aunty Stevens said, "Isn't that a pretty hard test?" The children's mother shook her head thoughtfully at the dancing fire. "I hope not," she said. "I don't wish them to do things now that they will repent of afterwards. But it seems to me that if they are trained now to be unselfish, they will always be so. Don't you think, dear Mrs. Stevens, that the whole trouble with the world is its selfishness?" "No doubt at all about it," said the older woman, nodding emphatically over her flying needles. "Then if the world is to be made better, and rid of this, which lies at the bottom of all the crime, sin and unhappiness, the younger ones of us will have to be taught to sacrifice, at least some luxuries, to help give less fortunate ones the necessities of life," said Mrs. Rayburn, getting interested, and talking fast and earnestly. "How I hate the expression 'Look out for number one,' It's such teaching as this, that makes human beings so forgetful of others," she went on after a little pause, "and the modern socialist only seems to be trying to exchange one set of selfish, grasping rules for another of the same sort. So the world will go on, until the laws are again based on the teaching of our Lord, and Christian socialism will prevail." "Yes, you are quite right, but what are you among so many?" asked Aunty Stevens, smiling across at her friend. Mrs. Rayburn's cheeks flushed. "Yes, I know," she said. "I suppose it looks as though I alone were trying to reform the world; but I am not. I am only one little atom trying to teach still smaller atoms that they must do their share." "Was it not in 'Bleak House' that that exceedingly unpleasant personage used to give away her children's pocket money? And the black looks she received from them when she was not looking, were something dreadful." "Well," said Mrs. Rayburn, laughing, "I hope you don't think the cases are parallel." "No indeed, I don't. I was trying to say, I think you are right because you go at it in the right way, and let them choose. Then, because they love and have perfect confidence in you, they will be pretty likely to choose the right way." "People so often say, 'Let children have a good time,' but interpreted, from their point of view, a good time, means a selfish time. That is selfish enjoyment, but it might be good occasionally to put to the test the truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive." Elizabeth now came in with her baby doll in her arms. She soberly climbed up again into the blessed fold of her mother's arms. "I'd just as lief Dick would have it as not, momsey, for I've my heart chock full of dolls now, and it will be so good to have Dick and others well and comfyble." Ethelwyn came a moment later. "It's all right, mother," she said, also climbing up to her place. "I can make pictures with a pencil more easily than I can bear to think that Dick needs my camera money, I'll be glad to do it, mother." But Ethelwyn's voice was hoarse, and the next morning she was not well enough to go to town. _CHAPTER VII_ _The Secret_ Such fun to have a secret! To tell one too is fun. But then there is no secret That's known to more than one. Ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother and Beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp ball of a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes. But by and by she heard Aunty Stevens calling her. "Here I am," she answered, at once sitting up. "Do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?" Ethelwyn rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice. "O if you only knew how I love to cook, Aunty Stevens," she cried. "And nobody will hardly ever let me. I can make the bestest cookies if any one else just makes the dough. So if you don't feel just prezactly well, you can sit in the rocking-chair, and I will do it all." "Thank you, deary, but I'm feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work together. Let me tie this apron around you." Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table. "O isn't everything about this just too cunning? Did these used to be Miss Dorothy's?" said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded. "Here's your dough, dear. Now roll it out to fit this little plate." This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in. "Now what comes?" said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face. "A thick layer of these apples--no, just a layer of sugar and flour--then the crust won't soak. Now the apples. Sugar them well. Put any of these spices on that you wish." "I like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning to grate. I b'lieve I'll put 'em all in," said Ethelwyn, critically studying the spice shakers. "Now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a sprinkle of flour. Now roll out your top crust. Cut little slits for it to breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet your finger and thumb in cold water. There! now it is ready to go in the oven." "O isn't it sweet?" said Ethelwyn. "Nobody can cook like you, Aunty Stevens. Nobody. I think it's a great--great appomplishment." "Thank you, dear. Now sit down, and when I have cleaned up things a little, we'll go out on the west porch, and I am going to tell you something. I have saved it for a secret for the little girl who couldn't go to town to-day, but who gave up her birthday presents for the sake of others." "O goody," said Ethelwyn, beaming with joy. "Next to cooking, I love to hear secrets. And would you mind telling me a thing or two, I have been thinking about lately? I have been meaning to ask mother about it. You know in church we say we believe in the resurrection of the body. Well, what do you s'pose," leaning forward impressively--"becomes of the bodies the cannibals eat?" "Well, Ethelwyn," said Mrs. Stevens with a gasp. "I suppose it's no harder than to resurrect them from anywhere else." "O yes, I should think so," said Ethelwyn earnestly, "because they'd get dreadfully mixed up in themselves. But never mind. I suppose the Lord can manage it." Aunty Stevens and she then went out on the porch that faced the sea. "O now I'm going to hear the secret," said Ethelwyn, sitting down on the arm of the chair. "And my own pie is in the oven baking. Aren't we having a good time, Aunty Stevens?" "Yes, we are," said Aunty Stevens, hugging her. "And now I am going to tell you. I'm afraid, deary, that I have been a very selfish woman. When my husband died, I felt as though I had nothing to live for but Dorothy, and when she too went away, I felt that there was no use in living. The other evening when I heard you all planning for others, it occurred to me to be ashamed, for here is this house, and I am all alone in it. Why it's the very thing for a children's rest and training school." "O Aunty Stevens," said Ethelwyn, getting up close to hug and kiss her. "I can give the cottage, and I can manage it, and your money can fit it up, and hire teachers." "Yes, sir," said Ethelwyn, wildly excited. "You can teach them to make pies like mine--" "Yes, they can be taught to do all sorts of things about a house--" "And Dick?" "He shall be the first one." "And his 'dopted aunt?" "Yes, indeed. She can help in many ways." "O this is lots better than going to town. I just wish I could tell mother and Beth. Seems to me I can't possibly wait." "I see Nan coming. Suppose 'Vada should take you two down to have your luncheon on the beach." "The pie, too?" "Yes, and other things, if your throat is better, so you can go." "O it's all well, cured with joy, I guess. Anyway mother said I might go outdoors, you know. It was the noise and smoke in town she thought would hurt me." So they went off on their picnic, and did not come home until time to dress for the train that was to bring back Mrs. Rayburn and Beth. "Well Ethelwyn," said Aunty Stevens, meeting her, "how was the picnic?" "The picnic as far as the pie, and other eating were concerned, was perfect, but Nan was a trial sometimes," said Ethelwyn, sighing deeply; "she said she couldn't possibly go home, 'count of her mother having a headache as usual, and she was as cross as a bear. I had my hands pretty full with that child. She does not give in to me like my sister--I will say that." And Ethelwyn again sighed deeply, as she walked into the house for her bath and toilet. When the train stopped, and Elizabeth appeared, Ethelwyn and she rushed at each other, and both began to talk at once. "I've a secret that will make your eyes stick out--then I made a pie--" "I saw the doctor that makes bone people. There was one for a sign at the pittalhos where we were--" "Hospital, child." "And he was undressed, even from out of his skin; you could, see clear through him. I was scared, because I thought that the doctor would make mother and me into one, but he was nice and said he'd cure Dick. We saw his bed all white--" "Wait till you know the secret. I saved you a piece of pie--Nan wanted it--" "I rode up in an alligator--" "Elevator." "And a man at the pittalhos said, 'where did I get those dimple holes,' and I said prob'ly they wasn't fat enough to stuff it all--he laughed though at that." And so they chattered on until they reached home. _CHAPTER VIII_ _The Reward_ To help the sorry, hungry poor, Or ease a burdened one, Begins to bring the answer, when We pray "Thy Kingdom come." It all unfolded like a beautiful flower, and every one was interested in getting ready the Children's Rest and Summer Training School, which was to be the name of the cottage. In the midst of it all, Mrs. Stevens one day received from Japan a long and happy letter from Dorothy and her husband; and a mysterious box, which was smuggled away for the birthday, came for the children. Dick was getting better every minute, and was looking forward with eager delight to the time when he should go to the Rest, well and strong. In the Rayburn sitting-room one evening, the children were looking over a portfolio of photographs. Aunty Stevens as usual was knitting, and laughing with them over the pictures. Ethelwyn was showing them, for she had seen them before. "This is Beethoven," she announced, holding up one of the great masters. "He isn't very pretty, but I s'pose he made up in being clever." "He is sort of kind-looking," said Beth, who always liked to say something nice about every one. "He is better than pretty," said Ethelwyn. "He's a very good musician. He can play the piano." "Where does he live?" "Paradise, I think. Mebbe not, though." "I'm sorry for his folks." "This is Handel." "What of?" and Nan got up to look. "Not a dipper-handle, but a man of that name. He could play too." "He looks kind of like a woman--look at his hair." "That is his wig." "Was he a bawheady?" and Beth got up to look more closely at the man who was afflicted like her beloved doll. "I s'pose he must have been. But it doesn't show like your doll's," said Nan. "This is a bust of Diana." "Where is she busted?" "All but her head and shoulders." "Who did it?" "A man I guess. This is the 'Kiss of Judas.'" "Oh, isn't Judas mean-looking?" "Looks like a bug thief." This from Beth. "Burglar, child," said Nan. "Bug thief is what I meant," said Beth with dignity, for she didn't propose to be corrected by Nan or sister. Then she walked over to her mother. "Are you very old, mother?" she asked. "I've been meaning to ask. Are you a hundred, or eleven, or is that your size shoe?" "Elizabeth Rayburn!" said Ethelwyn, dropping the photographs and coming over to her mother, followed by Nan. "Our mother isn't old at all!" "No I know she isn't, only she must be toler'bly old, to know so much goodness." "I'm just old enough to love you," said their mother, laughing and hugging them all three at once in a way she had. "I've some money in the bank," said Nan presently. "I've been thinking what I'd buy for the Rest, and I've 'bout decided on a feeble chair." "Goodness me! I shall never sit in it, if it's feeble, Nan," said Aunty Stevens, laughing. "No, _for_ the feeble," corrected Nan. "I want my mother to give something too; she has some money, and I believe if she would give it for my brother's sake, she would feel better and wouldn't cry so much. Perhaps she will." "We are all going to church to-morrow, 'cause your father is going to preach about the Rest,--pray over it too, and mother's going to sing the offertory, two verses, if the sermon's too long, and three if it isn't. You tell your father that, for singing is much more interesting than preaching any day." "Ethelwyn!" "Why it is, mother." "I'll tell father, but he is likely to go on a long time when he is once started," said Nan. "If I don't go to sleep, I'll be sure to wiggle," said Beth. But they all went to sleep. Ethelwyn sat in the choir seats close to her mother; while Elizabeth sat below with Aunty Stevens. Nan sat quite near them and sweetly smiled at Elizabeth. "How do you feel?" she asked in a shrill whisper. "Wiggly? I told father not to preach very long, but there is no telling. Mother has some gum drops for me if I wiggle." "Don't you think you will then?" asked Beth. But Nan's mother stopped further disclosures by turning her daughter around, and setting her down with emphasis on the other side of her. Fortunately they all three fell asleep in the early part of the sermon and did not wake up until Mrs. Rayburn began to sing. At the first note Ethelwyn slipped down, and stood with her hand in her mother's. Then Elizabeth eluded Aunty Stevens's vigilant eye, slipped out of the seat and walked up and stood on the other side, her head raised looking into her mother's face, and to their great delight the three verses were sung. _CHAPTER IX_ _Once a Year_ Birth days, Earth days, Seem very few; Year days, Dear days, When life is new. By constant and hard work, the house was ready for occupancy on Ethelwyn's birthday. Two or three days before it was finished, Nan's mother came over, the melancholy look on her face somewhat lifted. She brought with her the deed of the land adjoining the cottage and sloping down to the sea. This land she at once undertook to have equipped for a playground with swings, tennis courts, a ball ground and all the things that delight young hearts. "It is for Philip," she said simply. "I have put his money into it, and perhaps, by looking a little after homeless, suffering children, I can forget my own heartache." "You have chosen the very best way to do so," said Mrs. Rayburn. Nan's "feeble" chair came the night before the opening, and all three of the children christened it, by getting in, and wheeling it over the shining floors at a high rate of speed, thereby proving it to be anything but feeble. The morning train brought a bevy of pale-faced, joyless-looking waifs. At first they were stiff and shy, but under the vigorous leadership of Nan, Ethelwyn, and Beth, they were soon organized into a Rough Riders Company, and slid down the banisters, and shot out into the playground with shrill yells of delight. Dick was general, for he was not yet strong enough to run, so he sat in his wheel-chair, and directed the others. "We made him general, for generals never have anything to do but boss others; they are never killed or anything," explained Nan. A doctor from the hospital had sent down a wagon and goat team. There were bicycles and a hobby-horse, and boats safely fastened; so they rode, ran, trotted, or sat in the boats, all the happy day. Two things were almost forgotten in all the excitement. One was, that this was Ethelwyn's birthday, and the other, that they had to go away the next day. In the evening, however, there was a birthday cake, with eight candles on it. Then they had the fun of opening the box from Japan. There was a whole family of quaint dolls for Elizabeth, labeled by Dorothy's husband, "Heathen dolls: never baptized." "Nor never will be, by Nan," said Elizabeth, fondly hugging them to her, and fixing guilty Nan with a steadfast glance. There was the cunningest watch for Ethelwyn about the size of a quarter of a dollar. "It's a live one, though," said its owner proudly, shaking it and holding it up to her ear. There was a parasol and a sash for Nan, and three Japanese costumes complete for the "three little maids from school." These, they at once put on. Then they all went out on the lawn, and hung Japanese lanterns in the trees, and Nan's father set off the fireworks, which were also in the box; so the day closed in a blaze of glory. At last they were in the sitting-room again. The adopted children clean and dressed in white gowns were asleep in their dainty iron beds, and dreaming of happiness past, and to come. Nan, her father, and mother, and Mrs. Stevens came in for a last word. "I shall put on mourning to-morrow," announced Nan in a melancholy voice, "for I shall be a widow. What makes you go away, Mrs. Rayburn?" "School and business call us to town, Nan, but we shall come every summer, and spend Christmas here, too, I hope." "This has been the best birthday I ever spent or ever expect to," said Ethelwyn with the air of having spent at least fifty. "It is such a good idea to give things away instead of always getting them, but if you can do both, as happened this time, it covers everything." Then they were all quiet for a little while, until Mrs. Rayburn went to the piano, and touching the keys, sang softly: "And does thy day seem dark, All turned to rain? Seek thou one out whose life Is filled with pain. Put out a hand to help This greater need, And lo! within thy life The sun will shine indeed." _CHAPTER X_ _Beth's Birthday_ The space between our birthdays seems to grow apace, When we're young they loiter; when we're old they race. It began with a bad time; and so did the next day, as things sometimes do, even though they turn out all right at the end, like a rainy morning that clears off into a blue and gold afternoon. Ethelwyn and Beth did not fall out very often, but then they didn't have a birthday very often, nor Christmas, nor any other of the days when the land flows with ice cream and candy, and is bounded on the next day by crossness and pitfalls. That was one reason. That day early they had decided never to be bad again, never; "because," said Ethelwyn, "it is very troublesome getting good again, and makes mother feel bad." "Uh huh," said Beth. They were not up yet, and the door leading into their mother's room was open. This was their "present" birthday, but they had not yet begun on their presents. For fear you shouldn't understand this, I will tell you Beth's way of explaining it. "Sister and me is twin children two years all but a month apart, and on the first birthday which comes in July, we have presents, and on the second, in August, we have a party, or a trip away, or something, and we have all the month to choose in." They generally chose thirty different things. Their mother nearly always let them have the last one, but once or twice, as when they wanted to go up in an air ship, she compromised on a steam launch on the river, as safer, and nearer at hand. This morning being "present" morning, they were glad to see the sunshine darting in at their window, and to hear the birds singing outside something like this-- "Wake up, children: the day is new. It's full of joy for dears like you." So they woke up laughing, at least Ethelwyn did, and told Beth what the birds sang; but Beth was sleepy and uttered her usual "Uh huh." "You are a very lazy child," said Ethelwyn in a superior tone, "and are not thinking about your presents at all, nor the making of good revolutions." "What's them?" asked Beth, still with her eyes shut. "Something you need to make very much, for you are not too good a child, I'm sorry to say. Mother esplained about people making things like that at New Year's, and birthdays, and so I've been thinking of some specially for you--" "I can make my own," said Beth, fully awake now, "and I can help make yours when it comes to that, I guess." "Well," said Ethelwyn, "I have been thinking of a few for you to begin with. One is, never to be late for breakfast, and not to be selfish about getting the bath first, and never wanting to give up when your sister wants you to--" "You can make your own, while I'm getting my bath first now," said Beth, sliding out of bed. "I'm anxious to see my presents." Ethelwyn, speechless with rage, hastened her departure with a push, and then fell asleep until the breakfast bell rang. How mortified she felt after what she had said to Beth! Sierra Nevada hurried her through her bath and toilet as quickly as she could, but she would be late for breakfast anyway. When she came into the dining-room, her mother kissed her gravely, but she was not allowed to look at her presents until after she had eaten. She felt very miserable at the shrieks of delight from Beth, who was dancing around her doll house, with its two floors beautifully furnished, and dolls of every size, shape, and color living in it. No wonder the oatmeal and the muffins lost their flavor! But Ethelwyn effervesced quickly, and as quickly subsided. Presently she was glad again, for there were books, candy, games, a walking doll from Paris that could talk as well, and a camera from Aunty Stevens. The camera, she told her mother, she had been longing for for years and years. Uncle Tom sent each of them some candy, and a five dollar gold piece, with a note intimating that they were to spend it as they liked. Then there were two bicycles from Uncle Bob, some more candy, a pony, and some home-made molasses candy from their grandmother. The pony was a real live pony, and Joe, a dear friend of theirs, from a near-by livery stable was to take care of it. "I feel thankful that we are a large family of relatives," said Beth, after a long and speechless period of rapture. Their mother, being a wise woman, put away some of the candy, all but grandmother's molasses, and a box or two for friends. Then came little Nora, the niece of their dressmaker, Mrs. O'Neal, with a quart of pecans, for the birthday. She went home with a box of candy, and told her little sister Katie about it. "O I wanted to go too," wailed Katie. "You were asleep, dear, when I went, but I told them the nuts were from you, too." "But I wanted to hear them say, 'thank you!' Take me now." "I have to go down town for auntie. But she'll let you go." "Yes, indeed," said their busy aunt when asked. So Katie went up-stairs to make herself tidy. "It's mesilf wants to take a 'silvernear,'" she said as she scrubbed herself; and then in an evil moment, she beheld a small plate with a bunny on it, which Nora owned and loved. "It's just the thing," thought Katie, "and kind of partly mine because it's in our room." So she took it with her when she went, and it burned her little hand like fire. Ethelwyn and Beth were preparing a tea party in the doll house. "O Katie, how nice!" said Ethelwyn. "We'll put it in the tea party. We were coming over to get you and Nora to come; there are some beautiful iced cakes coming up in a minute." "I can't stay," said Katie feebly, "I feel kind of sick inside." So saying she rushed home, but it was no use; poor Katie's conscience grew worse all the time, and presently she came back. "I--I--know you won't like me any more," she said, red and miserable, "but it's Nora's plate I gave you, and I'm no better than a thafe." But Ethelwyn and Beth put their arms around her, and comforted her dear little sore heart. "I know just how you feel," said Ethelwyn. "I took mother's gold dragon stick-pin for my dolly's blanket one day, because I was in a hurry, and lost it of course, and felt so mizzable, as if nothing could ever be nice again. Now take the plate and go and get Nora, dear, and we'll have the best tea party." And they did, and the guests had each another box of candy for their "silvernears," besides, but Ethelwyn and Beth ate far too much, and that's the reason their next day good time began by being a bad time too. _CHAPTER XI_ _The Day After_ In the lovely playtime, life seems always gay. In the sober worktime, sometimes it grows gray. Mother was superintending the strawberry jam in the kitchen, giving orders to the grocery boy, and paying Mrs. O'Neal for sewing, all at once. You can't do this unless you are a mother, but mothers can do almost everything at once. "It's a fortunate thing that the Bible says everybody mustn't work on Sunday. It says man-servant, maid-servant, cattle, stranger within thy gates, but nothing at all about mothers, though, because they positively have to," said Ethelwyn, after a profound season of thought in the hammock. "When our mother rests, she darns stockings," said Beth, who was dressing her doll near by. "Not on Sunday, child!" said Ethelwyn scandalized. "Well nobody said she did, I guess. She tells us Bible stories then. I always think they sound so pretty, against her Sunday clothes," said Beth. "Pooh!" said Ethelwyn who was cross. She was going down to the grocery presently on her wheel to get some eggs, but she was putting it off as long as she could. She started after awhile, and unluckily had the groceryman tie the eggs on the wheel. She came along safely, until within view of Beth lying comfortably in the hammock; then with a desire to show off, she spurted, or tried to, and her wheel ran off the walk, and tipped her off upon the grass on top of two dozen eggs! Her mother picked her up, and after stilling Beth's laughter, and her crying, washed her, and put her in the hammock, all in so short a time that only a yellow stain on the grass showed that a tragedy had happened. Then mother went back to her jam. Beth snickered at intervals, however, though Ethelwyn sternly bade her be quiet. "You were so yellow and funny, sister," said Beth, giggling. Ethelwyn opened her mouth for a reply that would do justice to the subject, when Bobby, their next door neighbor came along. "Hullo, Bobby," they cried. "Hullo," said Bobby at once. "Come in and see our birthday presents," said Ethelwyn, and Bobby at once trotted up the walk. He was a round-faced little chap, with small freckles on his button of a nose. His family had just moved into town from a farm. "Where have you been, Bobby?" asked Ethelwyn as they went towards the house. "I went down to the grocery for mother; I thought I knew the way but I got mixed up, and stopped under a lamp-post, to think. Pretty soon a woman came along and put a white letter in a box; so I thought I'd save trouble if I put mother's grocery list in, and I did. A man in gray clothes came along, and unlocked it, and took the letters all out. I told him 'bout my list, and he laughed, and gave it to me, and asked me if I didn't know 'bout letter boxes? I didn't, so he told me, and took me along with him down town." "Sister--" began Beth, giggling, "went to the grocery--" "Let's play in the house," said Ethelwyn frowning at Beth. "You can stay awhile, can't you, Bobby?" "I guess I'd better ask, first," said Bobby. He trotted home and soon came back with his face shining from soap and water, and his hair brushed straight up so that it looked like a halo around the full moon. Then Nan, the minister's daughter, came in. She had also come to live in their town and was the same funny, outspoken Nan, as always. "It's a very convenient thing that I know you children," she had said, "for it's a great trouble to have to find out, and learn to know everybody in a town." They were playing games in the nursery, when mother came up-stairs, having finished the jam, ordered the groceries, and paid Mrs. O'Neal. She was going to combine resting and mending, as usual, so she came to the nursery, just as they were beginning a temperance lecture. Bobby was selling tickets, and mother cheerfully paid a penny, and sat in her low rocker near the window. Nan had chosen to be lecturer, so Ethelwyn, Beth, and Bobby made a somewhat reluctant and highly critical audience. Besides, there were the dolls in various uncomfortable attitudes, but very amiable nevertheless. And to them all, Nan now came forward and made a profound bow. "My subject is Temperance, ladies and gentlemen," she began, "and I hope you'll pay attention, because it's a true subject, as well as a useful one. "I wish men wouldn't get drunk. It's dreadful smelly even going by a saloon, so I don't see how they can. I think it would be very nice if pleecemen would think once in a while about stopping such things as drunkers, but they probably like to have saloons around for themselves. A nice thing would be, to have ladies, like your mother and me, for pleecemen. Then we'd scrub things up, and pour things out, till you couldn't smell or taste a thing. But men are meaner than women"--Bobby looked dubious--"some men aren't though"--he looked relieved. "The reason we are so nice and 'spectable, is because my father is a minister, and doesn't dare do disgraceful things, and your mother doesn't get time. So we should be thankful, instead of wishing we had a candy store in the family, and being sorry we have to set examples for other kids. No! No! No! children, I mean. That's all, and I hope you won't forget all I've told you." "Let's play church now," said Ethelwyn promptly, "and I choose to be preacher, because I know about Moses and Abiram. The choir will please sing Billy Boy." So they put on nightgowns for surplices. "What can I do?" said Beth, who was tired of always being an audience. "Take up the collection," said Ethelwyn, "we need some more pennies." "'The sermon, beloved," said Ethelwyn after the singing, and a little preliminary ritual, "is about Moses and Abiram, who both wanted to be boss of the temple. "'I will be boss,' said Moses. "'Not much,' said Abiram, standing on his tippest toes. "Then they fit, and I've forgotten which one whipped, 'cause we haven't got that far yet; anyway it's lunch time, so do hurry and take up the collection." _CHAPTER XII_ _Sunday_ No matter how bad we are through the week, When Sunday comes 'round we grow very meek. "I hope, Beth," said Ethelwyn, who always woke up first, "you will remember to-day is Sunday, and not quarrel with your sister," But Beth cuddled down in the pillows and refused to answer a word. After a while, Ethelwyn, watching the sunbeams dancing on the pink wall, went to sleep herself, and opened her eyes only when her mother kissed her awake. Sierra Nevada, being a devout Roman Catholic, always went to early mass on Sunday mornings, and their mother gave them their baths, to their great delight and comfort. The bath was all ready for them now, crystal clear with the jolly sunbeams dancing on its silver disk. "We'll get a sunshine bath," said Beth, trying to catch the golden drops. "Inside and outside," said mother smiling. "You look so pretty, motherdy," said Ethelwyn approvingly, "So much prettier than black, cross old 'Vada, who always rolls her eyes at me and says, 'Miss Effel, you is de troublesomest chile dat ebba was bown.' You have sense, and in that blue gown, white apron, and cap, you are pretty. You get prettier all the time you are getting old, mother. You'll be a beautiful angel when you are very old." "Thank you," said her mother laughing. "Come on now, do you know your verse?" "I did," said Ethelwyn, "but the verse hasn't any sense: it's about St. Peter's wife's mother being sick with the fever--" "And St. Peter cut off the priest's right ear, and then he went out and crew bitterly," said Beth, jumping up and down to see how high she could splash. "Elizabeth!" said her mother, going off into spasms of laughter. "You are a heathen! Can't you ever get things right? I will say, though, I think the verses they select for infant classes are anything but suitable, but for pity's sake don't say the one you told me, you will disgrace me. I will hear you after breakfast." But Aunt Mandy the cook was sick with the toothache, which she called a "plum mizzery" in her face, and mother was so busy, that 'Vada, who had returned and was more solemn than ever, dressed them and took them to Sunday-school. The infant class sat on seats that began close to the floor, and gradually rose to the top of the room. Ethelwyn and Nan sat high up, while Beth was a little way below. Bobby sat near her, and had grinned all over his round face when she came in. "I've brought my white mouse in my pocket; I'm going to stay for church, and I get lonesome," he whispered. "Uh huh," said Beth nodding, "I've brought my paper dolls." But sister punched her in the back with her parasol to be quiet, and just then the teacher asked her verse. Beth thought hard. "Mother said I mustn't tell you about the priest crewing about his cut off ear," she said thoughtfully, "but I know another verse about St. Peter, it's easier to merember than the other one, 'cause it's poetry." "Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her--" "Next!" said the teacher with a face red, and then she coughed. The next was Bobby, who cheerfully took up the refrain, where Beth left off. "--Put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well," he concluded promptly. The older pupils, with two scandalized exceptions,--Ethelwyn and Nan--laughed, and the younger ones turned around and looked interested. The teacher coughed again and changed the subject. But the adventures of Bobby and Beth were by no means over, for when they came out into the large room where the hundreds of scholars sat, the infant class was marshaled up into the choir seats to sing "Precious Julias" as Beth still called it. The upright of the front seat was standing unfastened from the floor, waiting for repairs, but no one knew it, Beth and Bobby least of all. They, and six other infants pressed close up against it, and sang with all their might. Unfortunately they pressed too hard on the loose back. All at once it went over, and eight unfortunate infants sprawled flat on their faces, hats rolling off, and books tumbling down. Everybody stopped singing to laugh, but it changed to little shrieks of dismay, as a poor frightened white mouse, thrown out of Bobby's pocket by the shock, went running down the aisle. Bobby ran after it in hot pursuit. Beth followed loyally, for she had seen where it went. They caught the trembling little creature at the door, and then they looked at each other. "Let's go home," said Bobby. "Uh huh, let's," said Beth. They met Beth's mother on the way to church. "We'll stay at home to-day, mother," said Beth, "we've had just all we can stand." So they went home and played church in the front yard, until Ethelwyn and Nan came home just before the sermon. Those young ladies had fully intended solemnly to lecture the two at home, but it was very pleasant under the trees, with the birds, and Bobby and Beth singing lustily, so they joined in, and Ethelwyn then preached. "I choose to," she said, "because I went to an awfully dry lecture on art or clothes or something, with mother. I slept some, 'cause it was almost as hard to understand as a sermon, but when I was awake I heard a good deal that will do you good. "Clothes," she went on after this introduction, "will ruin your health if you don't look out, and study statoos and things for some kind of line, clothes-line, I guess. So when you see a lot of white statoos--which aren't as interesting as the circus but more good for learning, which is always the way in this life--learnified things are likely to be dry--you'll learn something. But I went to sleep before I found out what or why statoos is the thing to study; but they are so cold-looking, from being undressed, that I think it would be a kind act to make pajamas for them, and trousers for our dolls so they will live longer--" "_I_ will not," said Beth firmly, from the congregation. "It wouldn't be fun to have all boy dolls, and you know it, sister, and besides wasn't Billy Boy the first doll we broke after Christmas? and he's up-stairs now waiting for his funeral." "O, let's have it now," said Nan, who didn't like sermons unless she preached them. "No, here's mother and we'll have to have dinner now, so we will have the funeral to-morrow," said Ethelwyn. _CHAPTER XIII_ _The Four Together_ Begins with a funeral and ends with a feast. Sorrow is drowned for this time at least. It fell out that there were _two_ doll funerals the next day. Beth lost Ariminta, her composition doll, and she went down into the garden early to find her. She looked in Bose's kennel, but it wasn't there; then she saw a robin in the path digging worms, and he looked so wise that she followed him to the early harvest apple-tree, and sure enough! there was Ariminta on a lower branch where she had put her the night before. She was very wet, for it had rained, and her wig was quite soaked off. So, filled with remorse, Beth went after the glue-pot. "I never knew such a mean mother as I am," she said, "I haven't any thinkery at all, worth mentioning. If your grandmother, my dear, should leave me out, till my hair soaked off--say, sister," she broke off suddenly to ask--"what keeps our hair on?" Ethelwyn never at a loss for an answer, said promptly, "Dust, child" "I haven't any," said Beth, feeling her short brown curls cautiously for fear they would come off. "It's small in small persons, and big in big persons," said Ethelwyn, with a patient air of having given much thought to the subject. "Ho!" said Beth. "Well if Ariminta's going to be dry for Billy Boy's funeral, I'll have to dry her in the oven." But alas! for Beth's "thinkery not worth mentioning!" In her haste to get back to prepare herself and family for the funeral, she forgot to tell Aunt Mandy, who was going to make cake, and so started a fire in the stove. When she opened the oven door to put in the cake, she took out Ariminta's remains, and that is why there were two subjects for a funeral instead of one. Beth was exceedingly sorry, and wept a few real tears over Ariminta. "I'm a double widow, and a orphing to-day," she said, "and I don't reserve a single child to my name!" Nan and Bobby came to the funeral, and Bobby chose to be undertaker, while Nan insisted on preaching the sermon. "You preached yesterday," she said to Ethelwyn, who also wished to. "And you did the day before--" "I think I ought to," said Beth, "because it's my fam'ly." "That's why you shouldn't, child," said Nan. "Would my father enjoy preaching my funeral sermon, do you think?" she asked triumphantly. And while they were doubtfully considering this, she began the service. Beth attired in Aunt Mandy's large black shawl was very warm and mournful. The family, especially Billy Boy's widow, were wrapped in black calico swaddling garments, and looked more stiff than ever, but still smiling. The remains were in cigar boxes, all but Billy's wig and eyes which Beth had thoughtfully saved for another doll. "I am sorry I have to preach this sad sermon," said Nan. "Might have let me, then," said a voice from the congregation. "The mourners will please keep quiet," said the preacher sternly, "and if the widow and orphans wouldn't grin so, I'd be glad. You'd better be thinking about how you'd feel to be buried, and you are likely to be in this family," she continued with an offensive accent on _this_. "Let's hurry up, I'm hot," said the chief mourner. So they went down and buried the boxes, singing "Billy Boy" as a requiem. Bose watched their departure with interest, and dug up both boxes without delay. Bobby and Nan were invited to stay to lunch, and they accepted with cheerful alacrity. "I asked mother, for fear you'd ask me if I could stay, and she said yes indeed I _could_, and she'd be glad to have me," said Nan. Bobby yelled his request over the fence, and was told he could stay too. They had strawberry jam, hot biscuit, fried chicken, and little frosted spice cakes, for which Mandy was famous. "Just supposing your mother and mine had said no, about this luncheon," said Nan to Bobby. "I never could have gotten over the loss of these cakes." "You've eaten four. I'm glad Mandy made a good many," said Beth calmly. "Why Beth!" said her mother horrified. "Yessum, she has," continued Beth. "I've passed them four times, and she took one every time. I've had five!" she concluded. In the afternoon the postman brought them a letter from their Cousin Gladys, who was in Paris with her father and mother. So they all gathered around mother to hear it. "DEAR E. AND B.," it began. "This is a silly city. "They talk like babies. No one can understand them. I'd like them better if they'd talk plain American. "Their stoves look like granddaddy long legs; they are funny boxes, and when you are cold, they wheel them into your room, and stick the pipe in the hole, and by and by wheel them out. We live in an artist's house on a street that means Asses street, and our front room is a saloon but not a drinking one, and it runs right through the up-stairs to the skylight. You have to pay for that. Think of charging for daylight! We went to a bird show and I saw a cockatoo sitting on a pole asleep. 'Scratch its back with your parasol, Gladys,' said mother, so I did, and it opened one eye when I stopped, and said, 'Encore,' I was put out to think even the birds didn't talk American, but when I said so, mother laughed but I don't see why. "Write and tell me all the news. No more now from "Your cousin, "GLADYS." "O, it's thundering!" said Bobby when the letter was finished. Beth at once climbed into her mother's lap, as if for protection. "Are you afraid of a shower, Beth?" asked Nan. "No,--not--a shower," said Beth, "only I don't like it when it goes over such a bump!" Mother kissed her and sent the others up-stairs to get ready for a show. "Get up a good one and I'll pay five cents admission," she said. "Oh I'll go too," said Beth, "p'raps when I am busy I won't notice the noise." By and by they called Mrs. Rayburn, and she went up-stairs with her sewing, and dropped her nickel into a box, because the whole force was in the show. They were getting ready in the next room, from which was heard much giggling. Presently the door opened, and in walked Ethelwyn draped in a green denim closet door curtain, and bobbing up and down at every step. "What is this?" said mother. "You have to guess, it's a guessing show." Then came Beth in her Japanese costume, fanning vigorously. Nan followed in a Turkey red calico wrapper, beloved of 'Vada's heart. She tumbled down every two or three steps, which might have been the fault of the wrapper, or part of the show. Last of all was Bobby, very hot and sweaty, in a moth-ball smelling fur rug, and ringing a bell. "It looks like the four seasons," said mother. "O mother, but you are smart," said Ethelwyn; "we thought you couldn't possibly guess, so we were going to charge you another nickel!" she continued in a disappointed voice. "I will pay it for guessing," said mother, laughing. "I'm spring, all dressed in green, and I spring when I walk," said Ethelwyn beginning again. "I'm summer," said Beth fanning. "And I'm fall," said Nan, tumbling down, "that hurts the worst," she added with pride. "I'm Christmas," said Bobby, "and I know now why it doesn't come in summer. My! I'm hot!" he continued, mopping his brow. "I'm Fourth of July," said Beth. "And I'm Thanksgiving and turkey--" "There isn't a thing but April fool in spring, I do believe," said Ethelwyn, disgusted. "Decoration Day, Arbor Day, and May Day," said mother. "It was a fine show, and the sun is out. You may go down now, and buy peanuts with your money." _CHAPTER XIV_ _The Wedding and the Visit_ Out in the country, God's flowers bravely grow. And all the dusty wayside is edged with golden glow; They were up in the nursery the next morning, having a wedding. A doll had opportunely lost her wig, and that always meant a good deal of excitement for the wigless one, for she was at once put to bed, and given medicine through the opening on top of the head, or made into a boy doll. This last happened now; poor cracked and dead Billy Boy's wig was jauntily glued on the wigless head, and the late Janet became Lord Jimmy, and was in the process of being wedded to Arabella, the walking, talking doll from Paris. They were propped up in the doll house, and Beth was marrying them. "Lord Jimmy," she said, "wilt thou marry Arabella and nobody else and be her quilt in time of trouble--?" "A quilt!" said Ethelwyn. "What's that?" "A comfort then," said Beth with dignity, "or something like that. Anyway I wish you wouldn't talk in the middle of the wedding--and give her clothes, and things to eat, eh? Make him nod 'yes,' sister." So Ethelwyn, reaching out an energetic hand, clutched the bridegroom by the waist and made him bow so low, that his freshly-glued wig came off. "O, for goodness sake, sister," said Beth, in an exasperated tone, "I never knew any one that could upset things like you--" But their mother was heard calling them, in a way that meant something nice, so the poor bald-headed bridegroom and his wig were left at the feet of the haughty Arabella, who stared rigidly at the landscape outside, and tried not to see him. "We are going to drive out to Grandmother Van Stark's to spend the day, and perhaps a little longer," said mother. "Oh won't that be the nicest thing!" they cried in a breath. "Who can go on the pony?" "Ethelwyn may ride out, and Beth back," said mother. "I've always been so thankful to think you weren't born a _no_ and _don't_ mother," said Ethelwyn, hugging her. "Are we going right away?" "Right away." Sure enough there was Joe leading Ninkum, their own pony. Mother and Beth were to go in the phaeton. All the way out they played games with the trees and flowers. Ethelwyn rode alongside the phaeton. They counted the spots they passed that were purple with thistles, and they were many. Others were pink and white with clover and daisies. Their mother told them the story of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, when they drove down the lane bordered with golden Spanish needles. But they enjoyed the missing word game the most, because it was new. "It's your turn to make up a game, mother," said Beth. "I will give you lines that rhyme, only I will leave off the last word, after the first line," said mother, "and you must guess what that word is." "There was a man rode to the mill. The road ran steeply up the--" "Hill," cried Beth. "Yes; now let sister guess the next." He stopped beside a flowing--" "Rill?" asked Ethelwyn, after thinking awhile. "Yes." "This horse was dry, so drank his--" "Fill." "Along there came a girl named--" "Jill." "He wished that his was Jack, not--" "Will." "For people sometimes called him--" "Bill." "This really was a bitter--" "Pill." "And made him feel both vexed and--" "Ill." Mother had to tell them that, because they both guessed sick. "He brought his gun along to--" "Kill." "A bird to give to Jill a--" "Quill?" Ethelwyn guessed after a long time. "They lingered long, they lingered--" "Till," and again mother had to tell them this. "The sun went down and all was--" "Still." They had both missed one, so they each had to pay a forfeit or get up a game. But they were now within sight of Grandmother Van Stark's fine old colonial house, and there on the porch stood grandmother herself, who had seen them coming, so had come out to meet them. "Oh isn't our grandmother pretty though?" said Ethelwyn, as they turned in at the circular driveway. She had snow white hair, dark eyes and a very stately carriage. She welcomed them warmly, and invited them into the grand old hall with its white staircase and mahogany rail. Modern children seemed almost out of place in this old-time house. "I always seem to think you need short-waisted frocks, and drooping hats like Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and the Gainsborough pictures," said their mother laughing. "O may we go up to the attic and dress up?" begged Ethelwyn. "After while," said grandmother. "It is luncheon time now. I am glad you came to-day, my daughter, for Nancy, the housemaid, has gone home for a week's rest, and there is a meeting of the women of the church this afternoon to arrange about a rummage sale, and a loan exhibition, and they are rather depending upon me to contribute to both; but as Nancy is away, I cannot well leave for I am a little overtired with more duties than usual. So I have made a list of things that I will lend, and give. I should like you to take it down." "Yes, mother, I will, but what about the children--?" "O mother, please let me stay," begged Beth. "I will take excellent care of grandmother, and I will take Nancy's place, so grandmother can lie down; I know how, I've watched Nancy lots of times. You can take sister." This was the final arrangement, and soon after luncheon they drove away to town. Grandmother disappeared up the beautiful staircase after shutting the blind doors, and shading the hall from the afternoon sun. Then Beth arrayed in a red sweeping cap, instead of Nancy's white one, which she and cook failed to find, and armed with a huge silver salver for cards, instead of Nancy's small one, took up her position in the hall, on the bottom stair, to await visitors: but the hall was full of slumberous shadows, with sunshine flecks dancing down from the blind doors to the polished floor. It is not strange, therefore, that by and by the red sweeping cap began to droop over the silver salver, until finally they all settled down together, and the new parlor maid was sound asleep, to the music of the tall old clock in the corner of the hall back under the stairway. Then some one came up the walk, and rapped briskly with the end of his riding whip on the blind doors. The parlor maid suddenly awoke, stumbled to the door, and fumbled with the fastenings, but it was no use, she couldn't open them; thereupon she turned the slats and looked through at the young clergyman standing there. The red cap nodded affably. "Could you climb in through the window, s'pose?" she asked. This was such a new and startling novelty at the Van Stark homestead, that the visitor laughed, while the parlor maid patiently waited for his decision. He had shone in athletics at his college, so when he stopped laughing, he put his hands on the stone window-sill leading into the library, and vaulted in so lightly and easily, that Beth was delighted to think she had thought of it. She then went back to adjust her sweeping cap, which had dropped off, and to pick up the salver, which she had put down to free her hands. "Put your card there," she instructed him, bobbing her head towards the exact centre of the salver, and thereby completely covering one eye with that abominably big and wobbly cap. The reverend gentleman gravely complied, whereupon the maid swung herself around, but with caution, somewhat after the manner of a boat carrying too much sail. After Mrs. Van Stark had come down, the parlor maid reappeared without her badges of office, and was duly presented to the rector of the church, who made no sign, save a twinkle of his eye, of having met her in another, and humbler capacity, but shook hands and talked to her without that insufferable air of patronage which elder people at times seem to delight to bestow upon their juniors. As he was taking his leave, he explained that he was going down into the grove for a little while to read and to take pictures. As he went out, they met, coming in, an old lady whom Grandmother Van Stark greeted with rare cordiality, kissing her on both cheeks and calling her Tildy Ann. She called grandmother Jane Somerset, and explained that her son, going to town, had brought her that far on his way, and would call for her on his return. She had brought her knitting in a beautiful silk bag, and explained that she was making a long purse of black silk and steel beads, for the sale at the church. Beth brought grandmother's bag down to her, and grandmother produced silk stockings that she was knitting for the same purpose. They sat down for a comfortable chat, and Beth, feeling that it was too prehistoric an atmosphere for her, by and by stole up-stairs to the attic and went on a rummage for old clothes in which to dress up. She found an old figured silk gown, with short sleeves. By much rolling up and pinning, she made the skirt the right length. Then she pulled out an old green silk calash and set it on her head. This she felt was a finishing touch, so she softly crept down the stairs and past the old ladies, who had entirely forgotten her, and out on the lawn; then she walked down the circular driveway and out into the road, where presently the clergyman, striding along to where his pony was tied, overtook her. He looked with astonishment at the quaint little figure in the silk frock, but when the disguised parlor maid looked out from the depths of the great bonnet, he went off into peals of laughter again. "You seem to laugh a great deal," said Beth. He at once stopped and said: "It is a weakness of mine, and now let me beg a favor of you. Will you come back to the porch, and sit in a Chippendale chair, and let me take your picture for the sale at the church?" "Yes, I don't mind at all," said Beth promptly, turning around and putting her hand in his. "You see Mrs. Tildy Ann and grandmother were having such a long-way-back time, I had to dress up to match everything." "I see," said the minister. "But she may presently miss you and be worried." "O that's so," said Beth. "Let's hurry. I promised to take care of grandmother," she added, in a remorseful tone. But nothing had happened, and the picture proved a great success, many of them being sold at the fair. "I don't like it much," said Beth, when she saw one, "for it reminds me of how I forgot to take care of my Grandmother Van Stork." "It will do you good, I trust," said her mother. "It'll improve my thinkery, I hope," said Beth. _CHAPTER XV_ _The Lost Invitation_ A heartache when the heart is young, Seems quite too big to bear; But when it ends in laughter, Away goes every care. When they started to return the next day, Beth in triumph mounted Ninkum. She had a little difficulty in turning around to wave a farewell to dear grandmother on the porch, because the pony took this opportune time to munch the grass at the road-side, and Beth nearly went over his head. "Dear me, Ninkum, you are very rude," she said, much vexed. "You try to spill me off, besides making Grandmother Van Stark feel as though you didn't have enough to eat while you were visiting her!" There was another disturbing feature also, and that was sister, whose countenance kept peering above the phaeton top, and who shouted exceedingly unwelcome advice, until silenced and firmly seated by the maternal command. However, these were small things, compared with the bliss of galloping down the smooth road, bordered by flowers and green fields. "I am very fond of wild flowers," said Ethelwyn by and by, "because they come right from God's garden, and they keep things so cheerful and bright out in the country." "I remember some verses about wild flowers and woods that a friend of mine wrote," said mother, "and I intend sometime to put some of them to music." "O say one, mother," said Ethelwyn, who loved verses. So Mrs. Rayburn began: "I know a quiet place, Where a spring comes gurgling out, And the shadowed leaves like lace Fall on the ground about. "A tempting grapevine swing Is swung from the near-by trees, And life is a dreamful thing Lulled by the birds and bees. "Flowers at the great trees' feet Are sheltered quite from harm; For above the blossoms sweet, The oak holds forth his arm. "Perhaps if I lie quite still, I may hear far down below, The first and joyous thrill Of things, when they start to grow." "I've wondered if they do get out of the seed with a little cracky pop," said Ethelwyn. "What, sister?" asked Beth, coming up on Ninkum. "Flowers and things." "I've wondered how things know how to make themselves flowers, and not potatoes, or something like that," said Beth; "but I suppose God tells them." "And I've often thought what was it that makes part of them stalk and leaves, and then all at once end in a flower," said Ethelwyn. Then, after a moment's silence, she proposed, "Let's have another game." "Yes, mother, you think of one." "I was thinking of one this morning," said mother, "for I thought likely you would be asking me to make up one, though it isn't my turn." "O, but motherdy, you are so much smarter than we are!" said Ethelwyn. "That is one way to get out of it," said mother, laughing. "Well, I will tell you a story, and leave a blank occasionally, which you must fill up with the name of a tree. "There were two little girls who dressed exactly alike, and, as they were very near the same age, it was difficult to tell which was the--" "Elder?" said Ethelwyn, after a hard think. "Yes." "I didn't really know there was such a tree, but I had heard something like it, and thought there wasn't a younger tree." "One of the little girls was named Louise and the other Minerva, and people grew to calling them by their initials, which together made--" "Elm," said Beth. "They were very good children, and people used to say what a nice--" "Pear," they both said at once. "They were. They had cheeks like a--" "Peach." "It was spring, and they were invited to a sugaring off party, and they saw the men tap the trees to make--" "Maple sugar," cried Beth, who knew that, if she knew anything. "So, when they went home, they tapped a tree in the front yard, and invited a party to come and eat maple sugar; but they tapped the wrong tree, and their father was vexed, saying, 'I ought to take a ---- to ----'" But mother had to tell them these words for they had never heard of birch, or of yew. "'I wonder if you will be ----'" "Evergreen," said Ethelwyn, after a little prompting. "'All your life.' 'I thought,' said one, 'that maple sugar parties were very ----'" "'Pop'lar? (mother had to tell them this also), 'at this time of year.'" "---- laughed their father." "Haw, haw," said Ethelwyn, who had been thinking of the tree under which they played at home. "'I'll have to take you to the seashore to play on the ----'" "Beech," said Beth in triumph. "Then he lighted a cigar and knocked off the ----" "Ash," said Ethelwyn. "And walked down street, whistling a song from 'Mikado.' Tit ----" "Willow," they both cried at once, for they knew that song as well as the tree. "You have done well," said mother, "but you each have two fines to pay, and it really is your turn next time; so you must remember to think up a game. But here we are at home, and there is 'Vada coming out to meet us." "O, 'Vada, what has happened since we went away?" said Ethelwyn, climbing out. "Mista Bobby gwine to give a party this ebenin'; it's his birthday, and his uncle brought him some fiah works like those you all had las' yeah," said 'Vada. "O goody! did he invite us?" "Nome, not to say invite. But he's been in to see if you all was expected home." "O, it won't matter," said Beth easily; "we'll go anyway. Of course he knew we would come." When Nan came over, she brought her invitation with her. It was very formally enclosed in a small envelope, and informed his friend that Bobby would be at home on that very evening. This struck Beth as very silly. "Of course he'll be at home if he's going to give a party! Just as though he'd be anywhere else!" she remarked. They wished to go over immediately and tell Bobby that they were home and all ready to be invited, but their mother would not allow this. "He will come over by and by," she said. But the day went by and no invitation came, although great preparations were going on, as they could see, for they kept very near the window that looked out on Bobby's lawn. A slow drizzling rain was falling, or they would probably have been much nearer. But Bobby was evidently very busy getting ready. They caught only flying glimpses of him, and their hearts grew heavy within their breasts. "O dear! I shall never, never get over this, never!" said Beth, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I wouldn't have thought Bobby could have done it," said Ethelwyn, also swallowing. After their bath, they begged for their best slippers, silk stockings, and embroidered petticoats, and on having their hair done in their dress-up-and-go-away-from-home style. "Because," said Ethelwyn, "something may happen yet to make him think of us." So mother let them have on what they liked, for she was very sorry for them. In the evening, after dinner, when the electric lights came flashing out, it was worse, because, still standing forlornly by the window, they saw the orchestra come, with their instruments, and presently the sounds of music came floating up to them. Then the ice cream man came, and Beth, who had almost melted to tears at the sight of the orchestra, shed them openly when the ice cream went around the side of the house. Having no handkerchief, she wiped her eyes on Soosana, her big rag doll. She always loved Soosana when she was unhappy, for she was so squeezy and felt so comfortable. "I hope Bobby will be sorry when he has time to think about it," she remarked in a subdued tone. "Look at that!" said Ethelwyn in such a hopeful voice that Beth at once emerged from her eclipse behind Soosana, and looked with all her eyes. There was Bobby, resplendent in a new suit and slippers with shining buckles, running across the lawn. Ethelwyn and Beth at once pushed up the window, in order to meet him half-way. "Do you want us, Bobby?" called Beth encouragingly. "Yes; why on earth don't you come?" cried Bobby. "We are all ready to dance and Nan and everybody but you, are there, and I wouldn't let 'em begin till you came, so hurry up." "We will," they cried in a breath, "and we would have come a long time ago if you only hadn't forgotten to invite us till so late. What made you, Bobby?" "Why I didn't!" said Bobby in a surprised tone. "I took your invitation over to your front door and--and--your bell is pretty high up--" "Yes, I can't reach it at all," said Beth breathlessly; "go on." "So I shoved it under the door--" Ethelwyn disappeared like a flash, and, sure enough, under the carpet's edge she could see sticking out the little white corner of the envelope. She knelt down and pulled it out, then ran back. "We'll come right over in a minute, Bobby," she called happily. "We're pretty nearly all dressed for fear you'd remember you had forgotten--" "All right, hurry up," called up Bobby. Down on the floor went Soosana, all damp with tears, but she still smiled broadly at the ceiling in the dark. She probably did not, if the truth were known, quite enjoy being used as a handkerchief, but she felt it was her mission in this life to act as comforter, and so she bore it with cheerfulness. The next morning she was told by happy, though sleepy, Beth that it was a "beyewtiful party, with fireworks, and ice cream, and dancing, and games, and souvenirs. I should never have been so happy again, Soosana, if I had missed going, I know," she concluded, kissing Soosana with such fervor, that she put a dent in that portion of her doll's head where she had been kissed; but this time Soosana was sure she did not care. _CHAPTER XVI_ _The Mail and Ethelwyn's Visit_ Good-bye, speed by Days till we meet again. Hearts' ease, ne'er cease, Keep free from fret or pain. There had come an interesting mail that morning, for it began with another letter from Cousin Gladys, who was in London now for the winter, and there was also one from Aunty Stevens and from Grandmother Van Stark. While the two children ate their oatmeal and cream, they read their cousin's letter. This was it: "DEAR COUSINS: "We have seen the Coronation, and my eyes ached, there was so much to see and do. It was worse than a circus with six rings. "The King is not pretty, but I suppose that won't hinder him from being good, and nurse is always saying, 'Pretty is that pretty does, Miss Gladys.' I think she thinks that the two hardly ever go together. The dear Queen is pretty, however, and so young-looking and sweet that even nurse has to give in about her. "I will tell you all about it when we come home, but it tires me now even to think about it. One morning I begged to go back to the hotel and rest, and nurse was so disappointed that I told her she could go out and I would stay alone. I dug around in my trunk and got rather homesick, looking at the things I had at home. I found some jacks but no ball, so I thought I would go down to a near-by shop, and buy one. I slipped down and out, before I had time to think about mother making me promise not to go anywhere alone. I turned a corner or two, but didn't find the right kind of a shop. It was cloudy, and sort of foggy, and crowds and crowds of people were pushing along. I knew all at once that I was lost, and I began to feel a lump in my throat, bigger than any ball you ever saw, and just then I saw a tall man coming towards me. I saw only his legs, but they looked so Americanish that I rushed up, and said, 'Please take me to the L---- Hotel,' He stopped at once and said, 'Well, I certainly will; I am going there myself.' He was a minister from New York. He laughed when I told him about the jacks, and then he talked to me in such a nice way about going out alone, that it made a great impression on me. I found mother and nurse in such a state when I got back. I was kissed and then put to bed to eat my supper, but the minister came to call in the evening, and when I had promised never to do such a thing again, they let me get up. He was so nice, and brought me a ball. I play jacks every day now, and think of America and nice 'things like that. I shall be glad to get there again. "Yours truly, "GLADYS. "P.S.--I can probably beat you at jacks when I get back, I practice so much." "I'll get mine out to-day," said Ethelwyn, "and we'll see whether she can or not. When will she come home, mother?" But mother was reading Aunty Stevens's letter, and did not hear. "The Home is getting on beautifully," she said presently. "There are ten pale little children out there now. Dick is quite well and strong again, and helps with the work in every way. They are very anxious that we shall come on this summer." "O let's; for my birthday," said Ethelwyn. "Can't we, mother?" "I will see. But Grandmother Van Stark would like one of you to come out and stay with her for a few days. Peter is coming in this afternoon and will take one of you out." "O me!" they cried at once. "Let's pull straws," suggested Ethelwyn; so she ran to find the broom. It was she who drew the longest straw, and Beth drew a long breath, saying with cheerful philosophy, "Well, I am thankful not to leave mother. I'd prob'ly cry in the night, and worry dear grandmother." So every one was satisfied, and Ethelwyn, dimpling delightfully under her broad white pique hat, bade them good-bye, and took her place beside Peter in the roomy old phaeton. "Are you any relation of St. Peter's?" she asked politely, after they were well on the way. "Nobody ever thought so," said Peter, looking down at her with a twinkle in his eye. "Well, I didn't know," she said. "I thought I'd like to ask you some questions about him if you were. We have had a good deal about him at Sunday-school lately. I'm studying my lessons nowadays for a prize; they are going to give a sacrilegious picture to the child that knows her verses the best by Easter, and I think maybe I'll get it, for I'm only about next to the worst now." "How many are there of you?" "O, a lot; but if I do get it, I shall ask for a goat and cart instead. We have plenty of pictures at home, but we are much in need of a goat and cart." Peter had a peculiar habit, Ethelwyn afterwards told her grandmother, of shaking after she had talked to him awhile, and gurgling down in his throat. She felt sorry for him. "He was prob'ly not feeling well; maybe what Aunt Mandy calls chilling," she said. She found grandmother making pumpkin pies, for the minister and his wife were coming to dinner the next day. Grandmother was famous for making pumpkin pies, and never allowed any one else to make them. "It's my grandmother's recipe," she said, and Ethelwyn nearly fell off her chair trying to imagine grandmother's grandmother. "I shouldn't suppose they would have been discovered then," she said, after a struggle. "Pumpkin pies don't go out of style like clothes, do they, grandmother?" "Mine never have," said grandmother proudly. "I suppose Mandy never makes pumpkin pies." "Yes she does, but they don't grow in yellow watermelons; they live in tin cans." "Pooh!" said grandmother, "they can't hold a candle to these." "No, but why would they want to?" "Hand me that japanned box with the spices, please, dear. Now you'll see the advantage of doing this sort of thing yourself; here are mustard and pepper boxes in this other japanned box, but I know just where they always stand, so I could get up in the night and make no mistake." Just then grandmother was called away from the kitchen. "Don't meddle and get into mischief, will you, deary?" she said. And Ethelwyn promised. She intended to keep her word, but while she was smelling the spices, it struck her that it would be a good joke to season the pies from the other box. "Like an April fool," she thought; so she took a spoon and measured in a liberal supply of mustard and red pepper; then she went out into the yard. It was fortunate that the minister and his new wife were not coming until the next day. Ethelwyn, however, spent a very unhappy afternoon. That night she woke up sobbing, and crawled into grandmother's big bed. "What's the matter, child?" said grandmother, sitting up in bed with a start. "Are you sick?" "Yes, grandmother, awful! You'll never like me again, I know." And then she told her about the pumpkin pies. "Well, child, I am thankful you told me," said grandmother with a sigh, "for when you are as old as I am, and have a reputation for doing things, it goes hard to make a failure of them, and I should have been much mortified. Fortunately there are plenty of pie shells, and there is more pumpkin steamed, so that I can season and put them together in the morning. But I am glad, dear child, that your conscience wouldn't let you sleep comfortably until you had told; be careful, however, never again to break your word. Remember the Van Starks' watchword, 'Love, Truth, and Honor.' Now cuddle down here and go to sleep." Ethelwyn, feeling much relieved, slept in the canopy bed with grandmother, until long past daylight. When she came down-stairs, the great golden pies were coming out of the oven, and the minister and his wife violated propriety and made Grandmother Van Stark proud and happy by eating two pieces each. _CHAPTER XVII_ _Out at Grandmother's_ Grandmother's house, I tell you most emphatic, Is full of good times from cellar to the attic. There came to Grandmother Van Stark's one day, a forlorn black tramp kitten, mewing dismally. Ethelwyn, who loved kittens devotedly, was melted to the verge of tears by his wailing appeals in a minor key; so she cuddled him and fed him on Lady Babby's creamy, foamy milk. In the intervals of eating, however, he still wailed like a lost soul. "The critter don't stop crying long enough to catch a mouse," said cook, eyeing the disconsolate bundle of grief with strong disfavor. "He almost did this morning, Hannah," said Ethelwyn in his defense. "I saw him watching a hole, and he's so little yet, I grabbed him away. Besides, I don't like mice myself, and I was so afraid I'd see one or two." "No danger; his bawling will keep them away," said Hannah, grimly. "O, well then, his crying is some good, after all," returned Ethelwyn, triumphantly. "That's a good deal nicer than killing the poor little things." "Humph!" said Hannah. But Grandmother Van Stark had given orders that Johnny Bear--so named from one of Ernest Thompson-Seton's illustrations, which Ethelwyn thought he resembled--was to be treated tenderly and fed often, because Ethelwyn loved him, and she herself loved to feed hungry people and animals. But one morning there was a great commotion over the discovery that a mouse had been in Grandmother Van Stark's room. "This is a chance for Johnny Bear to make a reputation as a mouser," said grandmother. "We will take him up-stairs to-night and he shall have a chance to catch that mouse." "O grandmother, I'm sure he will," said Ethelwyn, earnestly; so she talked to him that afternoon about it. It had rained in the afternoon,--a cold drizzly rain, so Nancy had lighted a little snapping wood-fire in Grandmother Van Stark's sitting-room. Into this opened the sleeping room in which was Ethelwyn's small bed, and the big mahogany tester bed, where Grandmother Van Stark had slept for more years than Ethelwyn could imagine. Ethelwyn put Johnny Bear and his basket in front of the grate. It was so "comfy" that he stopped yowling at once and began to purr. "How does middle night look, Nancy?" said Ethelwyn, as she lay in her little brass bed, watching the dancing shadows on the wall. "Like any other time, only stiller," replied Nancy. "Go to sleep now, Miss Ethelwyn." So Ethelwyn presently fell asleep and woke up with a little start just as the clock was striking twelve. Johnny Bear was stirring around uneasily in the other room. He had been very still; his stomach was full, and his body warm, so that there really was no possible excuse for making a noise. In fact, there was a faint scratching in the closet that concentrated his attention, and froze him into a statue of silence. Presently he pounced, and a little shriek, piteous and faint, told the story. Then Johnny Bear played ball with his victim, and ran up and down the room as gaily as if he had never known what it was to cry. But all at once something went wrong; a crackle in the grate sent a glowing coal over the fender and on the rug, where it smoldered and smoked, and then ran out a little tongue of flame. So Johnny Bear began to mew again loudly and uneasily, the clock struck twelve, and Ethelwyn awoke. "Hush, Johnny Bear, dear," she said softly from the other room; "you'll wake up grandmother." But grandmother was awake, and lifted her head just in time to see the tongue of fire. She was over the side of the bed in a minute, and, snatching up a pitcher of water, dashed it over the rug. Ethelwyn jumped up too and snatched Johnny Bear in her arms. "I don't think twelve o'clock at night looks stiller, do you, grandmother?" she asked. "Aren't you glad Johnny Bear came to live with us, and--oh! oh!" he cried, for she had stepped on a soft little mouse, lying quite still now on the floor. "O Johnny, how could you?" she said sorrowfully, quite forgetting her instructions to him in the afternoon. "But he is brave, isn't he, grandmother?" "Very," said grandmother, "and he shall have a saucer of cream in the morning. But come now, chicken; I've put out the fire, and covered the other, so I think we can sleep in peace." So they both went to sleep, and Johnny Bear from that time on wept no more. The next morning, Ethelwyn joyfully told Hannah and Peter all about it. Their praise was unstinted enough to suit even her swelling heart, and she proudly took the saucer of cream to Johnny, saying, "There, darling, everybody loves you now, even Peter and Hannah and Nancy, because you did your duty so nobly. I knew you would, so I loved you all the time." "Miss Ethelwyn," said Nancy, appearing, "there are callers in the drawing-room, and your grandmother wishes you to come in." Ethelwyn went in, and was presented to several of the ladies of the church, who had come to see about a reception to be given to the clergyman and his new young wife. It was, Ethelwyn found with joy, to be given at Grandmother Van Stark's. "O may I stay up?" she begged, and grandmother, who always found it hard to deny her grandchildren anything, said she might. When evening came, Ethelwyn dressed in her best white frock, a little later than the hour when she usually went to bed, came down the staircase with grandmother, who was more stately and lovely than ever? In her black velvet gown, with the great portrait brooch of Grandfather Van Stark, surrounded by diamonds, in the beautiful old lace around her neck. Grandmother was permitted to sit while receiving the guests. Between her chair and where the clergyman and his wife stood, Ethelwyn slipped her own little rocker, and sat there, highly interested in the streams of people that came by. "It's like a funeral," she announced during a slight lull. Grandmother and the clergyman looked around startled. "Why, child, what do you know about funerals?" asked grandmother, while the clergyman, of course, laughed. "'Vada took me and Beth once to a big mercession, and we went into a big church and the folks all went up and looked at somebody, just like to-night. 'Vada said it was a big gun's funeral, just like you and your wife, you know," she concluded cheerfully, nodding to the clergyman. "Well of all things--" began grandmother, but a new lot of people coming in demanded her attention. The clergyman and his wife, laughing heartily, shook hands with the new people, and Ethelwyn was rather indignant to hear her remark repeated several times. "I'm not going to say anything more," she thought, "they always laugh so." She sat very quiet, indeed, until by and by the lights and the pink, blue, and white gowns danced together in a rainbow, and then she knew nothing at all about the rest of it, nor that the minister himself carried her up-stairs and put her in Nancy's care. But the first thing of which she thought in the morning, was the refreshments, in which she had been so vitally interested the day before; so she came very soberly down-stairs to a late breakfast. "Well, chicken," said grandmother, "how did you like the reception?" "Not very much," said Ethelwyn. "I'm so ashamed to think I didn't get any ice cream--" "There's some saved for you; and I think I see your mother and Beth coming in the gate, I was so sorry they couldn't come last night." "I do believe they _are_ coming," said Ethelwyn, standing on tiptoes, "and, yes, see, they have Bobby and Nan with them, to help take me home!" There was a wild triple shriek from the surrey, followed by three small forms climbing rapidly down. They were proudly escorted by Ethelwyn to see Johnny Bear, the chickens, Peter, Hannah, and Nancy, all before mother was fairly in the house and the surrey in the barn. They ate the reception refreshments with such zeal that grandmother said, "Well there! I was wondering what we would do with all the things that were left, but I needn't have worried." "No, the mothers are the only ones that need worry,--over the after results," said Mrs. Ray burn, laughing. They started home in the afternoon, all standing on the surrey steps and seats to wave a farewell to dear Grandmother Van Stark as long as they could see her. Of course they played games going home, and this time Ethelwyn had really made up one. "I'll say the first and last letter of something in the surrey or that we can see, and then whoever guesses it can give two letters." So she gave "m----r," and Beth guessed mother at once; then Beth gave "h----s," and Bobby disgraced himself by guessing horse, but he was warm, because it really was harness, and Nan guessed it. Then she gave "f----s," and that took them a long time, because it didn't sound at all like flowers, but Bobby finally guessed it, and then he gave them "g----s," which mother guessed as girls. "You tell us a story, motherdy," said Ethelwyn, cuddling up close. "I just love to hear you talk, I haven't heard you for so long." "Were you homesick for me?" "Not ezactly," said Ethelwyn, "but I had a lonesome spot for you all whenever I thought about it." Ethelwyn always pronounced the word "exactly" wrong. Her mother liked to hear her say it, however, and one or two more; "for they will grow out of baby-hood all too fast," she said. "I went over to see Miss Helen Gray yesterday," said Mrs. Rayburn, "and she told me some funny stories about Polly, her parrot. You know she is really a very remarkable bird. Ever since Miss Helen has lived alone, she and Polly have been great friends, and it seems as though Polly really understands things she says to her. She bought her in New Orleans, where she boarded next door to the Cathedral. So Polly soon learned to intone the service, not the words, but exactly the intonation. "One day Miss Helen, who allowed her all sorts of liberties, let her out, but first she made her tell where she lived. '1013 H---- Street,' Polly said. 'Will you be good and not get lost?' 'Yep,' said Polly, so she went out, and Miss Helen heard her talking in the yard. A lady came along beautifully dressed. "'La, how fine,' said Polly. "The lady looked around angrily, thinking it was a boy. "'Didn't see me, did you?' said Polly, and then the woman saw the funny little green bird on the lawn and she petted and complimented her until Polly felt very much puffed up. "Miss Helen went in for a few minutes, though, and when she came out, Polly was gone, stolen probably by some one that slipped up behind her. "Poor Miss Helen grieved and grieved over her, and offered great rewards, but to no avail. In about a year she went to Florida, and one day, going by a bird fancier's that she knew, the man invited her to come in, saying that he had a lot of new parrots to show her. "O I wonder: if Polly is there!' she said, and told him about her. "'No, I haven't any that know as much as that,' said he; 'but there is one who looks as if she understood things, but she won't, or can't, talk.' "So Miss Helen went in, and there, sure enough, was her poor Polly huddled up sulkily in a cage. "'Polly,' called Helen, and Polly started and came to the front of the cage. "'Helen, Helen,' she called, going perfectly wild; '1013 H---- Street. I'll be good! Yep! Yep! Yep!' and then she began to intone the service. "The bird fancier was astonished enough. "'I bought her and some six others from two sailors,' he said, 'but I never dreamed she could talk!' "Miss Helen paid him a big price and went off with Polly on her finger chattering like one mad." "O I'd love to see her," cried Beth. "Well go over there some day. Here we are at home." "I'm glad," said Ethelwyn. "It's nice to go away, but it's nicer to come back." _CHAPTER XVIII_ _How They Bought a Baby_ Spend your money Speed you, honey, Quick as you can fly Up the street, Toys and sweet Money burns to buy. And all this time they had saved their birthday money! It was accidental, for they had in the multitude of other events and presents, forgotten they had it until one morning, in emptying their banks for "peanut" nickles, with a dexterity born of long practice, they discovered the two gold coins, for they each had been given one, of course, and they rushed off at once to show them. "Haven't we saved this money, though?" they said, full of pride, and then they straightway sat down to make plans for spending it. "Let's each buy a puppy for a parting gift to Bobby and Nan," suggested Ethelwyn, as she and Beth were soon going away to visit the Home. "Yes, sir, let's," said Beth. "They dearly love Bose, and Mr. Smithers, our vegetable man, has six and will sell us two, I know." Mr. Smithers said he would be charmed--or words to that effect--to sell them two Newfoundland puppies at five dollars each, and they struck a bargain at once. It was easier to do because mother had gone to town on business and was to be away all day. Mr. Smithers promised to bring them in that afternoon, and they went off to wait until then with what patience they could muster. They met Joe on their way to the barn, and noticed that his usual ruddy countenance was grave and pale. "My sister is sick," he explained, "and she's getting no better." "Why don't you tell mother?" asked Ethelwyn. "O it's everything your mother's done for us this summer, without bothering her more," he said. "I'm going to try to get my sister up in the country, but--I can't yet awhile." "Will it cost very much, Joe?" "No, not much, but there's so many of us to feed and clothe that we never have any money left for anything else." "Mother will help, I know," said Ethelwyn, and they went up to the house, pondering deeply. "Those horrid puppies! I wish we'd never heard of them," said Ethelwyn. "Then we could give Dick the money. What did you think about them for?" "You did yourself." "No, I didn't. Anyway, let's watch for Mr. Smithers at the back garden gate, and tell him not to bring them." So they went down through the garden, and, looking over the gate, they saw a very sulky little colored girl carrying a long limp bundle of yellow calico, with a round woolly head protruding at the top. "O that cunning baby I Where'd you get him?" they cried both at once, opening the gate to look at him. The sulky nurse shifted the bundle to her other shoulder. "Allus had him, mos'," she said; "him or 'nuther one, perzactly like him, to lug roun' while ma's washin'." "Don't you like to play with him?" asked Ethelwyn in a shocked tone. "No, I don't," was the emphatic reply; "nor you wouldn't needa, ef you had it to do contin'ul." "Why, you can play he's a doll." "He's showin' off now, but when he gits to bawlin', you ain't a gwine to make no mistake 'bout his bein' nuffin' 'tal but a cry-baby," she continued, preparing to move on. "Would you sell him?" asked Beth eagerly. "Yessum, I sholy would," said his sister with a gleam of interest; "we ain't a gwine to miss him, wid six mo'! I'll sell him easy fo' a dolla'." There was a hurried consultation between Beth and Ethelwyn. "It's cheaper, and would leave nine dollars for Joe. Bobby could keep him one day, and Nan the next, or we could get something else for one of them. I think Nan would like him the best." "We will buy him," said Ethelwyn, at the end of the consultation. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the yellow bundle went into Ethelwyn's outstretched arms. Beth went off to get the money. She ran breathlessly down the street to get the change, she was so afraid the girl would change her mind and take back the baby. There was no doubt but that the girl was in rather a dubious state of mind over it, but the silver dollar clinched her resolution, and she walked firmly off, without a backward glance in the direction of the gurgling Samuel Saul, which was the alliteral name of the yellow bundle. Ethelwyn and Beth, after a further consultation, took him to the attic. They considered it providential that Sierra Nevada was assisting in the laundry, and that the coast was therefore free from all observers. Samuel Saul was rocked in the cradle in which the ancestors of the children, as well as themselves, had been rocked, and he, well contented with the motion and not ill pleased with his surroundings, presently fell into a delicious slumber. "'Rockabye baby on the tree top,'" came from the open attic window, and floated down to Joe currying Ninkum, and to 'Vada, Mandy, and Aunt Sophie in the laundry. Joe smiled at the cheerful refrain, and 'Vada, sure that they were in no mischief, mopped her dripping brow, and went on with her work. Watching Samuel Saul's peaceful slumbers grew a little monotonous after a while, so Beth descended to the kitchen for a plate of cookies and a glass of water, and leaving this substantial luncheon beside their sleeping charge, they went down-stairs and for a while played on the piano with more strength than anything else. After that they took more cookies and went over to play with Bobby. Bobby, making a chicken yard out of wire netting, was delighted to have assistance, and they telephoned for Nan, who speedily joined them. "Mother's gone to town to-day to see your grandfather, who owns a bank, Bobby," said Ethelwyn. "I expect it's on account of his losing a whole lot of money," rejoined Bobby, standing on tiptoe on a box to pound in a nail. "Where did he lose it? Were there holes in his pockets?" asked Beth, unrolling the wire at Bobby's order. "On change," said Bobby, with his mouth full of nails. "Our money is in your grandfather's bank, and the Home money and Grandmother Van Stark's. I hope he hasn't lost anybody's but his own," said Ethelwyn anxiously. "You're not very polite," said Nan. "Well I do, but if he lost only change, prob'ly it's his own, and mother's gone to give him some more." "Pooh!" said Bobby, "it's not--" But before he could say anything more, excited voices were heard, and four black and shining faces appeared over the top of the fence, while a guilty eye looked through a knot-hole farther down. "Has you all seen anything of a low down black pickaninny which is los'?" This remark came from 'Vada. "Which is _stole_," corrected a mountain of flesh, quivering with wrath. "Is it Samuel Saul?" asked Ethelwyn. "It is so; will you projus him?" asked the mountain. "He's in the attic asleep; his sister sold him to us for a present to Bobby and Nan--" "O let's see him," cried Nan, with lively interest. "You all is gwine to leab him alone--" began the mountain, when Mandy turned ponderously in her direction. "Will you, Martha Jane Jenkins, please kindly rec'lect dat you is 'sociatin' wid quality now, an' take a good care how you talk, though sholy it may be de fus time dat you has ebber been in good sassity--" "Dat is sholy de trufe w'en I has been wid you," said Martha Jane Jenkins, wrathfully. But now from the open attic windows were heard such piercing shrieks that they all with one consent turned in that direction. "Americky, you go bring me you brudda," instructed Martha, cuffing soundly the girl with the guilty eye. Presently America and the children returned with the wailing Samuel Saul to the place where Mandy, 'Vada, and Aunt Sophie were standing, loftily ignoring the angry mother and making caustic remarks calculated to add to her discomfort. In the capacious arms of his mother, Samuel Saul ceased his repining and contentedly gurgled again. As the united ones went off, Martha Jane Jenkins with her head in the air and America remorsefully weeping in the rear, Ethelwyn said, "Well, our dollar's gone, and our baby too, and I thought we had made such a bargain. I don't know what Mr. Smithers will say." "And poor Joe too," said Beth. "There comes Mr. Smithers now," exclaimed Bobby. "Yes an' I ain't got your puppies either, for when I got home I found my boy had sold two and given away two, so there wasn't any left but what we wanted to keep." "Well, I'm thankful," said Ethelwyn; "for we bought a baby instead, only its mother took it back, and we just had to use the rest of the money for something else. Thank you, Mr. Smithers." "You're entirely welcome," responded he. _CHAPTER XIX_ _Bobby's Grandfather_ And now let's be glad, While everything's bright. Days that are sunny Are shadowed by night. That evening there was considerable news to tell mother when she came from town, and she both laughed and lectured them a little over the baby episode. After the children told her what Bobby had said about his grandfather losing money, they asked anxiously, "Oh mother, did he lose anything of ours?" For the first time in a long while the two straight worry lines came back between mother's eyes, and the children immediately climbed in her lap to kiss them away. "I can't tell yet, dearest ones," she said after a while. "I have been very foolish to leave so much of our money in one bank, I am afraid, but I had such faith, too much, perhaps, and I fear--" It was very comforting to have their dear warm cheeks against her own, and courage, almost vanquished during this trying day, came back. After awhile she laughed with them again, and told them stories until bedtime, promising them also that Joe's sister would be sent to the Home as soon as she was able. The next morning, however, the lines came back, and the children, seeing them, resolved that they would write Bobby's grandfather a letter. "If there's anything I'm glad of, it's that I know how to write," said Ethelwyn. "It was very hard to learn." They went up-stairs to the nursery where their own small desks were and taking some of their beloved Kate Green a way paper with pictures of quaint little children on it, after much trouble, ink, and many sheets of paper, as well as consultations with Bobby and Nan, they finished and posted a very small envelope to Bobby's grandfather, whose address they obtained from Bobby. Bobby's grandfather, on coming down the next morning to the bank, found this communication among the official-looking matter on the desk. The picture in the corner of the envelope was surrounded by these words: "Little Fanny wears a hat, Like her ancient granny; Tommy's hoop was--think of that-- Given him by Fanny." The poke-bonneted pair with Tommy and his hoop looked curiously out of place among their official surroundings. The lines of worry were thickly sown in the banker's face, and as there were no round, rosy-cheeked children in his silent home to kiss them away, they stayed and grew deeper each day. He half smiled, however, as he picked up the Greenaway envelope and curiously broke the seal. This is what he read: "DEAR BOBBY'S GRANDFATHER, "We live next door to Bobby, who is quite often a nice boy, though he wishes us to say always, and we are sorry to learn that you are losing change money, for your sake, and for fear you'll go on and lose ours, Grandmother Van Stark's and the Home's. Ours doesn't matter so much as the others, for we have $9.00 left of our birthday money, and it's lasted so long that it will prob'ly go on lasting, specially if we forget it, or unless we buy more babies, which we shan't do now because of not being able; but dear grandmother without money would be awful, and the Home not to have money for the poor little city children that are sick would be awful, too. Please, please don't lose that, and we will pray for you and love you hard all the days of our life. Amen. "As there is no more paper in our boxes on account of spoiling so much we will say good-bye. "ETHELWYN, BETH, NAN, and BOBBY. "P.S.--The first one she wrote it. "P.S.--My mother said because she had faith in you was why you have our money, and so have we." When the banker had finished this somewhat remarkable epistle, of which the children had been so proud, there were tears in his eyes, although his mouth was smiling, and the lines of worry did not seem so deep nor so stern. He pushed his other mail aside unread, and sat for a long time thinking. Presently he called for his stenographer, and dictated telegram after telegram, the import of which made that impassive person start and glance up in amazement several times. Then, seizing a sheet of paper, the banker started to write a letter for himself. "DEAR CHILDREN, (it began) "Do not worry. I shall not lose one penny of yours, nor Grandmother Van Stark's, nor the blessed Home's, nor any one's, I hope, but my own, and not enough of that to hurt; at any rate, I shall still have enough, I think, to buy a railroad ticket to Bobby's house. So tell him that I wish he'd tell his mother to have a good supper to-morrow night, and you children must plan it and all come and eat with me. "Yours, with love, "BOBBY'S GRANDFATHER. "P.S.--Be sure to have plenty of candy for supper." The excitement and the joy that this letter produced were something startling. Away went the worry lines from Mrs. Rayburn's dear face, and back came the laughter the children loved. In Bobby's house they planned a most wonderful menu of fried chicken, candy, cake, and ice cream. Mandy baked spice cakes at Nan's and Bobby's special request, and nobody thought anything whatever about indigestion or after effects; for where everybody laughs and is happy, there is no need to fear indigestion. The children went to the station to meet the guest, and, when the train came in, greeted him with shouts of welcome, and, proudly surrounding him, marched down the street like a royal procession. There would not be words enough to describe the feast that followed at Bobby's house. All the children wished to sit next to his grandfather, so that he had to change places at every course (all of which had candy interludes) and thus that mighty matter was accomplished to the entire satisfaction of the children. And after supper Bobby's grandfather played games with them and soon lost his worry lines, probably on the floor where he was playing horse or bear. No one picked them up, so it isn't positively known where he lost them. When Ethelwyn and Beth suddenly bethought themselves that they were to go with their mother to the Home the next day, to take Joe's sister there, it was at once decided that Bobby and Nan should go too, for one beautiful outing before school should begin. "And we will need it," said Bobby, with a deep sigh over the arduous educational duties before him. Then Bobby's grandfather brought out some curious knobby-looking bundles from his valise, and while the children shut their eyes, he hid the packages and then turned the children loose to find them. There was a great outfit of Kate Greenaway writing paper for Ethelwyn; a black doll-baby apiece for Beth and Nan; and a watch with a leather fob and jockey cap attachments for his namesake, Bobby. There were also a book and a game for each one. While they were playing with their gifts, Mrs. Rayburn and Bobby's grandfather talked apart, and it was a happy talk, as Ethelwyn and Beth could see when they came up to where they were sitting. When at last it was time to say good-night, Ethelwyn and Beth had a surprise for Bobby's grandfather. It was four silver dollars. "Two of our dollars are gone to help take Joe's sister to the Home," Beth explained, "but this is for you on account of your losing the change money. It's from us all, instead of good-bye presents we were going to get for Nan and Bobby. They said they'd rather." Bobby's grandfather hesitated just a little and was about to make a gesture of refusal, when, seeing their mother shake her head, he kissed the children's red cheeks and said, with a shake in his voice, "You dear children, I'll keep these and your letter, as long as I live, so as not to forget your faith in me." _CHAPTER XX_ _The Visit to the Home_ On the train we ran through rain, Then out in sun and blue; And all the trees bent down and raced, And all the houses too. Somehow, that night, after the children were all in bed, and the grown people were talking over the next day's journey, it seemed to Bobby's grandfather that he too would like to go along, and he said he could not for the life of him see why Bobby's mother should not go too, and also Nan's father and mother if they wished. Well, it was short notice, but by telegraphing, telephoning and telling by mouth they arranged it; and the next morning quite an imposing party boarded the Eastbound Limited, and took possession of the drawing-room car, for Bobby's grandfather never did things on a niggardly plan. He and Bobby's mother were seated on one side, and Nan's mother (her father could not leave) and Mrs. Rayburn were across from them, while Nan, Ethelwyn, Beth, and Bobby appeared and disappeared, like meteors, in the most unexpected places. Joe's sister was not well enough that day to accompany them, so it was arranged that her brother should bring her as soon as she felt better. If I have, by the use of the word "grandfather," given you an idea of decrepitude and old age, in the case of Bobby's grandfather, I wish at once to change that idea. He was a very erect and handsome man, with a white mustache indeed, but with a firm mouth underneath that gave no sign of diminished force. He had always told Mrs. Rayburn that he thought it was very foolish for her to give such large sums of money for charity. "It's not right," he now repeated, twirling his mustache. The morning paper lay across his knees, and, as he spoke, with an air of finality and disapproval, he picked it up. "What isn't right, grandfather?" asked Bobby, suddenly appearing on the back of his chair, and encircling his grandfather's neck with a pair of sturdy legs. His grandfather drew him down by one leg into his lap. "Giving all your money away to people who don't appreciate it," he explained. "How do you know they don't?" asked Bobby. "Because, sir, people don't appreciate what is given to them, as much as they do what they earn." Bobby pondered over this. "I like my Christmas presents better than the money I get for chopping kindling," he replied at length; "because the Christmas money is more, for one thing." "And more certain," put in his mother, laughing; "the kindling money isn't always earned." "Are you talking about the Home money?" asked Ethelwyn, looking over the back of the chair in front of them. "Yes." "But we like to give it, and so will you, when you see how nice it is, and Dick and Aunty Stevens and the best cookies that she can make. What's the good of keeping money? We can always buy more down at your bank," she concluded easily. "You may not always think so, young lady, nor take such wide views of things. When you grow up, you may wish you had more money," said the banker, laughing. "Does keeping money make folks happy?" inquired Beth, suddenly popping up. The lines in grandfather's face deepened, and there came over it a look of care. "Not always, child, I must confess," he said at length. "Besides, my father says not to lay up treasure for roth and must to corrupt!" put in Nan, coming to the surface. At this, they all shouted, much to Nan's discomfiture. For awhile the banker looked out on the showery landscape, then he turned to the children's mother. "Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Rayburn," he said gently. "The world is all too selfish;" and he sighed as he said it. "It is indeed," came the emphatic answer. "There is no crime, there is no sin, that has not for its basis selfishness. It is the evil part of life, and the Christ life that ought to be man's pattern, is the type of unselfishness." "Well," said the banker, taking up his paper, "I am open to conviction." The sun was shining when they arrived at the pretty station, and they all stopped on the platform to listen a moment to the organ note of the sea. As they waited, a wagon drove up, and a young fellow jumped out and ran towards them. "It's--it's--Dick! Dick who used to walk on crutches!" cried Ethelwyn, fairly rubbing her eyes in astonishment. There were no signs of lameness now in this tall youth, and his face was radiant with happiness. He could not speak for a moment, as he shook hands with those whom he knew, and of whom he had almost constantly thought with heartfelt gratitude. "My sakes! Aren't you mended up well, though?" said Beth, walking around him admiringly. They all laughed at this, of course, and Dick was then introduced to Bobby's mother, his grandfather, and Bobby himself. "Dick is the first patient of the Home," said Mrs. Rayburn, "and he does it credit. He is Mrs. Stevens's right-hand man now. Where and how is dear Mrs. Stevens?" "She is well but could not leave to come to the train," said Dick. "She can hardly wait to see you, though." "I do sincerely trust she has baked a bushel of cookies," said Ethelwyn, as they climbed into the wagon. The approach to the Home was very beautiful. The sun was going down in a blaze of glory, and the wagon wound around the hill road to where the cottage, gay with flags and striped awnings, crowned its summit. Then, above the roar of the sea and the clatter of hoofs, came the sound of children's voices calling from the broad piazza, "Welcome home! Welcome home!" Then a child's voice sang, "To give sad children's hearts a joy, To give the weary rest, To give to those who need it sore, This makes a life most blest." As Bobby's grandfather helped the grown people out of the wagon--the children had climbed down without waiting for help--he cleared his throat once or twice. "I'm nearer conviction than I was," he said. As she hurried towards the porch, Mrs. Rayburn smiled to herself. Nan's mother waited, and walked up with Bobby's grandfather. Over her had come a great and happy change; her eyes were now full of earnest light, and she had forgotten her headaches and other small ills. She now looked up into the banker's face. "After all, life to be beautiful and to reach rightly towards eternity should be helpful, and self-forgetful; do you not think so?" she said. "I was long learning the two great commandments, which embody the whole decalogue, and I probably never should have learned them if it had not been for these blessed children, and their mother." "H--m, h--m," said the banker. On the porch were twenty children. In forty eyes the new light of happiness was dawning. At the beginning, many of them had been hopeless and even evil, but now it was all different, for they had found out that they could laugh. Aunty Stevens herself, full of laughter and bubbling over with joy at seeing her friends again, surrounded by the shouting children, made them more than welcome. Bobby's grandfather was armed with a huge box, which he had mysteriously guarded all day; he now set it down upon the porch. "If you children don't make this box lighter at once, I shall have no use for you," he declared. And they all, scenting candy with infallible instinct, fell upon it with rapture. They had tea on the lawn, that evening, and, after a consultation with Mrs. Stevens, Bobby's grandfather sent a message over the telephone that was followed very shortly by a man with ice cream and a huge cake. When eight o'clock came, one of the teachers began to play a march on the piano in the hall. At once the children fell into line, marking time with their feet, and singing, "Good-night, good-night, Children and blossoms who sleep all the night, Always will wake up happy and bright, Good-night, good-night!" As they sang, they marched away to bed. The others followed them in. The boys' dormitories were in a building on one side of the lawn, and the girls' on the other, while the babies' nursery was in the main building. The spirit of the Home was helpfulness, so each child aided some one else in getting ready for the night. When they were in their white night-gowns, they all dropped upon their knees, and one of the teachers said a short prayer after which they all joined with her in the Lord's Prayer. When the guests came down into Aunty Stevens's sitting-room where the open fire was dancing--for the evening was a trifle chilly--Bobby's grandfather put a few questions to Mrs. Stevens. "When the children are thievish and given to bad language and lying, what do you do?" he asked. "In some way they seem to shed those things, as a worm does its cocoon, after they are here for a while," she answered. "In the light of loving care, the sunny child nature comes out--it cannot help it, any more than a rose can help blooming in the sun; and, with the other children who have been here from the first to regulate things, we do not have much trouble. They are too young to stay vicious, and when they go away they are well enough grounded in good habits not to forget them, we hope, and to go on helping others." "Do you have to refuse many applicants?" "Yes, that is one trouble. We ought to be able to take at least fifty children, and we need an infirmary; but those things will come in time." Bobby's grandfather opened his mouth to speak, just as Bobby himself climbed into his lap with a question trembling on his lips. "Well, sir?" inquired his grandfather. "May I have some of the money you're going to leave me, to give now, just as Ethelwyn and Beth did?" asked Bobby. "How do you know I'm going to leave you any, you young freebooter?" "Well, I s'posed you would; most people would think so, 'cause I'm named for you, and you always said you liked me," remarked Bobby, somewhat embarrassed. His grandfather patted him comfortingly on the back. "Yes, Bobby, I do like you, and all the better for your request. We'll build the infirmary, and maybe more. I am open to conviction no more," he added, looking towards Mrs. Rayburn, "for I _am_ convicted and I hope converted." ADVERTISEMENTS MOLLY BROWN SERIES College Life Stories for Girls By NELL SPEED. Cloth Bound. Illustrated. Price, 60c. per vol., postpaid MOLLY BROWN'S FRESHMAN DAYS. Would you like to admit to your circle of friends the most charming of college girls--the typical college girl for whom we are always looking but not always finding; the type that contains so many delightful characteristics, yet without unpleasant perfection in any; the natural, unaffected, sweet-tempered girl, loved because she is lovable? Then seek an introduction to Molly Brown. You will find the baggage-master, the cook, the Professor of English Literature, and the College President in the same company. MOLLY BROWN'S SOPHOMORE DAYS. What is more delightful than a re-union of college girls after the summer vacation? Certainly nothing that precedes it in their experience--at least, if all class-mates are as happy together as the Wellington girls of this story. 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22944	----	Little Peter, the Ship Boy, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ Peter's mother lies dying in the first chapter, and gives him her own Bible. Peter's father had already died at sea, and the only family income had been what Peter earned looking after a farmer's sheep. After the death the little house had to be sold to settle debts, leaving virtually nothing. Peter decides to go to sea, and makes his way to a nearby port, where, against advice, he takes a place as a ship's boy in a coasting brig carrying cargoes of coals. The Captain is very unkind to him, as are most of the rest of the crew, but Peter is buoyed up only by his Bible which he contrives to carry with him at all times. In a gale the brig starts to sink and the Captain and crew abandon her in the ship's boat, leaving Peter on board as he had been sent below to get food for the crew, and was forgotten. However, the sinking brig grounds inside the tail of a bank, where she is sheltered from the gale. After a couple of days he is seen and rescued by the crew of the "Primrose", where he is taken on, again as a ship's boy. One of the crew is a grumpy old man called Simon Hixon. After a long time Peter and Simon become more friendly. There is an accident and the vessel is cast up on a rock fairly near an island. The Captain is injured as he had been the last to leave the sinking vessel. Eventually there is a rescue by a passing ship, and life begins to go uphill for Peter after that. We won't spoil the story for you, but it is a very well told tale, written not long before Kingston's death, at the very height of his powers. ________________________________________________________________________ LITTLE PETER, THE SHIP BOY, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. PETER'S HOME AND FRIENDS. "Are you better, mother, to-day?" asked little Peter, as he went up to the bed on which Widow Gray lay, in a small chamber of their humble abode. "I trust so, my boy," she answered, in a doubtful tone, as she gazed fondly on the ruddy, broad, honest face of her only child, and put aside the mass of light hair which clustered curling over his brow, to imprint on it a loving kiss. "I tried to get up to help Betsy when she came to tidy the house, but did not feel strong enough; and the doctor, who looked in soon after, said I had better stay quiet, and gave me some stuff which I trust may do me good. Betsy kindly stopped and put everything to rights, but since she went I have felt lonely, and have been longing for you to come home." Betsy was an old woman who lived nearly half a mile off, on the hill-side. She had known Mary Gray from her childhood, and came every day, without fee or reward, to assist her during the grievous illness from which she had long been suffering, while little Peter was away tending Farmer Ashton's sheep on the neighbouring downs. Widow Gray's cottage stood towards the bottom on the sloping side of some lofty downs, which extended far away east and west, as well as a considerable distance southward towards the ocean, which was, as the crow flies, about ten miles off from the highest point above it. The hill formed one side of a valley, through which flowed a sparkling stream bordered by trees, with here and there scattered about the cottages of the hamlet of Springvale. Far away at the lower end rose amid the trees the slender spire of the little church. On the other side of the valley was a further succession of open downs, crossed only by a single road a considerable distance, off, so that a more secluded nook than Springvale could not be found for many a mile round. The widow's cottage gave signs of decay, though it was evident that such attempts as required no expense had been made to keep it in repair. The holes in the roof had been stuffed full of furze and grass, kept down by heavy stones from being blown off by the wind; the broken panes in the windows were replaced by pieces of board or stout paper; and rough stakes filled up the spaces where the once neat palings had given way. Each foot of the small garden was cultivated, though clearly by an unscientific hand. Indeed, little Peter was the sole labourer, he devoting to it every moment he could spare from attendance on his sick parent after his return from his daily work, patching up many a rent in the cottage produced by weather and time. Peter, indeed, did his very utmost to support his mother, by working early and late--not a moment was he idle; but do all he could he often was unable to gain enough to find food for her and for himself, though he was content with a dry crust and a draught from the bright spring which bubbled out of the hill-side. The little cottage and garden was her own, left to her by her father, Simon Field, a hard-working man, who by temperate habits and industry had been enabled to purchase the ground and to build the cottage, though that, to be sure, was put up chiefly by his own hands. Simon Field, however, was more than an industrious man, he was a pious and enlightened Christian, and had brought up his children in the truth as it is in Christ Jesus. Mary, the youngest daughter, had gone to service, and had obtained a situation in the house of a lately married couple, of whom Simon had heard a good report, and felt confident that she would be treated with Christian kindness and consideration. One by one, Simon Field's wife and children were taken from him, and when Mary's kind mistress also died, she returned home to live with her father. Just at that time Jack Gray, a fine, open-hearted and open-handed sailor, came to the hamlet, where his widowed mother lived. He made love to Mary Field, and won her heart, unhappily before she had ascertained his principles and character. To her simple mind, ignorant as she was of the world, he appeared all that she could desire. As he attended church with her, and behaved with propriety and apparent devotion, she supposed him to be religious, and before he went away to rejoin his ship she promised, with her father's permission, to be his wife on his return. Soon afterwards Simon Field, who had for some time been ailing, followed his wife and children to the grave, and Mary became the owner of the little cottage with its acre of ground. Though she had many suitors, she remained faithful to Jack Gray. Nearly three years had passed away before he returned. She then fulfilled her promise and married him, but before long she could not help confessing to herself that he had changed for the worse. Instead of being the quiet, well-behaved young seaman he had before appeared, he was noisy and boisterous, and more than once got into a broil at the public-house in the hamlet; still, as he was kind and affectionate to her, her love in no way diminished. He laughingly replied to her when she entreated him to be more circumspect in his conduct: "Why, old girl, I am quiet as a lamb compared to what I am afloat. They call me on board `roaring Jack Gray,' and roar I can, I tell you, when I am doing duty as boatswain's mate." Jack Gray, who would not look for employment on shore, in spite of Mary's entreaties that he would do so, determined when the greater part of his pay and his prize-money had been expended, again to go afloat. Mary's home was certainly quieter when he was gone, though she would willingly have detained him. She had, however, enough to occupy her in looking after her new-born child, little Peter, who, when his father next came home from sea, had grown into a fine, sturdy boy. The navy was at this time reduced, and "roaring Jack Gray," who soon grew tired of a life on shore, had to seek for employment in the merchant service. All Mary could hear of him was that he had gone away on a long voyage to foreign parts. The news at length came that the ship he had sailed in had been lost, and that all the crew had perished. For some time she lived on in hopes that her husband had escaped, and might some day return. Not without difficulty was she at length persuaded by her friends that she was really a widow. While her husband was in the navy, she had received a portion of his pay--now she had to depend entirely on her own exertions for the support of herself and little Peter. On her child she devoted all her care and attention, and brought him up faithfully in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and when he did wrong corrected him carefully and wisely. She had taught him especially to love the Book of books, and at an early age little Peter could read fluently and well. When she fell ill he repaid her loving care with the most tender devotion. "Mother, shall I read to you?" he asked, as he took his accustomed seat by her side. "Do, my boy," she answered, taking a small strongly-bound Bible, carefully secured in a leathern case, from under her pillow. "I have been trying to do so, but my eyes are dim, and I could not see the print; but, praised be God, I can remember parts, and I have been repeating to myself our merciful Father's blessed promises to us His children." "That's true, mother," said Peter, opening the book at the third chapter of Saint John's Gospel. "`God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved;'" and Peter read on to the end of the chapter. "Shall I read more, mother?" he asked. "Read, read," she whispered, "for it will soon be too dark." At length Peter could see to read no more, and closing the book, he put it carefully back into the case. "Keep it, my child," said his mother, solemnly; "cherish it, and never part with it while you live. Put it in your breast-pocket now; I would like to see it there, next to your heart, where I pray its truths may find a firm lodgment. It was a gift to me from my dear young mistress on her deathbed. She had intended it for her own child, and she charged me, should I ever have one, to instruct him from his earliest days in its glorious truths. Peter, I have done so, not trusting in my own strength and knowledge, but with earnest prayer that those truths may be imparted to you. And oh, Peter, while you take care of the book, make it a lamp to your feet and a light to your path. Read it with prayer, seeking the aid of God's Holy Spirit to instruct you in its truths, and you will not read in vain." Mrs Gray spoke with solemn earnestness, and Peter promised to follow her counsels, uttering a petition to Heaven at the same time that he might have grace to do so. "Peter," she continued, "I am soon to be taken from you, but I die in peace, for I know that God has heard my prayers, and will watch over you and guard you from evil, and support and comfort you, but do you yourself seek comfort and guidance from Him, and you will not be left destitute." She was silent for some minutes. "Peter," she said, drawing him closer to her and speaking in a low voice, "I grieve to part from you, but I grieve more when I think of your poor father. God knows how earnestly I have prayed for him, and I cannot even now believe that he was taken out of the world still ignorant of God's love and free pardon to all who believe in His Son. I have often dreamed that he has come to me, looking just as he was when he went away, only paler and more careworn; he seemed to ask me to fetch him from some far-off land whence he could not escape. It may have been but an empty dream working on my fancy, and yet I cannot believe that it was so. Oh, what joy it would bring to my heart could I know that he loved the Saviour, and that he is yet alive and the door of mercy still open." Peter's heart was too full of sorrow to let him speak. The waning light prevented him from clearly distinguishing his mother's countenance, but there seemed to be a strange brightness in her eye as she spoke with failing voice, and the hopes her dying words expressed were imparted to him. "Bless you, my boy, bless you!" she murmured, in a scarcely audible voice. His hand was in hers, she pressed it as she spoke, and tried to draw him nearer to her heart. He leant over her, and put his other arm under her head; gradually he felt her hand relax its loving grasp, but many minutes passed before the fear came over him that her spirit had fled. "Mother, mother!" he earnestly cried; "speak to me." There was no answer. He had never been with death before, but he knew too well that she was indeed gone from him. He sat there long with his face on the bedclothes, too much overwhelmed with grief to move. He longed to go and call Betsy, yet he could not bear to leave his mother's body. Soon, however, a step was heard, and the old woman herself entered the room. There was still light sufficient to enable her to see at a glance what had occurred. She stepped up, and closing her dead friend's eyes, gently led little Peter into the outer room. She had brought a couple of candles with her, purposing to spend the night at the cottage if she was required, and lighting them, she left one with Peter, bidding him sit down while she took up the other. "When you feel sleepy, my boy, go to bed; the rest will do you good. I'll stay with your mother; it will be nothing strange to me. I have had so many I loved taken from me, that I am accustomed to watch by the bodies of those who, I hope, went where I am sure she is gone. It's a blessed thing to know that she is happy in heaven; let that comfort you, Peter, and don't take on so, boy." Saying this, she returned to Mrs Gray's room. Peter's head sunk on the table--he wept sorely and long. As he bent down, he felt the book his mother had just given him, which he had placed in his bosom. He took it out and began to read it. Promise after promise beamed forth from its sacred pages on his young soul, lighted by God's Holy Spirit, for he took God at His word, and was comforted. After awhile he crept up the ladder to his little attic room, as Betsy had desired him, and was soon fast asleep. He awoke at daybreak, not forgetting his duty to Farmer Ashton's sheep, and when he got down-stairs he found his kind old friend waiting for him with a crust of bread and a bit of cheese. "You must not disappoint the farmer," she said; "I'll do all that's wanted for your poor mother." "I hadn't forgot the sheep," said Peter; "but, Betsy, may I see her? I could not go without!" Betsy led him into the room. His mother's face looked so calm and peaceable, just like an angel, he thought; he almost fancied she was asleep. "Now go," said Betsy, after he had gazed at her for some moments. "The red streaks are already in the sky." Peter lingered for a moment, then recollecting his duty, hurried down the hill to Mr Ashton's farm. His mother's funeral took place a few days afterwards, he and Betsy and two or three other friends being the mourners. He found to his dismay that he could not return to live at the cottage. He had had thoughts of taking up his abode there all by himself. During Mrs Gray's illness debts had accumulated, and creditors claimed the little property, which had to be sold, and when his mother's funeral expenses had been paid, four or five pounds only remained as the young orphan's inheritance. Betsy took him to her cottage, where he shared the bed of one of her grandchildren, and he continued as before to tend Farmer Ashton's sheep. Often, as the motherless boy sat watching his flock on the sunny downs, he cast his eyes towards the distant blue sea, and wondered what strange lands might be beyond. The thought of his father would then come across his mind. His imagination pictured him still living in those far away unknown regions. What if he could find him and tell him the glorious gospel news! He should be obeying his mother's most earnest wishes. He knew but little of geography; he had read of Palestine and Egypt, and other distant countries, but he had a very indefinite idea as to where they were situated, and as to the rest of the globe, it was, although not quite a blank, yet filled up by his own vivid imagination with strange lands, in which wonders of all sorts existed. Day after day, as he gazed in the same direction, his desire to visit those wondrous regions increased, till he resolved to go on board a ship, and sail forth over the ocean to visit them. Little Peter was in earnest in all things; his faith was earnest, his speech was earnest; truthfulness beamed from his eyes, he was in earnest in whatever he was about. Farmer Ashton discovered this by the way he looked after his sheep. Peter knew every one of them, and reported the least sign of disease--not a sore foot escaped his vigilant eye. The farmer offered to increase his wages if he would stop, when Peter told him he wished to leave his service and go to sea, and was very angry when, though thanking him kindly, he said that he had made up his mind on the matter and meant to go. The farmer warned him that he would have to endure all sorts of dangers and disasters, and was a fool for his pains. Betsy also had used every argument to dissuade him from his purpose, but nothing could change it. When she found that all she could say had no effect, she gave him the money she had charge of, and assisted him in getting ready some clothes that he might set forth in a respectable manner to the neighbouring port to which the carrier, who passed through the hamlet once a week, undertook to convey him. CHAPTER TWO. A START IN LIFE. The carrier's cart stopped on a height above the little town of Oldport. Peter gazed with wonder and admiration on the wide ocean spread out before him, now bright and shining under a blue sky and light summer breeze. It surpassed his utmost expectations--a beautiful highway it seemed to those distant regions he had longed to visit, and he fancied that there could be no impediment in his course till he could reach them. As soon as the carrier had deposited him and his bundle at the inn close to the harbour, he set out to walk along the quay, and looked at the vessels whose tall masts rose in a long row above it. As he had never before seen a vessel, he was unable to judge of their size; to his eyes they seemed mighty ships, capable of battling with the wildest waves which could ever rage across the bosom of the deep. They were in reality colliers or other small coasters, as no vessels of any size could enter the harbour. He was ready to go on board the first which would receive him. Peter had never had any playmates or young companions. He had lived alone with his mother, who had taught him to read, and trained him in the love and fear of God. The Bible was almost the only book he knew. He was, in consequence, grave beyond his years. The few neighbours used to laugh at him as "an odd, old-fashioned little fellow," as, indeed, he was; but everybody respected and trusted him. He walked up and down the quay once or twice before he could make up his mind what to do. At last he determined to address a sailor-looking man who was leaning against a stout post round which two or three hawsers from the neighbouring vessels were secured. "Is one of those ships there yours?" asked Peter, in a hesitating tone. "Why do you want to know, my lad?" inquired the seaman. "Because I want to go and be a sailor in one of them," said Peter. "Then take my advice, and give up wanting," said the seaman. "Better by half remain on shore, and tend sheep and cattle, as I have a notion you have been doing. None of the vessels are mine; I am only mate in the _John and Mary_, yonder," pointing to a schooner which lay alongside the quay. "We have got a boy, and I would not have a hand in taking any youngster away from home unless he knew more about what he would have to go through than I suspect you do. Now go back, lad, whence you came," continued the mate, folding his arms and puffing away at the pipe he had in his mouth. One or two other sailors laughed at him or roughly turned aside without deigning to answer. At last he reached a two-masted vessel, in reality a brig, somewhat larger than the rest, but her deck was black with coal-dust, and everything about her had a dark, grimy look. A rough, black-bearded, strongly-built man, better dressed than some of those he had spoken to, was stepping on shore by the plank which formed a communication between the vessel and the quay. Peter guessed rightly that he was the captain. Beginning to feel that his hope of going to sea was less likely to be accomplished than he had expected, he determined, with a feeling somewhat akin to desperation, to address him, though the expression of his countenance was far from encouraging. "Do you want a boy on board your ship, sir?" he said, touching his hat, as his mother had taught him to do when addressing his betters. "What, run away from home?" asked the man, stopping, and looking down upon him. "I have no home, sir," answered Peter. "What, no father and mother?" "No, sir," said Peter. "Mother is dead, and father, they say, is dead, too." "Then you will do for me. As it happens, I do want a boy. Here, Jim," he said, turning round, and addressing a sailor as rough-looking as he was himself, but much dirtier, who appeared at the companion-hatch; "here's a lad for you. You had better keep an eye on him, as maybe he will change his mind, and run off again. Go aboard, boy," he added, turning to Peter, "Jim will look after you, and show you what you have got to do." The captain went into the town, and old Jim, who proved to be the mate, took charge of Peter. Old Jim asked him several questions. The answers which Peter gave appeared to satisfy him. Peter inquired the captain's name. "Captain Hawkes; and our brig is the _Polly_," answered Jim. "You won't find a finer craft between this and `No man's land,' if you know where that is." Peter saw that she was the largest vessel in the harbour, and so readily believed what the mate said. The old man asked him if he was hungry, and Peter acknowledging; that such was the case, he took him down into the cabin, and after giving him some bread and ham, offered him a tumbler of rum and water. Peter, who had never tasted spirits, said he would rather not take the rum, whereon old Jim laughed at him and drank it himself. "We shall all get under weigh with the evening tide if the wind holds fair, for it's off the land you see, and will take us out of the harbour," he observed. "You had better lie down till then on the locker and get some sleep, for may be you will find your first night at sea rather strange to you." "Where is the vessel going to?" asked Peter, who fully expected to be told that it was to the Holy Land, or India, or some of the few other distant countries of which he had heard. "We are bound to Newcastle first to take in coals, and it's more than I can tell you where we shall go after that." "Is Newcastle in a far-off country?" asked Peter. "It's a good bit from here," said old Jim; "and if you want to be a sailor, you will have a fair chance of learning before the voyage is out, and so take my advice and don't trouble yourself about the matter. Do as I tell you, just lie down--you would have slept all the sounder if you had taken the grog, though." Old Jim was afraid, perhaps, that Peter would get talking to the rest of the crew, and hear something about Captain Hawkes which might induce him to go on shore again, the last boy having run from the ship, though shoeless and penniless, rather than endure the treatment he had received. Peter, not suspecting old Jim's motive, sat down on the locker in the cabin. Not feeling disposed to sleep he took up his Bible, as he had been accustomed to do when tending sheep on the Springvale downs, and began to read. Old Jim gazed at him with open eyes. To see a ship's-boy reading a book, and that book the Bible, as he guessed it to be, was entirely out of his experience. "He must be a curious chap," he said to himself; "I don't know that he will suit us, after all; but then he will soon get all that knocked out of him I have a notion." Peter, who never failed to pray that God's Holy Spirit would enlighten his mind when he read the Bible, was so completely absorbed in perusing the sacred page, that he did not observe old Jim's glances, nor hear his muttered words. At length, feeling his eyes heavy, he closed the book and replaced it in his bosom. Then he lay down, as he had been advised, on the locker, and was soon fast asleep. The fatigue he had gone through, and the heat of the cabin, made him sleep soundly, and he did not hear the noise of the men's feet on deck as the warps were cast off, or their "yeo! yeo! yeos!" as they hoisted the sails. The captain, who came into the cabin to deposit his papers and several articles he had brought on board, did not rouse him up, and the _Polly_ gliding smoothly out of the harbour, was some distance from the land before he awoke. The sun, a bright ball of fire setting the heavens all ablaze, was sinking into the ocean astern when Peter made his way on deck; the coast with its sandy bays, rocky cliffs, and lofty headlands, their western sides tinged with a ruddy glow appearing on the left, while the calm ocean of an almost purple tint with a golden hue cast across it, stretched away to the right. Peter felt its beauty and majestic tranquillity far more than he could have found words to express. The dark sails, the dirty deck, the begrimed countenances and slovenly dress of the crew contrasted with the purity of the sky and ocean all around. The captain and old Jim his mate were standing aft, speaking to each other. They were apparently talking about him, for they cast their glances towards where he stood looking round and uncertain what to do. He was aroused by the captain shouting to him: "You are one of the sleeping order, youngster, I see; you have had a long snooze; you will have to keep your eyes open in future. What is your name?" "Peter Gray, sir," answered the boy. "Peter is enough for us," said the captain. "Now go forward; your berth is in the forepeak, you will understand; and Jim and the cook will find you work enough. You don't expect to be idle?" "No, sir," said Peter, "I came to learn to be a sailor." "They will teach you, and fast enough, too, with a rope's-end if you don't look sharp about you," said the captain, with a laugh, "and soon make you dip your hands in the tar-bucket and swash-tub. Have you got any working duds with you?" "I don't know what duds mean, sir," answered Peter. "Not know what duds mean, and you a sailor's son, as you tell me? Clothes, to be sure," cried the captain, laughing again. "I have got another suit for Sundays, when I go to church, sir," answered Peter. The captain and old Jim laughed in chorus at the reply. "We have no Sundays aboard here, and don't carry church steeples at our mast-heads," cried the former, again laughing at his own wit as he considered it. He and his mate were in a merry mood, for they had just had one successful voyage, and as the weather was fine they hoped to make another. The captain himself had taken a parting-glass or two with his friends on shore. So little Peter found him and his mate in their best humour. "Do you hear, boy?" cried the captain, seeing that Peter did not move; "go forward and see what they have got for you to do." Peter did not know where forward was, but observing the direction in which the captain was looking, supposed it to be at the other end of the ship. "I left my bundle down-stairs there, sir; shall I take it with me?" he asked. Again the captain and mate laughed. Of course they felt their superiority to the poor ignorant little shepherd-boy. "We have no down-stairs here, no more than we have Sundays; but your bundle is not to stop in my cabin, I should think. Get it and take it with you." Peter, having got his bundle from below, went forward, accompanied by old Jim. "Now, lads," said the latter to the four unkempt beings who formed the crew of the _Polly_, "here is a boy for you, and just see he don't go overboard or run away; the skipper is tired of getting lads to do your work." The men looked at little Peter and grinned. "Now, boy," said old Jim, turning to Peter, "come below and I'll show you your berth. You must keep your eyes wide open, or may be you will not see it." The mate descended through a small hatchway by an upright ladder into a dark place, where Peter, as he was bid, followed him. He could hear the mate's voice, but could not distinguish him in the gloom, which at first appeared impenetrable. "Come here," cried the mate. "What, are you blind?" Peter was stretching out his hands trying to grope his way. By degrees a glimmer of light which came down the hatchway enabled him to distinguish old Jim, and as his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, he discovered that he was in a triangular-shaped place, with shelves on either side which formed the bunks or standing bed-places of the crew, the heel of the bowsprit making a division in the fore part. Some chests were on the floor, and thick coats, sou'-westers, with numerous other articles, were hung up against the bulk-heads, which formed the third side of the forepeak. "That's your berth," said old Jim, pointing to the foremost sleeping-place in the bow of the vessel. "The boy who has gone has left his blankets, so you will have the use of them. And mind when you are called you turn out pretty quick; we cannot have laggards aboard the _Polly_." "Thank you, sir," said Peter, depositing his bundle in the dark, close-smelling bunk. "I am accustomed to be afoot by daybreak, to look after Farmer Ashton's sheep." "You will have something different from sheep to look after; and night and day at sea are the same. All hands don't turn in and sleep till the sun is up, or the ship would be apt to lose her way." A laugh at the mate's wit from some of the other men who had followed them into the forepeak, was heard out of the darkness. When the mate was gone, they gathered round Peter and began to amuse themselves at his expense. He, however, took their jeers quietly, not attempting to reply; indeed, as he did not clearly understand their meaning, the jokes generally fell harmless. Finding at length that they could not irritate him, they told him to go on deck to help Bill. Bill was the man who did duty as cook. Peter found him in the caboose; he was as black and grimy as a negro, with grease and coal-dust. "They told me you wanted me, Bill," said Peter. "Yes," growled Bill, "clean out those pots and wash up the dishes and plates in that tub. Here is some hot water for you." Peter performed the work to the cook's satisfaction. He gave him some bread and a piece of bacon for his supper, as he had eaten nothing since the afternoon. Peter was standing watching the moon, whose full orb as it rose in the sky shed a silvery light over the ocean, a spectacle novel and beautiful to him, when old Jim, in a gruff voice, told him to go and turn in. Though he would infinitely have preferred remaining on deck, he did as he was bid. He did not omit, before he took off his clothes, to kneel down and pray for protection for himself and all on board. No one saw the young boy in the attitude of prayer, or he would not have escaped interruption, but Peter knew that God saw him and heard him. Young and humble as he was, and unpromising as were the manners of those among whom he had been thrown, he felt no fear. His mind was at rest. He climbed into his berth and was soon asleep. CHAPTER THREE. PERILS AT SEA. The _Polly_ had made good progress on her voyage, the North Foreland had been rounded, and with a fair breeze under all sail she was running to the north. There were numerous other colliers, brigs and schooners and vessels of all sizes, scattered far and wide over the sea, some close at hand, others mere specks, their loftier canvas just rising above the clearly-defined horizon. Poor Peter had had a hard life of it, ordered about by every one on board, often receiving an undeserved cuff and kick, or finding the end of a rope laid sharply across his shoulders when he did not understand an order which he had never before heard issued. His clothes and face and hands were now almost as dirty as those of his companions, although he did his best to keep them clean, but he had received a rope's-ending from the cook for taking fresh water for the purpose of washing himself, and he found that the salt water had little effect on his skin. But he did not complain. He had a source of comfort within him of which those around knew nothing. What grieved him most was the fearful language he heard hourly uttered, God's holy name profaned, foul oaths, and obscene conversation. Whenever he could he endeavoured to escape from it. He either tried to get on deck when his shipmates were below, or below when they were on deck--to get anywhere where they were not. Still, so persistent are depraved human beings under the influence of Satan, in showing their enmity to those who love God, and to God Himself, that they often followed him with their ribald shouts, and kept him forcibly down among them. Alas! this is no uncommon scene on board, not only many a collier, but many a proud ship that sails over the ocean. Still, Peter had not read his Bible in vain. Influenced by God's Holy Spirit, he knew that he must return good for evil. Now and then, when a retort rose to his lips, he sought for grace to repress it, and he either remained silent or gave a mild reply. He persevered, too, in reading his Bible. Often when the lantern was lit in the forepeak, and the watch below were asleep, he would rise from his berth, and by its pale light sit on a chest beneath it and read from the sacred page, although he could with difficulty make out the words. At other times he would stow himself away forward, and opening his beloved book, draw comfort and consolation from it till he was summoned to some duty by one of his task-masters. Two or three times he had stolen aloft unnoticed by those on deck, and read uninterruptedly for an hour or more, but the mate at length discovering him, called him down. "I told you we don't allow idlers aboard," exclaimed old Jim, bestowing several cuts with a rope's-end on his shoulders. "Don't let me ever catch you again with your book aloft doing nothing, or overboard it goes; we don't want psalm-singers or Bible-readers among us. Remember my words." Peter trembled with alarm for the safety of his book. The mate might put his threat into execution, and what could he do to prevent it? Yet he would fight hard before he would give it up, of that he was determined. At the same time he knew that he must obey orders, and he dare not again venture aloft to read. Even if he read on deck, he might run the risk of losing his book. Yet read he must. He asked for guidance and direction from above. The fear which had thus been aroused of losing his Bible made him consider how he could still better secure it. Hitherto he had carried it inside his shirt, with his waistcoat buttoned over it. He now determined to make a canvas case and sling it round his neck. One of the men had some canvas for mending his clothes. Peter purchased a piece, together with some twine, with one of the few shillings he had in his pocket, and borrowed a sail needle from the mate, who lent it, not knowing the object it was for. Peter had watched the men at work, and by perseverance manufactured a case to his satisfaction, with a canvas strap to go round his neck. He could now carry his Bible night and day, and if summoned suddenly on deck, he would still have it with him, and should it enter the head of one of his shipmates to try and take it from his bunk while he was on deck, he would be disappointed. Peter now felt far more content than heretofore about the safety of his Bible. He had frequently to go into the captain's cabin to carry his meals from the caboose and to clean it out. Generally Captain Hawkes took no notice of him, but one day, being in a facetious humour, he exclaimed, "Well, boy, have you got through your book yet?" "No, sir," said Peter, "I don't expect to do so for a long time to come." "Look sharp, then," said the captain; "you will never be a sailor till you have." "I am afraid, sir, then, I never will become a sailor," said Peter, quietly. "How so?" asked Captain Hawkes. "Because I shall wish to read the book till the last day of my life. I want to read it to know how to live, and just as much to know how to die." "We can live very well without it, I have a notion," said the captain; "but as to dying, that may be a different matter." "Beg pardon, sir," said Peter, "but I have been taught that it is one and the same thing. If you like, sir, I'll read to you all about it from the book." "No, no; I want none of your Bible reading," answered the captain. "But, sir," said Peter, feeling a bold spirit rise within him, "if the ship was to go down, and we all were drowned, and had to stand before God, how those who had the words, `Depart, ye accursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels,' spoken to them would wish that they had listened to God's word, and been prepared to meet Him as their Judge." "Get out of the cabin, you little canting hypocrite," exclaimed the captain, fiercely, for God's words uttered by the young boy had struck home to his conscience; but he "loved darkness rather than light, because his deeds were evil," and he sought to avoid the light. Peter went on deck with a feeling of deep sorrow at his heart that the captain would not listen. He wished, however, that he had spoken to him rather of God's love to sinners than of his threatenings. "The mention of that great love might have touched his heart," he thought; "I will tell him of it another time." He often tried when he could speak alone to any of the men to get them to allow him to read from his book; but he was told to keep it to himself, no one on board wanted it. He hoped, however, to succeed by perseverance; and perhaps when they found that he was becoming a smart and active sailor, and could lay out on the yards and reef and steer as well as any of them, they would be more ready to listen. He did his utmost, therefore, to learn his duty as a seaman. Old Jim began to treat him with less harshness than at first, and in his rough way gave him instruction in the art he wished to acquire; he taught him to box the compass and to steer, and even explained why various manoeuvres were performed. Still, when Peter began to speak about the Bible, or anything contained in it, he either turned a deaf ear or angrily told him to mind his own business. The Tyne was at last reached, and Peter's wonder was excited by the large city he saw stretching up the hill, and the numerous other towns and villages which lined the banks of that important river, but still more by the numberless vessels taking in their cargoes of coal, shot down into their holds from the cliffs above them. Much as he wished it he was not allowed to go on shore, the captain suspecting that, like his predecessors, he might not return. Though he had harder work than ever, yet, having fewer task-masters, he was less ill-treated than before. The _Polly_ having received her cargo, again put to sea, bound, Peter heard, for the Thames. Hitherto the weather had been fine, and he had escaped sea-sickness and wet clothes. A few nights after leaving the Tyne it came on to blow hard, with the wind right ahead, and the _Polly_ began to tumble about in a way which made Peter feel very miserable. Sometimes, though under close-reefed topsails, she heeled down so much that he could scarcely stand on the wet slippery deck, and he fancied that she would go over altogether. The dark green seas, with their foaming crests, rolled up on either hand, and frequently broke on board in showers of spray, as the brig ploughed her way amid them: now she rose to the top of a mountain billow; now she plunged down on the opposite side, with her bowsprit almost under water, and now the sea struck her and made her frame quiver fore and aft. The scene was a terrible one to look at--how different from that Peter had witnessed the first day he had been at sea!--still he did not fear; he knew that the same Almighty hand who guarded him then protected him now, but he did feel that he might at any moment be summoned into the presence of One he had loved on earth, and who would, he knew, welcome him in heaven, not on account of any merit of his own, but because he took Him at His word and trusted His Son, whom He had sent to save sinners. The men, and even the captain and mate, were more silent than usual, though when they did speak they gave utterance to the same oaths which had so often issued out of their mouths. It was trying work on deck, and when Peter's watch was over, wet and weary he was glad to go below; but when he lay down in his narrow berth, the fearful blows which struck again and again on the bows of the ship prevented him from sleeping. When he did at last drop off he was quickly aroused by another blow, heavier than the former, which made him fancy that the brig must have struck a rock; but on she again went, battling her way across the stormy ocean. The gale was increasing. At night, when he had again to go on deck, the seas, though not so clearly visible as during the day, appeared much higher, and threatened every instant to roll down upon the deck and sweep every one off it. The fore-hatch was battened down, the crew collected aft. When day dawned their faces looked pale and anxious, and even Captain Hawkes and old Jim seemed to wish that the gale was over. Peter heard the mate report to the captain that he had sounded the well, and feared that the brig had sprung a leak. The pumps were rigged, and the crew set to work on them. The quantity of clear water which came up left no doubt about the matter. The men grumbled and swore, but worked away. Peter was ordered to take his spell, and even old Jim and the captain took theirs. All day long they worked away, and at night also. No fire could be lighted in the caboose, for the seas broke so heavily over the bows of the ship that they dashed in upon the fore-hatchway. Such provisions as could be eaten without cooking were their only fare. Peter wished to read the Bible to his shipmates, but the spray broke over them in such dense showers that the leaves would have been wetted through in an instant. He could recollect, however, many portions, and great was the comfort they gave him. When he ventured to repeat them aloud to those crouched down under the bulwarks near him, they told him to be silent; it was not the time, with a gale blowing, to trouble them with his notions. "But where should we be if the brig does go down?" he asked, for he saw the too great probability of that event occurring to make him hesitate about speaking. The men told him to hold his tongue and not trouble them. Numbers do the same when warned of danger not more imminent than that which threatened the brig's crew. "Spell ho!" was the cry, and Peter and those he had spoken to took their places at the pumps. Another day came to an end. During the next night the water gained so much on the pumps that Captain Hawkes resolved to head the brig in for the land in the hopes of making some sheltering port. Whereabouts he was he could not exactly tell. Again and again the well was sounded. The night was pitchy dark, the wind blew harder than ever, and the foam-topped seas raged round the hapless brig. The men laboured at the pumps, the captain and mate working as hard as the rest, for they all knew that their lives depended on their exertions. Hour after hour passed by. Day was approaching. The captain thought that they must be nearing the land. The men at length cried out that they could work no more without food. Peter was sent down to get it. He crept about in the dark searching in the lockers for what could be found. He felt the water above his knees, but he was so wet that he did not heed it; it was his duty to get the food, he would not return without it. He fancied that he heard loud cries and shouting on deck, though the howling and whistling of the wind and the roar of the sea almost drowned all other sounds. Presently he was sensible that the vessel had received a heavy blow. Another and another followed. He had found the food he was sent for, and was making his way with a heavy load up the companion ladder, when a sudden heave of the vessel threw it over him, and he fell to the bottom. He was stunned with the fall and lay insensible for awhile--how long he could not tell--but he recovered after some time, and the ladder being jerked back into its place, he scrambled up on deck. He saw no one. On looking over the side he discovered the boat, with the captain and crew, pulling away a few fathoms off. He shouted to them, entreating to be taken in. Old Jim cried out in return: "We will come for you." But either they found it impossible to return, or feared that the boat would be stove in in making the attempt. Peter supposed truly that they had quitted the brig, believing that she would immediately sink. At that moment another sea struck her, and lifting her up, she once more glided on. Fearing that she would again ground, and that the next sea might sweep over her deck, he sprang to the main rigging and climbed up into the top. Scarcely had he left the deck when the water rushed completely over it. The brig, pressed by the sails still set, glided slowly on. Lower and lower she sank; as she did so, Peter climbed up to the topmast-head, and there he clung. He did his utmost to escape death, though he was prepared to meet it. He caught sight for a moment of the boat tossing amid the mass of foaming waters; when he again looked in the direction he had last seen her, she was nowhere visible. In a little while he became conscious that the brig had ceased to sink. In the east, towards where the faint streaks of returning day appeared in the sky, the sea tumbled and tossed as wildly as before, but where the masts of the brig rose above the surface the water was comparatively calm. The vessel had indeed driven first on the tail or extreme point of a bank, and then being forced over it, had drifted inside it some little distance before she had gone down, being then protected from the fury of the waves by the bank itself. All Peter knew, however, was that he was clinging to the mast-head of a sunken vessel, that a storm raged around him, and no human aid was at hand. He had no food, for he had lost that when thrown from the ladder, and it was some time since he had eaten; but he had saved his Bible, and he knew that his Father in heaven would take care of him. CHAPTER FOUR. ON BOARD THE PRIMROSE. As day dawned Peter looked out for the boat, earnestly hoping that the captain and crew had escaped destruction. It was nowhere to be seen. Here and there he caught sight of a dark sail just rising above the horizon, while in the west he could just distinguish a line of low coast. How solitary and wretched he would have felt, how ready to give way to despair, had he not known that, all alone as he was, God his Father was watching over him. He had thus clung on for some time to the mast, when he became aware that the wind had greatly moderated; the waves no longer clashed so savagely over the sand-bank as before. Gradually the sea became calmer and calmer; the clouds cleared away; the bright sun shone forth and dried his wet clothes. He felt hungry, but his strength did not desert him. He descended to the cross-trees, now above water, and seating himself, searched in his pocket and discovered two biscuits which he had put into them when in the cabin and had forgotten. He ate one of the biscuits and felt revived, and then finding that there was no danger of falling off, he drew forth his beloved Bible and read. How full of comfort and assurance it was to him who read with an eye of faith! There was no one to disturb him now. Alas! where were those who had been wont to interrupt him? What would they now have given to have trusted to that book, and obeyed its precepts? Peter did not, however, allow such a thought to enter his mind. He only hoped that they had escaped, and were making their way to the land; not a particle of bad feeling was in his heart against those who had so ill-treated him. He read and read on till, feeling a drowsiness come over him, he restored the book to its case, and then once more climbed up the mast to look round in the hopes of seeing some vessel or boat approaching. The sun had completely dried his clothes, and warmed him. A soft air blew off the land. He knew well that vessels would generally give the sands a wide berth. "Still, if God thinks fit to send me help He will direct some craft this way," he said to himself. "Perhaps some fishing-boats will be passing, or Captain Hawkes may send out to learn what has become of the brig." As he looked northward, he saw afar off a large ship under all sail standing to the south. Whether or not she was inside or outside the shoals he could not tell. She came on but slowly, for the wind was light. He judged, however, that she would not pass at any great distance from where he was. How beautiful she looked, with her spread of white canvas shining in the sun. Nearer and nearer she came. He was convinced at last that she was outside the shoals. "Those on board will scarcely notice the thin masts of the brig above the water," he thought; "still God will turn their eyes this way if He thinks fit." Let no one suppose, that little Peter placed a presumptuous confidence in God's protecting care of a young boy like himself. He had read that not a sparrow falls to the ground but He knows it; that the hairs of our heads are all numbered, and he well knew that he should be offending his kind Father if he doubted His words. What strength and fearlessness did this simple faith give him. The proud ship glided on, her canvas swelling to the breeze; it seemed that she would quickly run past him. He could almost distinguish the people on her deck. He shouted, fancying that his feeble voice would be borne over the water towards her. Presently he saw the hitherto full canvas flap against the masts; her courses, and her topsails, and topgallant sails hung down uselessly; the breeze which had hitherto fanned his cheeks died away. The ship was almost abreast of him, but rather to the southward, so that those on her deck saw the rays of the sun striking directly on the brig's masts. Without thinking of this, however, he took off his hat and waved it again and again. The ship appeared to be drifting in towards the bank. How eagerly he watched her. Presently he saw a boat lowered from her quarter; several people jumped in, and with rapid strokes pulled towards him. The tide had again risen, and scarcely a ripple was observed on the bank. The boat crossed it, and an encouraging cheer reached his ears; he waved his hat in return, and descending the rigging stood ready to step into the boat as soon as she came. "Glad to rescue you, my lad," said the officer, who was steering. "How long have you been on the mast? What's become of your shipmates?" "Since last night," answered Peter; "and I hope they have reached the shore in the boat." "I should think if they have deserted you, you would wish rather that they had gone to the bottom as they deserve," said the officer. "We should wish harm to no one, and do good to our enemies," answered Peter. "Very good," said the officer, "though the other is most natural. But how were you left behind?" "I was in the cabin getting up provisions for them, when, as the brig appeared to be going down, they, I suppose, shoved off in the boat and forgot me." "Scoundrels! I can only hope their boat was swamped," exclaimed the officer. "But give way, lads; the ship is closer in to the bank than is altogether pleasant, and we shall have to tow her head off if the breeze does not spring up again." The boat was quickly alongside, and Peter soon found himself on the deck of a ship larger than he had ever before seen. He looked round with astonishment and admiration. Every one was busy in lowering the boats to tow the ship away from the dangerous proximity to the bank. Peter was, therefore, for some time left alone. The breeze, however, soon again returning, filled the sails, and the boats were hoisted in. The captain, a fine-looking young man, with a frank countenance, then called Peter aft, and put to him nearly the same questions the mate had asked. "How came you to escape, my lad? You don't even look much the worse for your adventure." "God took care of me, sir," answered Peter, simply. The captain smiled. "Well, I suppose it's something to fancy that," he observed. "But I know it, sir," said Peter firmly. The captain cast a somewhat astonished glance at him. "Well, lad, you must be hungry and sleepy; the steward will give you some food, and find you a berth forward. If we have an opportunity, we will put you on shore, that you may return to your friends." "I have no friends on shore, sir," answered Peter, "and I want to go to sea." "Then do you wish to remain on board?" asked the captain. "Yes, sir, please; I wish to visit foreign lands." "Very well, you will have the chance with us, and I'll enter you as one of the ship's boys," said the captain. "Below there!" he shouted, and the steward, a black man, appeared. "Give this lad some food, and find him a berth, Emery," said the captain, in a good-natured tone. Turning aft he said to himself, "There is stuff in that lad, though he has evidently been brought up among the Methodists." The black steward took Peter into his pantry, and having given him a good meal, pressing him to eat as much as he wanted, led him forward. On the way he told him the ship was the _Primrose_, of 600 tons, bound out to the Mauritius, and that afterwards she was to visit other places in the Eastern Seas. Entering the seamen's berth, he pointed to one of the standing bed-places on the side, and told him he might turn in and go to sleep as long as he liked. Little Peter, who had never before seen a black man, and fancied that all such were savages, was much surprised to hear him speak English and address him in so kind a manner. "Thank you," said Peter, "I do feel very sleepy, and am glad to go to bed." Before Peter took off his clothes, however, he knelt down, and from the bottom of his heart returned thanks to God for having preserved his life and brought him on board so fine a ship. If Peter was surprised at the appearance of a black man, much more astonished was the latter at seeing the boy in the attitude of prayer. He stood a moment at the door gazing at him. "What! the little chap pray and not afraid of being seen!" he muttered to himself; "that beats anything I ever heard; I can't make it out." Yet Emery did not feel angry at what he had seen; but as he went aft to attend to his duties, he kept muttering, "Dat is strange; he not afraid; can't make it out." He was soon afterwards sound asleep, when the men, with a fellow-feeling for what he had gone through, took care not to arouse him, and he slept till breakfast time the next day. Peter found a considerable difference between the crew of the _Primrose_ and that of the _Polly_. They were generally a hearty, merry set; but, alas! he soon heard oaths and curses coming out of the lips of most of them. Some, too, were morose and ill-tempered and discontented with their lot, and all seemed utterly indifferent about their souls. Peter, however, was treated kindly, though of course he had to perform the usual duties of a ship's-boy, shared by the two other lads somewhat older than himself, apprentices on board. The first day he got into the berth when no one was there, and was able to read his Bible without interruption for nearly an hour. He was thinking that it was time to go out lest he should be wanted, when a tall handsome lad entered the berth. "What! young chap!" exclaimed the latter, "are you a book-worm? I used to be fond of reading tales and adventures; let us have a look at the story you have got hold of." "It's no story, it's all true," answered Peter; "it is God's word." "Is that your style of reading? I have no fancy for it, though each man to his taste, I say," observed the youth. "You would find it a very interesting book, though, Owen Bell," said Peter, who had heard the youth's name. "I never get tired of it, but I read it whenever I can; for it's only by reading it that we can know how to obey Christ, and be prepared to live with Him in heaven." "Oh, but I have to live down here and knock about at sea," answered Owen Bell, with a careless laugh. "It will be time enough when I become an old chap, like Simon Hixon, to think about matters of that sort." "Who is Simon Hixon?" asked Peter. "The oldest man on board. You might have heard him growling away and swearing at the cook, after dinner to-day, because the soup was not thick enough," answered Bell. "Does Simon Hixon read the Bible?" asked Peter. "Not he. You had better just try and persuade him to do so, or to listen to you, for I doubt if he can spell his own name," said Bell. "Perhaps when he was young he might have said that he would begin to read the Bible when he was old, and you see he has not begun yet," observed Peter. "No, because he is such a sulky, swearing old ruffian. If he had been a decent sort of fellow, I dare say he would have begun, if he had intended to do so, just like my father, who used to read the Bible to the day of his death," remarked the lad. "But if Simon had begun to read the Bible when he was young, he would not have become such as you say he now is," observed Peter. "Jesus Christ would have changed Simon Hixon's heart, and then he could not have become a sulky, swearing old ruffian." "You are too deep for me," said Bell, with a forced laugh. "I never quarrel with anybody, and don't want to quarrel with you; but let me advise you not to go on talking in that sort of way to the other chaps aboard; you won't hear the end of it if you do. The cook was shouting for you as I came along the deck; just hide away your Bible and go and see what he wants." Peter put his Bible into its case. "You will let me read it to you sometimes, Owen?" he said, as he went out of the berth. "Well, I don't mind if I have a spell of it some Sunday," said Bell, with apparent carelessness. "It would put me in mind of old times at home; but I should not like to be seen reading it on a week-day. I have no fancy to be called a Methodist, as you will be if you are found out." Peter, going to the caboose, asked the cook what he wanted, and was told to clean the pots and pans. He set to work with right good will. "You have done it handsomely, boy," observed the cook, when he had finished. "I have not had my pans so bright for many a day." The _Primrose_ had a fine run down Channel. On her passage a sudden squall struck her; the watch on deck flew aloft to shorten sail. Peter, who was aft, lay out on the mizen top-gallant-sail yard, and taking the weather earring, succeeded, with Owen Bell and two others, in handling the fluttering sail. As he reached the deck the captain called to him. "You did that smartly, youngster; it's not the first time I have observed you. I'll keep my eye on you. Go on as you have begun, and you will make a famous seaman." "I thank you, sir," said Peter, touching his hat as he went forward. "I didn't expect it from a psalm-singer," observed the captain to the first-mate with his usual good-natured laugh. "There is no harm in the lad for all that," was the answer. Peter, however, had his trials. Being placed in a watch, he had to turn in and out with his watch-mates. The first night, as usual, he knelt down to say his prayers. He hadn't been long on his knees, before he was interrupted by a suppressed titter, which soon broke into a peal of laughter from all hands, and several shoes came flying about him. He knelt on, however, trying to keep his thoughts calm, and his heart lifted up to God. "Well, that young chap does sleep soundly," cried one; "wake him up, Bill." "Hilloa, Peter! are you acting parson?" cried Bill, one of the wildest of the crew. Peter made no reply, and endeavoured, though it was a hard task, to continue his prayers. Similar jeers and questions were now showered on him from all sides. "Oh, my Father in heaven," he mentally ejaculated, "help me to continue to pray and soften the hearts of my shipmates towards me and towards themselves. May they see what a fearful state they are in when thus obeying Satan, and strangers to Thee." The men and boys, who, prompted by them, had been the worst, were silent for some minutes, and Peter had nearly finished his prayers, when a fresh volley of all sorts of articles was hove at him. Still he persevered. Now his tormentors burst forth afresh with ribald jests and shouts of laughter. "If he stands all that he will stand anything," growled out old Simon Hixon, who, though not taking so active a part as the rest, had encouraged them in their conduct. Peter at length rose from his knees without saying a word, took off his clothes, and turned into his berth. Although he never lay down without commending himself to God, he did not kneel down before turning in after the middle watch was over, and it was not till the second night he again went to bed during the first watch. The same conduct as before was pursued towards him, but although he received two or three severe blows he persevered. "Well, for my part, I shall be ashamed to try him any more," he heard Owen Bell exclaim as he rose from his knees. "Peter, you are a brave little chap, and if you had followed my advice this would not have come upon you," said Owen, addressing him. "You meant it kindly," answered Peter; "but as God gives me everything, and takes care of me, I am sure it is my duty to thank Him night and morning for all His benefits, and to ask Him to continue them to me. I would rather not have the things hove at my head, but you know it would not be right for me to put God aside for fear of what any of you may choose to do." When on another night two or three began the same sort of work, the rest cried out and told them to let the little psalm-singer alone; even old Hixon held his tongue, and from that time forward Peter was allowed to say his prayers in peace. CHAPTER FIVE. STRENGTH IN WEAKNESS. When little Peter read his Bible on a Sunday while other men were mending their clothes, or sleeping, or amusing themselves with old newspapers or story books, he was generally allowed to do so in peace, but he wished to study it on week-days, as well, convinced that it was intended to guide him in every affair of life. On each occasion that he was found doing so, however, he was sure to be interrupted. The other boys would play him all sorts of tricks, and the men would send him to perform some work or other, and if they could think of nothing else, would despatch him with a pretended message to the man at the helm. Simon Hixon was his greatest foe, and frequently as Peter passed gave him a blow with a rope's-end. One day as Peter was quietly reading his Bible in the berth, Hixon swore that if he found him again at it, he would throw the book overboard. "It would be a great shame to do that," answered Peter, "and I hope you won't try. God would, I am sure, not allow you to go unpunished." "You see, youngster, if I am not as good as my word," growled Hixon. Peter prayed that the old seaman's hard heart might be softened, and that he might be prevented committing such a crime. "I don't think if you read the book you would wish to destroy it," said Peter. "It is full of such beautiful things, that you would like to read them over and over again if you were once to begin." "I can't read, so there's little chance of that," said Hixon. "But will you let me read them to you?" asked Peter. "I shall be very glad to do that." "What! when I have told you that I would heave the book overboard if I found you reading it?" said the old man. "That makes no difference," said Peter, "only just listen to one or two." "Not I. I don't want to hear your yarns," said Hixon, turning away. Peter went on reading, and the old man did not further interfere with him. The ship sailed on. When she was crossing the line the usual ceremonies were performed. Peter heard what was to take place, and, fearing that his Bible would get wet, hid it away carefully. He felt very anxious, however, lest any one should suspect what he had done, and look for it. He and the other young seamen who had not before crossed the line, were ducked, and had all sorts of tricks played on them by Neptune and his attendants. Peter took everything in good part, though he was nearly drowning in a sail triced up on deck and filled with water, when Owen Bell jumped in and pulled him out. He made his escape as soon as the amusements were over, and hurried to the berth to look for his book. To his great joy he found it safe, and immediately hung it again round his neck. Some more weeks passed away. Hitherto Owen Bell, even on a Sunday, had always made some excuse for not reading with Peter. At length one hot Sunday, when the ship was becalmed in the tropics, and even Owen felt no inclination for sky-larking, Peter got him to sit down while most of the crew were asleep, or occupied in some of the few shady spots they could find. Peter, opening the book, read the account of the visit of Nicodemus to the Lord. "He was a learned and important man, and yet you see he wanted to be taught, and the Lord did teach him. He showed him he was a sinner by nature, as all of us are, and that he must become a new creature." "I cannot understand how he could become that of his own accord," said Bell. "It's hard to tell a man to do what he cannot." "The Lord never did that," said Peter, "when He told him that he `must be born again.' He showed him clearly how it must be brought about. You remember what He said about the Israelites when bitten by serpents in the wilderness, and how they were cured immediately they looked on the brazen serpent, taking Moses at his word when he told them to do so. So if we only take God at His word, and look to Jesus on the cross suffering for and bearing our sins, we shall be forgiven, and through the power of the Holy Spirit be born again. What I am sure God wants us to do is to take Him at His word, to believe that He will do whatever He says; and Jesus Himself tells us that he that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life." "What an old-fashioned little chap you are," said Owen, laughing. "You talk like a book." "It seems all very clear to me, and I wish that it did to you, Bell." "Well, the truth is, that I have been such a bad fellow, and have so many sins to answer for, that I don't fancy when God comes to count them up He can pardon me. Even when I seemed most careless and full of jokes, I have often had my heart pressed down with the recollection of all the bad things I have done." "But Jesus tells us in another place that `He came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance,' and when He says, `God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life,' He means by `whosoever,' everybody, good people and bad people." "But do you think if I was to try and please God and serve Him He would pardon me?" asked Bell. "He doesn't say that," said Peter. "He promises to forgive only those who trust in Jesus Christ, because Jesus was punished instead of them, and if one person was punished instead of another He will not punish that other; it would be unjust to do that. Oh, Bell, why don't you take God at His word, and believe on Jesus, and then you would be able to obey Him and serve Him, because He will send you the Holy Spirit to help you as He has promised?" Much more to the same effect the young boy urged on his friend, while he read numerous portions of Scripture to him to prove his words. The boys were now called off to their duty on board, and the conversation was interrupted. Owen seemed very quiet and serious; but he had no opportunity of speaking to Peter for some days. At last, when they were alone together again he said to him: "I am sure you are right, Peter; I never before understood that Jesus died instead of me on account of my sins, and therefore if I believe on Him I shall be helped to overcome my sins, and shall not be punished for them, but shall go to heaven, and live with Him in happiness; I see it, and believe it now. The Bible is no new book to me, Peter, I have heard it read often and often at home, and have read it myself too, though I could not understand its meaning." After this, Owen Bell took every opportunity of reading with Peter, and as he was as strong as a man, and respected by the crew, no one interrupted them. One evening they had been reading together, when Owen turned suddenly to Peter, and said: "Do you think if I was to die to-night I should go to be with Jesus?" "I know you would, for I am sure you believe on Him." "That I do, with all my heart and soul," exclaimed Owen Bell. "And I wish that I could serve Him and make known His love to others. I feel it myself, and I have been trying to speak to Emery about it, and though he is little better than a heathen, he said he should like to know more about one so good and kind as Jesus must be who died to save others; and Bill, the cook, was ready to listen. I think, Peter, if you offered to read to them they would let you, and tell them all about the love of Jesus, as you told me, and I cannot but fancy that they would trust to Him as I have done. It will be a hard matter to get at the captain and mates; but I should not despair of them if they were to hear of the glorious things which the Gospel contains." Peter often afterwards recollected this conversation with Owen Bell. That night he was aroused from his sleep by the cry of "All hands shorten sail!" The men rushed on deck half-clothed, for they knew the summons admitted of no delay. In an instant they were flying aloft. A heavy squall had struck the ship, and she was heeling over, her masts bending like willow wands and threatening to go every instant. The sheets were let fly, but before the sails could be furled there came a crash, and the fore-topmast with its yard, to which several of the crew were clinging, was carried away. Their cries were heard as they struggled in the foaming waters under the lee, but no help could be rendered them. Away the ship flew. Every effort was made to clear the wreck and to furl the sails. Some time passed before it could be done. The gale continued to increase. The captain stood back over the spot in the hopes of picking up some who might have clung to the spars. The names were called over. Among those who did not answer was Owen Bell. "Poor fellow," said several. "A fine young lad," said the captain, "I hope we may pick him up." Peter hoped so too; but he did not mourn for his friend as his shipmates did, for he was sure that if Owen Bell was drowned he had gone to be with the Master, who, though lately found, he had been brought truly to love. The search was vain, the ship wore round and continued her course. Peter missed Owen Bell greatly. The rest of the men treated him, for his friend's sake, perhaps, with less unkindness than before, and a more subdued tone was perceptible among them; even the captain and mates seemed to feel for the loss of the men, and fewer oaths were heard than usual. Peter found an opportunity of speaking to Emery, the negro. "That just what Owen Bell say," answered the steward; "If Jesus die for me, and love me, I ought to love Him." "Yes," observed Peter, "but not only that; you must believe that He died to take away your sins, and that your sins are taken away; that God looks upon you as free from sin, and will receive you into heaven when you die." "How can that be?" asked the black. "Because God says it," answered Peter; "what He says must be true." "In that book you read?" asked the black. "Yes, that book contains God's messages and promises to man. It is through this alone, and the leading of the Holy Spirit, that we know anything about God. Without that we should be worshipping blocks of stone, just as Owen Bell was telling me the other day your countrymen do." "Yes, and many other people in the world, and in the countries we are going to," observed Emery. "But I can't stop to listen longer; another day you tell me more of this." Peter gladly promised that he would do so. To his surprise one evening, after he had cleaned up the pots and pans, the cook asked him to come and sit in the caboose, and begged him to read a chapter or two in the Bible. Peter did so, and explained it to the best of his power, and frequently after that he spent an hour in the evening in the same way. The ship had now rounded the Cape of Good Hope. The wind was fair, the weather continued fine. Peter had determined to try again to get Hixon to let him read to him. It seemed so sad that an old man should continue to refuse listening to God's message of love. One Sunday he found him sitting by himself, as he usually did, stitching away on the sleeve of a jacket. Peter sat down near him and began to read to himself. Hixon eyed him, but not with that angry look which he generally cast when Peter was reading. "Would you like to hear some of it while you are at your work?" asked Peter at length. "Well, boy, as you are a good sort of chap after all, and axes me so often, I don't mind hearing one of your yarns out of your book; though I don't see how it can do me much good," he replied, after a little time. This was all Peter wanted. He read the parable of the "Pharisee and Publican." "Which of them do you like the best?" asked Peter. "Can't say I care for that proud chap who thought himself better than anybody else. I like t'other more, a good deal." "Because he says, `Lord, be merciful to me a sinner'?" asked Peter. "Ay," said Hixon, bending down his head. He had for some time ceased to ply his needle. "Then do you know how God says He alone will be merciful?" Peter asked. "No, 'cept to them as be sorry for what they have done bad, and try to do better." "Oh, no, no! God does not say that; Satan is always trying to make people believe it, because he well knows that if people try to make themselves better, trusting only in their own strength, they will fail. God says that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. By faith ye are saved." And Peter, in his own simple way, went on to explain that Jesus Christ, by dying on the cross for our sins, has become our Saviour, and that if men will lovingly trust to Him, God will not punish them, but, on the contrary, will look on them as possessed of the righteousness of Christ. "That's wonderful," exclaimed old Hixon, after Peter had explained the truth in several ways to make him understand it. "I can hardly believe it; and yet I suppose if one chap deserved a thrashing from me, and a bigger one said, `Thrash me instead,' and I did thrash him, and well too, I could not thrash the little one also." Hixon continued silent for awhile and said nothing. He was evidently in deep thought, as though perplexed with something he was trying to make out, but could not understand. "But I suppose a chap must not go and do what he likes after that?" said old Hixon at length, eagerly fixing his eyes on Peter. "No. If he really loves Jesus, which he must do when he knows that Jesus suffered so much for his sake, and saved him from hell, he will try and be like Him and serve Him, and turn away from and hate his sins," was Peter's answer. "For my part, I don't feel as how I could ever be good, and give up swearing, and getting in a rage, or drunk, too, if the liquor came in my way. I could only cry out--loud enough, too, like the man you were reading about--`Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!' and I don't think God would hear such a wicked chap as I have been," muttered the old man. "The Bible says that Jesus Christ came into the world to save the worst of people as well as the best; `I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.' These are the words of Jesus Himself. God promises to hear all who come to Him. He says, `Knock, and it shall be opened unto you; seek, and ye shall find.'" "I will try and ask Him for what He knows I want," said the old man. "And, Peter, just do you pray for me, and if you see me growing sulky, come and speak to me those words you spoke just now, `Jesus loves you.' I don't think I could stand hearing that and go on fighting against Him as I have been so long doing--though it's wonderful! very wonderful!" Peter did not fail to do as Hixon asked him. He seldom had occasion to repeat the blessed announcement. The old man got into the habit of saying to himself whenever he found his anger rising, "Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me," and his ill-feelings were subdued. How blessed would be the result if all who read this, and many more, too, were to act like that rough old sailor. CHAPTER SIX. SAVED FROM THE WRECK. With the exception of the gale spoken of in the last chapter, the _Primrose_ had enjoyed fine weather for the greater part of the passage. But dark, heavy clouds now rolled across the sky; the wind blew fiercely, and the seas rose up in mountainous billows, such as Peter had never before beheld. The wind, however, was fair, and with her after-sails furled, and closely-reefed topsails only set, the ship flew on before it. As Peter stood on deck he watched sea after sea rolling up astern and threatening to break on board, but with a loud roar, just as they reached her, their foaming summits came hissing down, and she glided up the side of a huge billow ahead. For an instant she seemed to hang on the top of the watery ridge, and then slid down into another valley, up the opposite side of which she climbed as before. She had thus run for some distance when the wind dropped, and she lay rolling in the trough of the still heavy sea. The sky overhead was dark and lowering, a drizzling rain fell, and the air was oppressive. The captain and officers looked anxious. They had cause to be so, for suddenly the wind again rose, now blowing from one quarter, now from another, and all hands were kept on deck ready to brace round the yards as might be required. For several days no observation had been taken, and old Hixon told Peter that he feared the ship had been driven considerably out of her course. "Will the captain soon be able to get an observation to steer the right way?" asked Peter. "If the sky clears he may, but I have known it to remain like this for days and weeks together, and though Captain Hauslar is as good a seamen as I should wish to sail with, he may be out in his reckoning, and there are some ugly rocks and shoals to the eastward, which on a dark night it is a hard matter to see till one is right upon them," answered old Hixon. After the ship had been knocking about for some days, the wind again came fair, though somewhat strong, and the captain, anxious to make up for the long delay, and hoping to escape all dangers, with the ship under moderate canvas steered to the eastward, ordering a bright look-out to be kept. The middle watch had been called, and the fresh look-outs, rubbing their eyes, had just gone to their posts. It was Hixon's turn at the wheel. Peter, who was in the same watch, followed him aft, for the old man had undertaken to give him lessons in steering. As he stood by his side he frequently quoted passages of Scripture from his Bible, and sometimes, by the light of the binnacle lamp, he referred to the book, and read long portions. Hixon having just received the course from the man he relieved had taken hold of the spokes, when there came a sharp cry from the look-out forward, of "Breakers ahead!" followed quickly by "Land! land!" "Down with the helm!" shouted the officer of the watch. "All hands on deck; brace up the yards!" Almost before the ship's course could be altered, a fearful blow was felt, which made the masts quiver and the ship tremble from stem to stern--another and another followed. The sea dashed up wildly over her, throwing her on her beam ends; then came a fearful crash, and the tall masts fell over her side towards the dark rocks which rose close to her. The captain and all below had rushed on deck. Awakened suddenly out of their sleep they stood aghast, expecting instant death. Some seemed to have lost their senses and cried wildly for help. The captain took his post by the companion-hatch, gazing around and considering what orders to issue. Hixon, when he found that all hope of the ship moving off the rock was gone, quitted the helm, and seizing Peter dragged him to the weather bulwarks. The next instant loud shrieks were heard. A tremendous sea washing across the deck had carried several of the crew overboard, sweeping some away as it receded, and dashing others against the rocks. The stern, which had been driven furthest in, afforded the most secure place. The captain shouted to the crew to come aft; some heard him, but the roaring of the breakers drowned his voice. Sea after sea struck the devoted ship, and the crashing sound which followed each blow showed that she was breaking up. Still the darkness was so great, and so fiercely did the waters rage between the ship and the shore, that destruction appeared to await any who might attempt to reach it. Already the stern of the ship was quivering under the blows of the fierce seas. "Hold on where you are, Peter," said Hixon; "I will try if there's any way of getting on shore." "But you may be washed off," said Peter. "My life is worth little," said the old man, "I am not afraid to die now, and I may, if I succeed, help to save others." Fastening a rope round his waist which he secured to a ring-bolt in the deck, he struggled to the side of the ship nearest the shore. Peter could no longer distinguish him. The captain was standing still, undecided what to do, with the third-mate and five or six seamen who had succeeded in getting aft, when old Hixon was seen making his way along the deck from amid the mass of wreck which cumbered it. "The foot of the mainmast still hangs to the ship and the head rests on a rock," he said; "what is beyond I cannot tell, it may be water or it may be land, but the sea does not break over it; it is our only chance if we can manage to reach it." "Well, lads, we had better follow old Hixon's advice," said the captain. "Those who wish it can go." The mate and the other men hung back. "Come, Peter," said Hixon, "you and I will set the example then. To my mind the ship won't hold together many minutes longer; and if we succeed, as I think we shall, they will follow if there's time. I'll go sir," he cried to the captain, and grasping Peter, he led him along, holding on to the rope. They reached the mast, when Peter, keeping close to his companion, scrambled up it. Alone he felt that he might have been unable to succeed, but supported by his old friend he made his way along the mast, which all the time was swayed up and down by the movement of the ship. He feared lest it should be hurled from its position, and the rest might be unable to escape by it. They gained a rugged rock of some extent, but the water washed round them and the spray occasionally flew over their heads. They were still at a distance from the mainland, but for the moment safer than on board the ship. They shouted as loud as they could to induce the rest to follow them. Every instant they feared that the mast would give way. Again and again they shouted. At last they caught sight of some one moving along the mast. He reached them, and it proved to be Emery, the black steward. "Are the rest coming?" asked Peter eagerly. "Hope so; captain tell us to come first," was the answer; and soon afterwards Bill the cook made his way to the rock. They all shouted together to give notice of their safe passage. At length several seamen were seen creeping along the mast, one after the other, as fast as they could move. "The ship is breaking up fast!" said one of them; "and if the skipper don't make haste he will be lost." "Oh, I wish you had all come at once!" cried Peter. "I'll go back and hasten him." "No, no, boy; you will lose your life if you do!" said Hixon. "It's his own fault if he delays." "That is no reason why we should not try to get him to come," said Peter. "You are right, boy," cried Hixon, "but if any one goes, I'll go." Hixon was just getting on the mast, when he exclaimed that the skipper and mate were coming along it. At that moment the end of the mast began to rise. Hixon threw himself off it. "Stand clear of the rigging," cried several voices. The mast moved more rapidly, the end lifting up in the air, then with a crash came down on the rock, against which it was at once violently dashed by a sea which broke over the wreck. One of the poor fellows who had escaped was dragged off into the seething waters. "The captain is gone," cried several voices. "I see a man close at hand," said Peter. "Will any one pass a rope round my waist? I am sure I could clutch him." There were several ropes scattered about the rock. Old Hixon did not hear Peter, but two or three of the other men did. One of them fastened a rope as he requested. While they held on, Peter sprung off from the rock into the water close to where the person he saw was floating. He clutched him tightly. The next sea which came roaring up would have clashed him against the rock, and his burden must have been torn from him had not his companions, roused by the example set by the young boy, whom they had been in the habit of laughing at, rushed forward and dragged them both up together. "It is the captain," cried one. "But I am afraid he is gone," exclaimed another. "No! I trust he is still alive," said Peter, sitting down by the captain's side, and taking his head on his lap. "He is breathing; he will come to, I hope." Peter rubbed the captain's chest while the steward and Bill moved his arms gently up and down. He uttered a groan; it showed that he was in pain, and had been injured against the rocks, but it was an encouraging sign. They persevered, and at length the captain spoke in a low voice, asking where he was. "You are safe on a rock," answered Emery. "We shall know better when sun rise." Just then a voice was heard at no great distance, shouting. Hixon hailed in return, "Where are you?" "On an island of some sort," was the answer. "Many more saved?" Hixon replied that the captain and ten men had escaped. Although the channel between the rock and the land might be deep, with the help of a man on the latter, if a rope could be passed to him, they might all cross in safety. They waited anxiously till daylight. The wind had gone down by that time, and the sea was much calmer. A rocky island of some height rose before them, but as the sea rushed in and out in the intervening space, even a good swimmer might have hesitated to cross. The larger portion of their gallant ship had disappeared, but the afterpart still remained entire. Several lengths of rope were cut from the rigging of the mainmast, which had been thrown back on the rock. They were eager to get across, for they had no food and no water on the rock. Several attempts were made to heave a rope to the man on the island, but in vain, the distance was too great. At length a short piece of a spar was fastened to the end of the signal halyards. How eagerly it was watched, as it floated now in one direction, now in another; gradually it drew out the line; it was hoped that it might be drifted by some surge towards the man, who was eagerly on the watch to catch it. "We must not despair," said Peter to Hixon, who had come to see how the captain was getting on. "If we pray that God will send the spar to shore He is certain to hear us, and He will do it if He thinks fit." "What you say is true, I know," observed the old man; and together they knelt and prayed that a way to serve them might be found. The captain, who had returned to consciousness, looked at them with astonishment, but said nothing. In a short time a shout came from the men who held the line on the inner side of the rock that the spar had reached the shore, and that Tom had hold of it. A stronger rope was soon hauled across, and then one which could bear the weight of two or three people at a time, if necessary. That was secured between the rock and the mainland. First one man made his way along it, then another and another, and all were going, with the exception of Emery and Bill, who, with Peter and old Hixon, stayed by the captain. The latter, seeing this, cried out, "Shame, lads; would you desert the captain when he is unable to help himself?" The men, however, did not heed him: they were eager to get hold of a cask of provisions which, with another of water, Tom told them had been thrown up on the island. The news made even Emery and Bill inclined to go. "Go, if you wish it," said the captain; "only come back and bring me some water, for I am fearfully thirsty." This made the men no longer hesitate. Peter sat still. "Are you not going?" asked the captain. "I could not leave you, sir, while you are suffering," said Peter. "But you want food and water as much as they do," said the captain. "They will bring it to me, sir," answered Peter. Notwithstanding what the captain said, neither Peter nor old Hixon would leave him. The latter was busily hauling pieces of planking and rope. Having collected enough for his purpose, he set to work to manufacture a cradle sufficiently large to contain the captain. Having arranged his plan he shouted to the other men to come and assist him. Two only, however, responded, Bill and the black; the remainder were wandering along the shore, looking out for whatever might be washed up. The black set the example. Bill followed him back to the rock, but they brought only a small piece of salted tongue and some biscuits, almost soaked through, but no water. The captain could only taste a very little, but there was enough to satisfy Hixon's and Peter's appetites. In vain the poor captain cried out for water--nothing had been found to carry it in. "The more reason we should make haste with the cradle," observed Hixon. It was at length placed on the rope, with a line attached, which Bill carried across. Peter volunteered to go in it, and safely passed over. It was then hauled back, and the captain was drawn across. Hixon and the black followed. By this time the rest of the men had disappeared. The captain was soon sufficiently revived by the water which had been obtained to look about him. He told his companions that he believed they were on one of the many wild rocky islets which exist in that part of the ocean, and that they must carefully husband the water, as possibly no spring might be found. As the captain wished to ascertain whether his surmises were correct, Peter volunteered to climb to the summit of the height above them. It was fatiguing and very dangerous work, but he succeeded at length. On looking around him, he found that they were nearly at one end of a rocky island, which extended for three or four miles to the eastward. Not a tree, or scarcely a shrub, was to be seen. In every direction all was desolation and barrenness. He returned, not without difficulty. "I thought I was right," said the captain. "You must do your best, my men, to collect all you can from the wreck; we shall need it; and, Gray, I have a word to say to you. You saved my life, I am told; if we ever get away from this, I will prove your friend." "I only did my duty, sir," said Peter. "I thought I could save you, and God helped me." "You seem to have great trust in God." "Yes, sir," said Peter. "He is a very present help in time of trouble, and we all have reason to trust Him." "I have never done so before," whispered the captain; "but I will try in future." In the meantime the other three men were collecting fragments of sails and spars, pieces of rope, and several things which formed part of the cargo, a bale of cloth and another of clothing--the latter was especially acceptable to all the party, who, with the exception of Hixon and Peter, had little on when they left the ship; but of still greater value was a cask of biscuits, another of herrings, and a few pieces of pork. What the rest of the crew might have discovered they could not tell. As the captain could not move, a hut was built of the pieces of sail and spars, and a bed having been made up beneath it with some dry grass and a piece of canvas for the captain to lie on, he and his companions prepared to pass the first night of their sojourn on the desolate rock. CHAPTER SEVEN. LIFE ON THE ROCK. When morning broke the gale had entirely ceased, but no part of the ship hung together, and all hope of obtaining any provisions from her, except such as might be washed up on the shore, was lost. The captain's condition also caused his companions much anxiety; he was suffering greatly, and appeared to be weaker than on the previous day. They had breakfasted on a small portion of biscuit and tongue, but their scanty supply of water was almost exhausted at their first meal. Peter gave the captain the larger part of his share, and having drunk a little himself, entreated that the remainder might be reserved for him, as he complained greatly of thirst. None of the rest of the crew had returned. Peter offered to stay by the captain if the three other men would go in search of them, and ascertain whether any water was to be found. "If we are to live we must do so," said Hixon; "come along, mates; I know Peter will look after the captain," and they set off. After Peter had moistened the captain's lips, and made his bed as comfortable as he could, he said, "Shall I read to you, sir?" "What have you got to read? How can you have any books here?" asked the captain. Peter drew his Bible out of the canvas slung round his neck, and showed it to the captain. The cover, of course, was drenched with sea-water, but the inside was quite dry. "Yes, you may," was the answer; "when a man is sick as I am it is a good book to listen to, and I am fit for nothing else." Peter made no reply, but began to read. He came to the account of Lazarus and the rich man. "What does Abraham's bosom mean?" asked the captain. "Heaven, sir," answered Peter; "it must be a glorious place, for Christ has gone before to prepare it for those who love Him." "I hope when I die I shall go there," murmured the captain, more to himself than Peter; "I have not been a bad man, or done much harm to any one, and have tried to do my duty, and have never got drunk at sea; and I hope I have done some good in my time, so I should think God would let me into heaven." Peter prayed that he might give a right answer. "God says, sir, in His book, that `there is none that doeth good, no, not one,' and that `He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' The rich man we have been reading about does not seem to have done much harm, and very likely he thought himself pretty good, and yet he went to hell." "Then how is a man ever to get to heaven?" asked the captain, somewhat petulantly. "God says, `Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' He wants us to take Him at His word. He tells us that our own good deeds are as filthy rags, and that we must trust to the sacrifice of Christ, to His blood shed for us; and thus we shall be clothed with His righteousness, with His pure and spotless robe; and so God will not look upon our iniquities, because He has accepted Christ's punishment instead of what we deserved, and we shall therefore not be punished." Thus Peter continued to place the loving Gospel before his captain. The latter listened, often asking some more questions. At last he put his hands before his eyes, and murmured, "It's wonderful that a mere boy should know all this, and be able to explain it so clearly. It's true; yes, I am sure of that." "Let us pray, sir, that God's Holy Spirit will bring it home to your heart," said Peter, as if the remark had been made to him. "God has said we shall not ask in vain." The captain's eye brightened; a new hope, new thoughts and feelings, rose in his bosom. Peter again turned to his book. He read many portions, the captain appearing in no way wearied. He was so employed when a shout reached their ears, and Peter, going out of the tent, saw old Hixon making his way down the rocks. He brought his sou'-wester full of water. "Praised be God, we have found a spring two miles off. There was nothing else to bring it in but this," he said, offering the water to the captain and Peter. "The rest of the men collected near it, but when I told them that they ought to come and help to carry you up the hill, captain, they said they were free now, and didn't acknowledge any man's authority." "I should have thought, Hixon, from what I know of you, that you would have been among them," observed the captain. "So I should, sir, a few weeks ago, but Peter there, out of his Bible, showed me what a sinner I was, and how I must love Jesus Christ and obey Him, and I know He would not have left any man to perish, and so, sir, as long as you live--and I hope we shall escape from this rock--I will not leave you." "Thank you, Hixon," said the captain; "I am sure you speak the truth. But what has become of Emery and Bill?" "They said they would stop and have some food, and then come back and try and get you up to the spring, which is a warmer and pleasanter place than this." In a short time the other men appeared, but the captain felt so much pain when they attempted to move him, that he begged them to let him remain where he was. "I am afraid, sir, they will soon have eaten up all their provisions, and then they will be coming down to get what we have collected," observed Bill. "Perhaps, if you are among them, you might persuade them to put themselves on an allowance." The captain sent a message by Hixon, but the men only laughed at him, and replied that a ship was sure soon to appear, and take them off, though they took no pains to make their situation known. The captain, however, told Hixon and the rest to form a flag-staff out of the spars which had been cast ashore, and to erect it on the highest point with a piece of the cloth which they had found, as a flag. They did so. Day after day passed by, and though one or the other was constantly on the look-out, no distant sail met their anxious gaze. Peter was thankful that the captain appeared to be slowly recovering his strength, though still unable to move. By husbanding their provisions, the little party on the shore hoped to support existence for some weeks to come. When Hixon arrived one day with their usual supply of water, he brought word that the rest of the crew had deserted the spring and were nowhere to be seen. He thought probably that they had gone down to the shore to try and catch fish, or collect mussels, or anything that might have been thrown up. He and his companions were searching about for the same object, that they might eke out the diminishing store of their more nutritive food, and give the captain a larger supply. Peter, when not thus employed, read to the captain, as also to the other men, and Bill and the black were well pleased to listen, as were the captain and Hixon. Indeed, the light of God's blessed truth shone on the small shipwrecked party, and shed on them its warmth and healing influence. It never occurred to young Peter to pride himself that the light shone from the lamp he carried within him. The weather had again changed, and instead of a balmy breeze and sunshine, a fierce gale was blowing, and heavy showers came down upon their heads. They were sitting beneath the shelter of their tent, while Peter was reading to them, when voices were heard, and several of the crew appeared. They looked wretched, and nearly starved. "Hilloa!" cried one of them, seeing the cask of provisions near the entrance of the hut. "What, have you still got food? We thought that you must be as badly off as we are." The rest came up, and though the captain, with his friends, expostulated, and promised to give the men a small portion, they took possession of more than half of the remaining provisions. With the supply of food they had thus obtained, they returned to their former camp near the spring. The captain was deeply grieved. "It would have killed me with rage a short time ago, but I feel more sorry for them now; and I am afraid the food will only prolong their lives a day or two, while the want of it may shorten ours." As was to be expected, in a couple of days they returned for more. Bill proposed fighting as he saw them coming, rather than give it up. "It would only make matters worse," observed the captain, "as they would be sure to overpower us. We must trust that God will find some way for our escape." The captain told Bill to give to each of them the same rations which they allowed for themselves, though it was not more than just sufficient to support life. Each day they came for their allowance, but still did not offer to assist in removing the captain. Hixon and the rest were very indignant. The captain, however, quieted them, and insisted upon the provisions being equally shared amongst all the survivors from the shipwrecked crew. At length, although their allowance had been still further reduced, no biscuits nor meat remained. A few herrings and some cabbages which had been washed up, and were wellnigh rotten, were the only articles of food they still had. Bill, however, came back with some birds' eggs and he thought that soon more might be obtained should the weather clear, and the birds visit the island in greater numbers. Peter had, with the rest, taken his turn in watching by the flag-staff. He was casting his eyes around when they fell on the sails of a vessel just rising above the horizon. He watched her eagerly--she was drawing near. He ran down the hill to give the joyful intelligence to his friends. They quickly returned with him, the captain telling them to leave him alone, as he felt quite well enough to remain by himself. Each man carried a bundle of drift-wood, some dry grass, or branches from the numerous low bushes they found in sheltered spots, to assist in lighting a beacon, should the vessel not draw near till nightfall. A tinder-box had enabled the other party to obtain a light. Bill went for it. When he told them of the ship being seen, they would not believe him. "Get up and have a look at her," he answered. One of them did so. On being convinced, some showed their satisfaction by leaping about and shouting, others growled out that she would not come near the land, but none thought of praying that she might be directed towards them, or showed any gratitude at the prospect of deliverance. On came the ship, but as she neared the island the shades of evening concealed her from sight. The beacon was immediately lighted, but they had to remain all night in the uncertainty whether it had been seen. How anxiously they waited for the return of morning, and how eagerly they cast their straining eyes in the direction she had last appeared as daylight broke on the world of waters. As the light increased, she was seen standing for the island. A shout rose from their throats, but they themselves were startled by the hollowness of the sound. The wind had been increasing. As she drew near, it raged furiously, and a heavy surf beat everywhere on the shore. With sinking hearts, they saw the ship haul her wind, and again stand off the dangerous rock. "We are deserted," cried several voices, and loud complaints were made of the stranger's indifference to their sufferings. They watched till she was lost to sight, and most of them declared she would not return. "If he is a Christian man I am sure he will," said Peter, who had been sent up by the captain to ascertain how things stood. He returned with his report. "Don't be down-hearted, sir; God, you know, will take care of us. And even if that ship sails away, He can send another," said Peter. The flag was kept flying all day, and the beacon fire lighted again at night. A few herrings and some almost rotten cabbages now alone remained; starvation threatened to overtake the shipwrecked mariners. Most of the crew gave way to despair. One or two had become almost delirious from hunger and talked of rushing into the sea and drowning themselves. "If you do, mates, you will go into the presence of God Almighty with another great sin unrepented of on your heads, besides those you have already committed," said old Hixon. "Let us pray to God to help and deliver us; we have no other hope." His words had great effect among his late shipmates; for some time they were far more orderly and quiet than they had been hitherto. Another day passed and the gale continued blowing furiously, and the stranger did not re-appear. Again they were on the look-out. At daybreak she was not to be seen; the wind, however, had abated. As the day drew on, Peter, who was on the look-out, caught sight of a small speck in the south-east; it grew larger and larger. "The ship; the ship!" he shouted out. The cry was taken up by those scattered about on the rock, and passed on from one to the other. They hurried away along the island in the direction she was seen. Peter waited till he was sure there could be no mistake, and then hastened down to the captain, feeling that the good news would cheer him up. Bill and the black steward were on the opposite shore collecting mussels. Hixon stood gazing at the stranger for some minutes, and then said to himself, "I had better go too, or maybe they will not tell of the captain and the rest." As he neared the further end of the rock he found the ship hove-to and a boat approaching the shore. On reaching the little bay into which the boat had put, he found that the starving people had tumbled into her, and that she had already shoved off. He shouted loudly. The boat put back. The captain of the ship, who had himself come in the boat with provisions and water, having heard his account, expressed his indignation at the men who would have allowed their shipmates to be left behind. They replied that they were afraid it would come on to blow again, and that the ship might be driven off and they left behind. "I would not desert them if I had to remain a week or a month more," answered the captain, ordering two of his crew to accompany him, and to bring a boat-sail with two spars. "It's some miles from here, sir," observed Hixon. "Never mind; if it were ten miles we will bring your sick captain with us," was the reply. The men told Hixon that their ship was the _Myrtle_, bound out to New South Wales, and their captain's name was Barrow. It was nearly dark when Captain Barrow reached the hut, and was thankfully welcomed by poor Captain Hauslar. "I am afraid that for my sake you will expose your ship to risk," observed the latter during their conversation. "Do not trouble yourself about that, my friend; my first-mate is an excellent seamen, and my crew obedient and trustworthy. It's too dark to go aboard to-night; we will start to-morrow, if, as I trust, you can bear the journey after a night's rest and some food." The fire was quickly lighted, and a meal prepared such as the shipwrecked party had not partaken of for many a day. "I will join you and your people in offering thanksgiving to God for His many mercies," said Captain Barrow. "You, I trust, acknowledge Him in all your ways?" "I did not till lately," was the answer. And then Captain Hauslar told him that he was indebted to young Peter for being brought to the truth. "I should like to have that boy with me, then," observed Captain Barrow. "One youngster like that can exert a wonderful influence for good among a crew. I frequently get rough characters, and it takes long before they can be brought into order. Every assistance is of value." The journey to the boat was performed the next morning, Captain Barrow assisting in carrying his brother commander. Although the wind blew heavily, the ship was reached in safety, and she was once more put on her course. CHAPTER EIGHT. PETER RISES IN THE WORLD. Captain Hauslar expressed his astonishment at the good order which prevailed on board the _Myrtle_. "I have several old hands who have sailed with me for years," observed her captain; "but many of the rest were rough enough when they joined. However, by firmness and gentleness, and treating them as fellow-beings with immortal souls, they now cheerfully do their duty, and many have been brought to know Christ and serve Him." Every morning and evening, when the weather permitted it, prayers were read; the men were allowed certain hours in the week for mending their clothes, and no work was permitted on Sundays except what was absolutely necessary; Captain Barrow, however, took care it should not be spent in idleness. Those who could not read were taught, and books were provided for those who could make use of them. "Every ship that sails on the ocean might be like mine," observed Captain Barrow. "Yes," was Captain Hauslar's answer, "if every master was a Christian. Missionaries may benefit the men partially, but until the masters and officers set them a good example I fear that they will remain much as they are." Captain Barrow spoke frequently to Peter and old Hixon, and when the ship reached Sydney he invited them to remain on board and return with him. Both Bill and Emery also gladly entered among her crew, while Captain Hauslar took a passage back in her to England. After this Peter made several voyages in the _Myrtle_; Captain Barrow gave him instruction in navigation, for which he showed so much aptitude, that after one or two voyages he was appointed third-mate, and on the next he was raised a step higher. He had not got over his idea that his father was still alive, but where to seek for him was the question. He earnestly prayed that he might be led to find his father if he were yet alive, and he told Captain Barrow what he was so anxious about. "There are few coasts from which a man cannot escape, except perhaps from some of the rocks in the Indian seas, or from the islands in the Pacific, which are rarely visited," observed Captain Barrow. "I would help you if I could, though I should be sorry to part from you. I would advise you, if you still hold to your idea, to get a berth on board a ship making a roving voyage among the islands in those seas, and you might make inquiries at every place you touch at. You can but do your best, and if it is God's will you should find him, He, depend on it, will lead you." However, Peter made another voyage with Captain Barrow. His first-mate having got the command of a ship, Peter obtained his berth. His Bible had ever been his constant companion, and he had not failed to make good use of it. The _Myrtle_ had just returned home. She required extensive repairs, and as many months would pass before she would be ready for sea, Captain Barrow told Peter that he could obtain for him the command of a vessel bound out to the Mediterranean. He was about to accept the offer when he heard that a ship, the _Edgar_, was to sail to the Pacific, with the master of which Captain Barrow was acquainted. The master, Captain Sandford, having no first-mate, gladly agreed, when he heard Peter Gray's character, to give him the berth. "I am thankful to have my first-officer a Christian," he said; "for I have too often been defeated in my attempts to bring my crew to the truth by the indifference or hostility of my mates. Three of my men have sailed with me for years, and I can trust them; but the rest are of the ordinary stamp, though I have hopes that by our example and exhortations they may be brought in the way they should go. Ah, Mr Gray, Christians enjoy a happiness and freedom from anxiety which no others possess. I leave my family, knowing that, as His dear children, they are under God's protection, and they, while I am tossing about on the ocean, are supported by the same faith, being sure that if I am called hence we shall meet again in heaven. When I part from my beloved wife and daughter I can always remind them of that, and the truth cheers all our hearts." The _Edgar_ had a fine run down Channel, and there was so much to do in getting things in order, that there was little time for conversation. The second-mate, Tom Berge, had never sailed with Captain Sandford before. He was a bold, hardy seaman of the rough-and-ready school, and seemed much astonished at the customs of his new captain. "Our skipper is a good sort of man," he observed to Peter one day, "but I don't like so much praying and preaching. I cannot help fancying something is going to happen." "We want a great many things, and it seems reasonable to me that we should pray for them to God, who gives us everything." "But you don't mean to say that He hears such prayers as rough chaps like me and others aboard here could say?" "I am sure He hears the prayers of the youngest as well as the oldest of sailors as well as of landsmen," said Peter. "Jesus Christ says He came `not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance;' and also God says, `The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin;' so of course He will listen to the roughest sinner who turns to Him." "Would He hear my prayers now?" asked the second-mate. "If you turn from your sins and seek Him, certainly," answered Peter; "for He has said, `Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,' and that was said to all." At length Berge not only consented to let Peter read the Bible to him, but gladly accepted a copy of which the captain made him a present, and, becoming a diligent reader himself, before the _Edgar_ rounded Cape Horn, could say, "I rejoice in the blood of my risen Saviour." There is no part of the ocean in which storms are more frequent or more terrible than off Cape Horn. Just as the _Edgar_ sighted the Cape, she encountered a heavy gale, the seas rising in mountain billows around her. There was on board a young lad in whom Berge had from the first taken great interest, and who had lately been brought to know Christ. As the gale was seen approaching, the order was given to close reef the topsails, and the lad, with others, flew aloft. He was on the lee yard-arm. The wind struck the ship with unexpected fury. As she heeled over, he lost his hold and fell into the foaming waters. He was a good swimmer, and struck out boldly. "He must be saved!" cried Berge. "Who will go with me?" and, running to the falls, prepared to lower a boat. Captain Sandford, though seeing the danger, was unwilling to stop him. While the rest hung back, the four Christian men who have been spoken of sprang to the assistance of the mate, and the ship being brought to the wind, the boat was lowered. Now she rose to the top of a foaming billow, and now she was lost to sight. Boldly she made her way towards where the youth was struggling in the waves. Just then a dark squall with tremendous force struck the ship, and a heavy sea washed over her. She escaped damage; but when the squall cleared away, the boat was nowhere to be seen! In vain those on board waited her return. "They have been summoned hence," said the captain; "God's will be done, they were all prepared to meet Him. For that let us be thankful." For several days the ship heeled to and fro, till the wind, coming fair, she once more stood on her course, and entered the bright waters of the Pacific. Peter observed that the captain felt greatly the loss of the brave mate and his companions. His health had been for some time failing. One morning, when the lofty Andes had just appeared in sight, he summoned his first-mate to his bedside. "Gray," he said, "I feel that I shall not live out the day. I should first wish to see all the crew, and then I would have a word with you." The men came, one after the other, and the captain spoke affectionately and earnestly to each, urging them to seek the Saviour while He might be found, and recommending them to listen to the first-mate, who would explain the truth to them. "Gray," he said, when they had left him, "I must ask you to visit my wife and daughter when you get home, and bear my last message of love to them. Take this letter and deliver it, if you can, with your own hands. Send them the property I leave on board; I know that I can trust you; with things of this world I have nothing more to do. And now read some of God's word and pray with me." Peter remained with the captain till the last, and with sincere sorrow closed his eyes. Next day the ship entered the harbour of Valparaiso, where the captain was attended to his grave by most of his own crew and those of several other English merchantmen in harbour. Peter had much felt the want of Christian sympathy in his sorrow. Among those who had attended the funeral of his late captain, he observed a tall fine-looking man with grey hair. A second glance convinced him that he was his old captain, Mr Hauslar. "What, Gray?" exclaimed the latter, when Peter spoke to him. "I remember you now. Come on board with me; my ship lies close to yours." Peter had the satisfaction of finding that his former friend continued a faithful believer. Delightful to both was the conversation they had together. The next day Captain Hauslar accompanied Peter to the agents, and from his recommendation they directed him to take command of the _Edgar_. A young Christian man, whose ship had been lost, but the crew rescued by Captain Hauslar, was appointed to serve as second-mate, and came accompanied by four South Sea Islanders, who were considered good seamen. While the _Edgar_ was getting in her stores Peter enjoyed the company of his friend, and with renewed spirits and hopes he sailed on his voyage. The beautiful island of Otaheite and several others were visited. He then, according to his order, sailed northward, to call at the Sandwich Islands, thence to proceed to Japan and through the Indian Seas round the Cape of Good Hope homewards. Calm as the Pacific is at times, fearful gales sweep across it. To one of these the _Edgar_ was exposed for several days, and Peter had to exert all his skill and seamanship to preserve his ship. He did his best, and putting his trust in God, sought His protection. The gale had driven the ship considerably out of her course. For some days no observation could be taken; an anxious look-out was kept, for coral reefs and islands were near at hand, and with little warning the ship might be driven on one of them. The night was unusually dark. Peter and his mates had never left the deck. Just as morning was about to break a cry was heard of "Land! on the lee bow!" The ship was put about, and scarcely had she come round when breakers were seen rising in a foaming wall astern. CHAPTER NINE. A STRANGE DISCOVERY. As the day dawned an island, covered with the richest vegetation, appeared rising to a considerable height, with a calm lagoon between it and the circling reef. A tempting passage was also seen leading from the stormy ocean into the lagoon. One of the natives coming aft said that he knew it well. It was his native island, and he offered to pilot in the ship. Should the gale increase, the danger of attempting to beat off that lee shore would be great. Peter therefore at once accepted the offer. The _Edgar_ was headed in for the lagoon. The foaming breakers roared upon either side as she shot between them, and in another minute she was gliding calmly over the smooth water of the lagoon. Piloted by the native in a short time she brought up in a beautiful bay, where she might ride securely. Scarcely had she dropped her anchor when several canoes paddled alongside. The native hailed one of them, and the people in her came on board. They were soon affectionately greeting him, while the rest of the crew were engaged in buying fruits and vegetables and various articles which the others had brought. In a short time he came aft to Captain Gray. The information he gave was satisfactory. When he had left the island the people had been heathens, and he had expected to find them in the same condition. Two native catechists had, however, been for some time among them, and an English missionary had a few months before arrived, whose house was situated on the shores of another bay at a little distance; he had been sent for, and would probably, ere long, be on board. Peter, knowing the treacherous character borne by many of the South Sea Islanders, had resolved not to allow his crew to go on shore, or permit more than a few natives at a time on board; he had now, however, no fears for the safety of his ship. Peter was in his cabin, when a message was brought him that a canoe was coming off, with a white man in her. "He must be the missionary," he said, and hurried on deck to welcome him. The canoe came alongside, and an old man in a seaman's dress, with white hair streaming from under his hat, stepped on board. Peter, shaking him by the hand, inquired whether he was the missionary he was led to expect would pay him a visit. "Oh, no, sir! he is a very different sort of man to me; I only wish I was him," was the answer. "He will be here soon, I doubt not. I came aboard to ask whether the ship was homeward bound, and you would let me work my passage in her; I have got some strength left in my old arms yet." "I'll gladly give you a passage, my man," said Peter, "if you desire to return to England. Have you been long out in these parts?" "Ay, sir, many a year--I forget how many, for I lost all count of time when I lived among the savages, but I reckon it carefully now since I have been brought to my right mind by Mr Wilson, the missionary you have heard tell of." "I should have thought that at your age you would have been content to remain with him and lend him a helping hand," answered Peter, trying to restrain hopes and feelings rising in his breast which he feared might be disappointed. "The assistance of a Christian white man would be of great value to him." "That maybe, sir," answered the old man, "but there are those at home I long to see again. I left them years ago, and was shipwrecked upon these islands. For some time I had no chance of escaping. Living among the savages here, I grew to live as they lived, and forgot my home and friends. Since I have learned to love God I have been longing to see my family again, but I have not been able to get back, for I have been away on the other side of the island each time a ship has touched here. If you had left a wife and a little boy at home as I have, you would wish to get back to set your eyes again on them, and hold them in your arms." "A wife and a little boy!" exclaimed Peter, unable longer to restrain his eagerness to learn who the old man was. "Tell me their names, and where they lived." "It was at a place, maybe, you have not been to nor heard of either, seeing it's of no great size," answered the old man; "it's called Springvale, and is not far from the little town of Oldport; and my name is Gray, sir, at your service." "Gray!" exclaimed Peter, taking the old man's hand, and scarcely able to speak. "Come into my cabin, I wish to tell you more about your wife and son." Peter had no longer any doubt that his long-lost father stood before him, but he was unwilling to make himself known in sight of his crew, fearing also the effect the announcement would have on the old man. Conducting the old sailor, whose countenance wore an expression of astonishment, down into the cabin, he closed the door, and placing him respectfully on a sofa, still holding his hand, sat himself down by his side. "You were telling me," he said, "that you have learned the truth, and you know, therefore, God's love and mercy, and that He orders all things for the best. You have been very many years from home, and must be aware that though your son when you saw him last was a little boy, he must now be a grown man; your wife, too, would be an old woman. Have you ever thought of the hardships and trials to which she would probably have been exposed, left all alone to struggle with the hard world, and still having to go through them? But suppose God in His mercy had taken her to Himself, and you knew that she had been spending all these years in happiness unspeakable, would you not have cause to rejoice?" The old sailor gazed at the young captain, scarcely able to comprehend him clearly. "God is very merciful; He loves me, though I am a sinner, and orders all for the best. I know that is what Mr Wilson says, and he speaks the truth, for he turned me from little better than a savage into a Christian man," answered the old sailor. As he spoke his eyes fell on Peter's Bible, which lay on the table with the leathern case beside it. "What are you driving at, sir?" he exclaimed in an agitated tone. "I remember that book, as if I had seen it but yesterday; it was my wife's. Do you know her? tell me, tell me." Peter placed his arm so that the old man's head might rest on it. "My name is Gray, sir," he said. "That book was indeed your wife's, my mother's, and I am very sure that I am your son." "You Peter, my little boy?" exclaimed the old man, gazing in his countenance. "You captain of this ship, and I have found you after these long years! God be praised! And your mother, tell me about her." "I tried to prepare you, sir, for what I have to say," said Peter. "She has been among the blessed for many years, and her last prayer on earth was that I might find you that you might be brought to know the Saviour in whom she trusted." "God's will be done! God's will be done!" murmured the old man, letting his head fall on his son's shoulder. "He knows what is best. In His mercy He took her; and I all the time living like a savage, but He found me--He found me; and He has sent you, and all through His love, to tell me about her. I began to fear that she might be poor and suffering, and you living a hard life, or sent maybe to the workhouse, but He orders all things for the best. Praise His name!" The old man could say no more. His feelings overcoming him, he bent his head and wept like a child. No one would have recognised the once "roaring Jack Gray," and for some time the wild, half-clad savage, in the now venerable-looking old Christian man, who sat at supper with the young captain and the missionary who had now arrived. "I fear that I shall lose your assistance, friend Gray," said Mr Wilson, "though I rejoice that you have found your son." "I have been casting the matter in my mind, sir," answered the old sailor, "and asking God to direct me, and, now she has gone whom I longed to see, and my son in His mercy has been sent to me, I am very sure that He does not want me to go away from this place. I should be a stranger in England, of no use to any one, and a burden to my son, and here you tell me that I am of help to you among the natives, and I think I am, as I can speak their language, and tell them about the love and mercy of God, who found them out as He found me out, and has sent His blessed Gospel of peace to them." "I am very sure Captain Gray will agree with me that, although he may wish to have you with him to look after you in your old age, you are more certain to enjoy happiness here, knowing that you are of use to your fellow-creatures, than you would be in returning to the land you have so long left." "I do not wish to bias my father," said Peter, "and I am very sure that, seeking direction from God, he will be directed aright." "It is settled then, my son," said the old sailor, looking up, "I'll remain with Mr Wilson, and help him. I can say with old Israel, about whom he was reading to me the other day, when he saw Joseph, `Now let me die since I have seen thy face, because thou art yet alive.'" Peter agreed that his father was right in the resolution he had come to. The first-mate, and several of the crew who had visited old Mr Gray in his hut, begged that they might be allowed to put up a more comfortable dwelling for him. Peter thankfully accepted their offer, and several of the natives, finding what they proposed doing, gave their assistance. In a short time a neat cottage was erected in the shelter of a cocoanut grove, with a verandah in front and a garden fenced in on one side. Peter had also the satisfaction of taking on shore some clothing and a number of articles which he thought might be of use to his father, as well as a store of provisions such as were likely to keep in that climate. "Peter, you are over-generous to me," said the old man, when the gifts arrived, "I never did anything for you." "You must consider them as God's gifts; if He had not bestowed them on me I could not have offered them to you," answered Peter. "I see, I see," said the old man; "He orders all for the best, praise His name." Peter paid several visits to Mr Wilson, who, with his wife, had now been nearly a year on the island. He disclaimed any part in the conversion of the old sailor, that having been brought about by the instrumentality of the two native catechists who had preceded him. By that time a large number of the inhabitants of that part of the island had burned their idols, and become nominal Christians, while a very considerable portion were communicants, and evidently endeavouring to walk in the footsteps of the Master they professed to serve. "There is still, however, a wide field for our labours," observed Mr Wilson, "for which I trust your father will be spared many years with me." Stormy weather, and the necessity of refitting and making certain repairs which the _Edgar_ required, and for which the sheltered harbour afforded peculiar facilities, kept her there for upwards of a fortnight; when parting from his father, Peter proceeded on his voyage to England. The _Edgar_ arrived in safety in England. Peter had made a successful voyage, and found himself the possessor of more money than he had ever expected to receive. As soon as the ship was safe in dock, and he had performed all the duties required of him, he left her in charge of the first-mate and proceeded to pay the promised visit to his late captain's widow and daughter. He found them living in a neat little cottage near London. Mrs Sandford had heard of her husband's death, and cordially welcomed Captain Gray. She was anxious to receive an account of the last days of his life, which he alone could afford. "He died as he lived, trusting to the all-sufficient merits of Jesus Christ his Saviour," said Peter; "it is a blessed thing, Mrs Sandford, that God's promises are sure, and that those who thus die are taken to be with Him." "Indeed it is, Captain Gray; I know that I shall meet my dear husband in His glorious presence, and my daughter enjoys the same certain hope. That confidence has taken away the sting of grief which we should otherwise have felt. It was he who led us to the truth, and constantly charged us to be prepared for what has occurred: he, indeed, seemed to be aware that he should be taken during one of his voyages, yet none the less did he trust in God that all would be well." Mrs Sandford, after some further conversation, asked whether he intended going home or taking up his residence in London while he remained on shore, "because," she added, "as our means are limited, I purpose taking lodgers, if such offer as I should be willing to receive." "I have no home," said Peter, and he gave her an outline of his history; "if, therefore, you can accommodate me I shall be very glad to remain here." Soon after this, Mrs Sandford's daughter Susan entered the room. She was a pleasing, quiet, gentle girl, and appeared fully to share her mother's faith; and when Peter had talked with her for some time, he felt sure from the remarks she made that she was a true and earnest Christian. Peter had thought and read a good deal. Captain Sandford had left a well-selected library on board. His knowledge had become greatly enlarged, without in any way having his simple faith weakened. The little shepherd-boy was now the thoughtful, intelligent, and gentlemanly man, not possessed, perhaps, of the polish which mixing in the great world gives, but that far more enduring refinement which constant communion with Christ affords. Worldly people, though acknowledging the benefit of Christianity, know not its true source, and are surprised to find Christ's humble disciples so free from coarseness, and so gentle and courteous in their manners. Susan had been taught in the same school. Several weeks passed away. Peter came to the conclusion that he should wish to marry no other woman than Susan Sandford. Perhaps Susan had discovered this, for he was not a person who could well hide his feelings; at all events he ventured to tell her so, and she promised to become his wife. He would gladly have married before going to sea, but Mrs Sandford, who was a prudent woman, insisted on his waiting till he had returned from his next voyage. That voyage was a long one, for the owners again sent the _Edgar_ into the Pacific. Peter was able to pay a visit to his father, whom he found labouring with devoted zeal as a catechist among the natives, and submitting humbly to the directions he received from Mr Wilson, the missionary. The old man was delighted to hear of his son's intended marriage, and begged him if he could to bring out his wife to see him. "The utmost desire of my heart will then be fulfilled," he exclaimed; "and, oh! how loving has God been to me by bringing me in His great mercy out of darkness into His glorious light! Every day I live I wonder more and more; and, Peter, it is my belief I shall go on wondering through all eternity, because I am sure we shall never understand the love and mercy of Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, in all its fulness." Peter willingly promised to do as the old man wished. Had he still been the rough ignorant sailor Jack Gray once was, he might have felt an unwillingness to introduce his wife to him, even though he was his father; but now how different was the case when he was to bring her to the venerable Christian, patriarchal in appearance, and mild in manners, so gentle and loving to all around! It was a pleasure to see the natives come up and speak to him, they all evidently holding him in great respect. Again the _Edgar_ had a prosperous voyage, and Peter having yet further increased his means of supporting a wife, Mrs Sandford no longer hesitated to allow her daughter to marry. She had a further reason; her own health was failing, and before the _Edgar_ was ready for sea Susan lost her mother. When Peter proposed that his wife should accompany him, she gladly consented, and as the natives among whom his father lived had promised to collect a large quantity of cocoanut oil to ship on board the _Edgar_, Peter was once more able to visit the island. He was told on his arrival that his father was ill. The old man's eyes brightened up at the sight of his sweet-looking daughter-in-law and son. He blessed them both, and entreated that they would spend the evening at his house. He spoke cheerfully, and with great thankfulness, of the progress of the Gospel in the island. Peter hoped that he might yet be spared to spend many more years in his useful labours among the dark-skinned natives. The following day, however, a relapse occurred, and holding his daughter with one hand, his head resting on his son's arm, and his faithful friend Mr Wilson and the two catechists standing by, the old sailor breathed his last--a heavenly smile resting on the face of the once "roaring Jack Gray." Peter made many voyages accompanied by his loving wife, and by foresight and prudence having realised a little independence, added to what her father had left Susan, he was able to purchase the plot of ground on which his mother's cottage stood with several acres around. Here having built a neat house, he settled down, and making his Bible a light to his path and a lamp to his feet, his abode was truly as a light set on a hill, he and his family proving a blessing to all around. 
20837	----	[Illustration: They took their snow-shovels and tried to make a path to the hen-house (page 136)] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- PEGGY IN HER BLUE FROCK BY ELIZA ORNE WHITE ILLUSTRATED BY ALICE B PRESTON HOUGHTON MIFFLIN CO. BOSTON & NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY ELIZA ORNE WHITE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ----------------------------------------------------------------------- TO MY YOUNG COUSINS CORNELIA AND CAROL ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS I. THE MOVING 1 II. A CAT IN A STRANGE GARRET 7 III. WHY PEGGY WORE BLUE FROCKS 15 IV. PEGGY GOES FOR A YEAST-CAKE 25 V. AT CLARA'S HOUSE 38 VI. DIANA 46 VII. THE CANARY-BIRD 53 VIII. THE REWARD 62 IX. CHOOSING A KITTEN 67 X. THE WILD GARDEN 76 XI. THE GEOGRAPHY GAME 85 XII. HOW PEGGY SPENT HER MONEY 95 XIII. MRS. OWEN'S SURPRISE PARTY 104 XIV. A CHRISTMAS EGG 118 XV. THE GREAT STORM 126 XVI. GRANDMOTHER OWEN'S VISIT 141 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- PEGGY IN HER BLUE FROCK CHAPTER I THE MOVING Peggy, with flying yellow hair, was climbing the high stepladder in the library, getting down books for her mother to pack. She skipped up the stepladder as joyously as a kitten climbs a tree. Everything about Peggy seemed alive, from her gray eyes that met one's glance so fearlessly, to her small feet that danced about the room between her trips up and down the stepladder. Her skirts were very short, and her legs were very long and thin, so that she reminded one of a young colt kinking up its heels for a scamper about the pasture. "Peggy, you will break your neck if you are not careful," said her grandmother. "And don't throw the books down in that way; see how carefully Alice puts them down." Alice smiled at the compliment and showed her dimples. She was a pretty little thing with brown hair and big brown eyes. She was two years younger than her sister Peggy, and was as small for her age as Peggy was large for hers. She was taking the books from the lowest shelf, as she was afraid to climb the stepladder. "I'll risk Peggy's neck," said her mother, as Peggy once more skipped up the stepladder. This time she put the books down more carefully. The family were moving from the large, old-fashioned house where the children had been born to a very small one, more than a mile farther from the village. Peggy and Alice were greatly interested in the moving. Their father's mother had come all the way from New York to help about it. Their father had been a country doctor with a large practice and he had gone into the war to save the lives of others; but the hospital where he was at work had been shelled, and he had lost his own life. This had happened almost at the end of the war. It seemed to the children a long time since the war was over, and a very long time since their father had gone overseas. Peggy and Alice had been very much overcome when they heard of their father's death, but now the world was very pleasant again. Another doctor was coming to town, to move into their roomy old house and take the practice which had been their father's. Peggy looked out of the window at the garden. It looked its worst on this March day, for it was all patches of white and brown. There was not enough of the white snow for winter sports, nor was the brown earth ready for planting seeds. Peggy was glad there were children in the doctor's family because they would be sure to enjoy the croquet ground and the apple trees. How she should miss the apple trees! There was only one apple tree where they were going, but there was a cherry tree. Peggy's face brightened when she thought of the cherry tree. And they were to have a garden full of vegetables. "Mary," said the children's grandmother to their mother, "I'll give you a year to try your experiment; and remember, if you don't succeed, my offer holds good. I'll always have a room in my small apartment for one of the children; and Peggy is old enough to get a great deal of good from a New York school." Peggy looked as if nothing would induce her to leave her mother. Not that she disliked her grandmother. Peggy liked people of all ages. She did not like old ladies so well as people of her mother's age, because the younger ones were so much more active; and she liked children better still, for the same reason; and boys even better than girls, because they never expected you to play dolls with them. Peggy did not care for dolls as Alice did. When the world was so full of live things that scampered and frisked, or flew or crawled, why tie one's self down to make-believe people that could neither speak nor move? Pussy was much more interesting than any doll. Peggy looked at the furniture, standing forlornly about in strange places. Her own mahogany bureau was downstairs. "It looks for all the world," said Peggy, "like a cat in a strange garret." She had read this phrase in a book the day before, and it took her fancy. And then she wondered how their own cat would feel in her new home. And there was not any garret in the tiny house where they were going. The cat walked in just then, but seeing the confusion she fled upstairs. She was a gray pussy, with darker gray stripes, and a pronounced purr that was almost as cozy as the sound of a tea-kettle. She had a pleasant habit of having young families of kittens, two or three times a year. The only drawback was, the kittens had to be given away just as they got to the most interesting age. There were no kittens now, only pussy, whose whole name was Lady Jane Grey. Their grandmother was making a list of the books, for some of the boxes were to go to her in New York, others to the Town Library, while many of them they were to keep themselves. All the medical books were to be left in their father's office for the new doctor to dispose of as he thought best. "Do you know, mother, how many children the doctor has, and whether they are boys or girls?" Peggy asked. "No, he just said 'children' in his letter." "I hope there will be a girl, and that she will like to play with dolls," said Alice. "But you've Clara, I don't see what more you want," said Peggy. "But Clara is never here in the winter," said Alice. That night, after the children had gone to bed, they began to talk about the doctor's family. It was the last night they were to spend in the old house, and they felt a little sad as they climbed into the mahogany four-poster bedstead, for the room looked desolate. The curtains had been packed, and all the furniture was gone except the bed. "Anyway, we'll be sleeping on it to-morrow night," said Peggy. "We'll have Roxanna Bedpost with us just the same." She looked at the lower bedpost at her right that she had christened by this name when she was a tiny child, because her mother had hung Peggy's blue sunbonnet on it. "Shut up your eyes, Peggy, and see things," said Alice. "Perhaps you can see the children who are going to live here." Peggy had a delightful way of seeing things that Alice could not see. She shut her eyes up and thought hard and then she opened them and looked at the opposite wall. It seemed quite simple, but whenever Alice tried it she could see nothing. "Do you really see things, Peggy?" she once asked. "I see them in my mind's eye," said Peggy. "What do you see to-night, Peggy?" said Alice. "I see two children, a boy and a girl; and they are picking red apples in our orchard." "In March?" "It's not March in my mind's eye. They are beautiful, big, red apples. The girl is a little bigger than you and a little smaller than me, so she's just right for both of us to play with, and her name is Matilda Ann." "I don't think that is at all a pretty name." "I did not say it was a pretty name; I just said her name was Matilda Ann." "I hope it isn't." "Well, what do you guess it is?" "Oh, I don't know." "You must guess something." "Oh, well, Fanny." "Fanny! That's a very stupid sort of name," said Peggy. They were still talking about the possible names of the possible girl and boy when their mother came in to see if they were tucked up for the night. "Are you still awake?" she asked. "I wonder what you do find to talk about when you see each other all day long." CHAPTER II A CAT IN A STRANGE GARRET There were others who felt as if they were in a strange garret, after the moving, besides the cat. The children's mother was very homesick, for she was tired out; and she felt sad and lonely in the small house where her husband had never lived. The children did not mind so much, but it was strange, when they waked in the morning, to see the unfamiliar stretch of pasture from their window instead of the garden and the next house. But Pussy minded it so much that she slipped out while the others were having their breakfast. They were all so busy that no one missed her until dinnertime, and then Peggy and Alice looked everywhere in the small house and they called "Lady Jane" many times, but no little furry, gray pussy answered. Their grandmother had gone back to New York and their mother was too busy getting settled to hunt for the cat. "She'll come back when she gets hungry," she said. "I want you children to help me unpack. See these nice drawers for the linen." "I don't think they are half so nice as the linen closet in the other house," said Alice. "Now, children," said their mother, "no one ever said this house was so nice as the large one where you were born, and we can't pretend life is so pleasant as if we had your father here with us; but we have a great deal to be thankful for. If we haven't much money, we have health and strength and each other. Your father said to me when he went away: 'Mary, if I don't come back, I don't want you and the children ever to forget me, but I want you to remember all the happy times we have had together, and to think how glad I'd be of all the happy times you'd have by yourselves.'" The children got very much interested in arranging the linen in the drawers. "Oh, Peggy, you are no housekeeper; the pillowcases don't go in that drawer," said her mother. "See how carefully Alice puts the towels in." Alice smiled and showed her dimples, and Peggy stopped and gave Alice a hug. "Things seem just to slide out of my hands," said Peggy; "and I can't remember which drawer the things go in." There was a cupboard where Alice's dolls were to live, and it interested her greatly to get this apartment ready for them. So they all again forgot about Lady Jane Grey until supper-time. Their mother put bowls of milk on the table for the children, with plenty of bread and jam; and there was a big saucer of milk for Lady Jane, warmed just the way she liked it. Again they called her, but she did not come. Peggy made a trip down cellar, thinking she might have hidden there, and she hunted the house from top to bottom, but there was no dainty Lady Jane to be seen. "She'll come back sometime," said their mother; but the children were not so sure of this. It seemed sad to go to bed without knowing what fate had befallen Lady Jane; but their mother was sure she would come back that night. In the morning Peggy ran downstairs eagerly before she was dressed. "Has she come, mother?" she asked. "Has who come?" said her mother, whose mind was on starting the kitchen fire. "Lady Jane." "No, she hasn't come." "And it is so wet," said Peggy, as she looked at the falling rain; "she'll get drenched without any rubbers or raincoat." "You can be sure she is under shelter somewhere. A cat can always look out for herself." "But, mother, I'm worried about her." "I think," said Mrs. Owen, as she put the oatmeal into the double-boiler, "that she has gone back to her old home." "But, mother dear, she couldn't like strange people better than she likes us!" "Cats are strange creatures," said Mrs. Owen. "Run along and get dressed. After breakfast if the rain holds up you and Alice can run over to the Hortons' house and telephone to the Carters', to see if she is there. I shall be glad when we get our telephone in." The rain did not stop, but the children were so persistent that after breakfast Mrs. Owen let them put on their rubbers and raincoats and run over to the Hortons' house. The house was up a long avenue of trees. On this March day there were no leaves on the trees, and the bare branches looked black against the gray sky as they were tossed about by the wind. There were patches of snow by the side of the road. It all looked very dismal, for the house was closed, as the family did not come back until June, and only the care-takers were living in the back part of the house. It was where Clara lived in the summer. She was the children's most intimate friend. She was a little more than a year younger than Peggy and about a year older than Alice. The children went around to the back door and asked if they could come in and telephone. "It is something very important or we would not have come," said Peggy. "I hope your mother isn't sick," said Mrs. Jones. "No, it is about the cat." "And you came out in all this rain about a cat?" "She's as dear to us as if she was our child," said Alice. "Well, I never!" said Mrs. Jones, as she led the way to the telephone room. Peggy called up their old number. It made her a little homesick as she did so. "Is Mrs. Carter there?" she asked as a shrill voice said "Hullo." "It's a boy's voice," said Peggy. "There's one boy in the family. I'm glad of that." She heard the boy call "Mother," and presently Mrs. Carter came to the telephone. "Hullo," said Mrs. Carter, in a warm voice that Peggy liked. "I'm Peggy Owen. Mother said I might come over and telephone you about the cat. She's lost--I mean the cat. We thought she might be at your house. She doesn't seem to like ours. Have you seen anything of a gray pussy with dark gray stripes?" "I really don't know whether that one has been around or not. I'll ask them in the kitchen. We've been feeding a lot of stray cats." "You didn't say enough about the way she looks. She may get her mixed with the gray tramp cat," said Alice, taking the telephone from Peggy. "She's two shades of gray," she said to Mrs. Carter. "Such lovely dark stripes and then light ones; and there are thirteen stripes on her tail--first a dark and then a light, and so on; and her eyes are the shiniest things--most as bright as lights, only they are a kind of green; and she has a purr you can hear all across the room. Her name is Lady Jane, and she'll come for it." Mrs. Carter came back to the telephone presently. "There has been a gray cat around," she said, "but she isn't here now. If she comes back I'll send one of the boys up with her." "One of the boys," said Peggy to Alice, "so there must be two anyhow." The day passed and nothing was heard of the cat, and once more the little girls had to go to bed with anxious hearts. It was still raining when the children waked up the next morning, and no pussy had yet appeared. They wanted to go back and hunt for her themselves, but it was too wet for so long a tramp, and, besides, Mrs. Owen was sure Mrs. Carter was too busy getting settled in her new house to want visitors. "You don't seem a bit worried about Lady Jane, mother," said Peggy. "I have a few other things to think about, and I am sure she is all right." It was a three days' storm, and it was so wet on Sunday that they did not go to church or Sunday School. The day seemed very long. They helped their mother get dinner and they washed and wiped the inside dishes for her. They both liked to wash better than to wipe--it was such fun to splash the mop about in the soapy water. "It is my turn to wash to-day," Alice reminded Peggy. "But you are so slow," said Peggy. "I can do it a lot faster. However, it is your turn," she said, handing the mop to Alice with a little sigh. It was toward the end of the afternoon and they were beginning to get tired of reading when the door bell rang. "It is our first caller; go to the door, Peggy," said Mrs. Owen. Alice followed Peggy as she ran to the door. As Peggy opened it, a sweep of wind and a swirl of rain came in. The wind was so strong it almost blew the door to. A freckled-faced boy with a pleasant smile and honest blue eyes was standing on the doorstep. Oh, joy! He had a basket in his hand. "It's some rain," said the boy. "Oh, have you got our cat in that basket?" Peggy asked. "Now, what do you know about that!" said the boy. "Why should I know anything about your cat? Maybe I have cabbages in this basket." "Cabbages wouldn't mew," said Peggy, as the occupant of the basket gave a long wail. "It's our cat, I know her voice!" cried Alice in delight. "Won't you come in and see mother?" Peggy asked, as the boy stepped inside the small entry and put his basket down. "Can't stop." He had pulled his cap off politely when he came into the house, and Peggy saw that his hair was as yellow as her own. She wished hers might have been cropped as short. "Oh, dear! what fun boys had! They could go out on the rainiest days." The boy touched his cap and went quickly down the walk. Peggy's glance followed him regretfully. He was a big boy; he must be two years older than she was, just a nice size to play with. "And we never asked him his name or if he had brothers and sisters," Alice said. It was a lost opportunity and the children both regretted it, but they had been too much taken up with the return of Lady Jane to think of anything else at the moment. They had opened the basket and Lady Jane was purring about the place. "You darling!" Alice cried as she stroked her gray striped coat. "You do like us best, don't you, after all?" There was an odd expression in Lady Jane's green eyes. If she could have spoken, she would have said, "I like old friends, but I do like old places better still." And the very next morning she disappeared again. CHAPTER III WHY PEGGY WORE BLUE FROCKS Early in April there came a very hot day, and this reminded Mrs. Owen that she must be looking over the children's summer dresses to see what new ones they would need, for it would take some time to make them, with all the other work she had to do. She went up into the large store-closet, which was all they had in the way of an attic, and she unpacked the trunk that held the dresses. There were only four of Peggy's, for she was very hard on her clothes, and she had stained or torn several of them. There were six of Alice's in excellent condition. They were a little short for her, but there were tucks that could be let down. Peggy had two white dresses, a pink one, and a plaid dress. She tried on one of the white dresses first and pranced about the room with it. Her legs looked longer than ever, for the skirt was several inches above her knees. "You look just like a mushroom, Peggy," said Alice. "Oh, dear! I didn't know I'd grown such a lot," said Peggy ruefully, "but you can let down the tucks, mother," she added hopefully. "But there aren't any tucks. I let those down last summer." "I guess I'll have to have that dress," said Alice joyously. She was so fond of her sister that she liked Peggy's clothes better than her own. "Oh, dear!" said Peggy. "I like it so much because it's smocked. But I hope I can wear the dotted muslin. That's my favorite dress." But, alas, the dotted muslin was only half an inch longer than the cotton rep, and there were no tucks in that either. Peggy skipped about the room again, and she tried to persuade her mother that it would be possible for her to wear the dress. "I don't mind if it is rather short, mother," she said. "I can't have you going around with skirts like a ballet dancer." "But you could let the hem down, or put in insertion, or something," said Peggy. "But the waist is too small for you, and the dress will be just right for Alice." The pink dress and the plaid one were too small for Peggy, too, so Alice became the proud possessor of Peggy's frocks, which would fit her very well after tucks had been taken in them. "I've three pink dresses now and four white ones and two plaids and a yellow," said Alice. "And I've nothing at all," said Peggy. "It's too bad," said Alice, "but yours will all be new." The first chance Mrs. Owen had to go to the village she said she would buy the materials for Peggy's summer frocks. "I've got to get something for working dresses for myself, too," she said. She took the children with her, and they had a joyous time, for it was one of those sunshiny afternoons when everything was so gay and cheerful that it seemed to Peggy as if the whole world were smiling. The sun seemed positively to laugh, and the blue sky and the white clouds seemed almost as glad as he. Alice walked quietly along, taking hold of her mother's hand; but Peggy had to run along ahead of them every now and then. She wanted to dance and shout with the joy of it all. "Oh, Mother, there's Mrs. Butler and her canary-bird," said Peggy, as they passed a small gray house. "Let's stop and make her a call." "Not to-day," said Mrs. Owen. "We'll never get our shopping done if we stop to call on all the neighbors." When they came to the smoothly finished stone wall in front of the Thorntons' large place, Peggy climbed up so she could have the pleasure of walking across it. "Come, Alice," she said, helping her small sister up. "Oh, children," said their mother in despair, "we shall never get downtown." But they did get there at last, although they met several of their neighbors on the road, and Peggy stopped to caress a black pussy-cat and make friends with a yellow collie dog. The shop seemed very dark after the brightness of the spring sunshine outdoors. The saleswomen seemed sleepy and not at all interested in what they were selling. Peggy thought they probably did not live so far from the village; they could not have had such a joyous walk as they had had, or met so many friends. "Oh, that beautiful collie dog! How lucky the Thorntons were to have him! And the black pussy was a darling, not half so beautiful, of course, as Lady Jane, but still, a darling." She sighed when she thought of Lady Jane. She had slipped away again to her old home, and a few days later the same boy had brought her back in the same basket. The children had not seen him, for they were at school when he came, and their mother did not ask him how many children there were in the family. She had discovered, however, that his name was Christopher. They had kept Pussy in the house since then, hoping in this way to get her used to the place. But she seemed very anxious to get out, and in this April weather Peggy did not feel it quite kind to keep her indoors. She would not like it herself, and one should do as one would be done by. Peggy's mother went to the back of the store, where there was a man behind the counter who seemed more alive than the girls. Peggy followed her mother, but Alice's attention had been caught by some doll carriages. "I want you to show me something strong and serviceable for frocks for my little girl, who is very hard on her clothes," said Mrs. Owen. Peggy hung her head. She wished her mother had not said that. The man did not look as if he ever could have been hard on his clothes, even when he was a small boy. "This plaid is a great favorite," he said. Mrs. Owen asked the price, and it was too high. "Why, it is double what it was before the war," she said. Everything was either too expensive or too frail. Mrs. Owen bought some white materials for best dresses for Peggy, but there seemed to be nothing in the shop that would do for common. "I am afraid I shall have to wait until later in the season," said Mrs. Owen. "I suppose you'll have new things in?" "The new goods will be more expensive still." Mrs. Owen sighed. There were drawbacks about having so little money. She had turned to leave the store when the man called after her: "Mrs. Owen, I have something on the top shelf I think may suit you. It's strong as nails, and it's cheap. It's almost as strong as the stuff butcher's frocks are made of." Peggy gave a little cry of pleasure when she saw it, for it was such a delicious color. It made her think of the sky when it was a deep blue. Mrs. Owen was attracted to it because it was dark enough not to soil easily. But Peggy did not think of this; she just thought what a pleasure it would be to be dressed in something so pretty. It was so cheap that Mrs. Owen could hardly believe her ears when the man told her the price. "We got in a lot of the material before the prices went up," said he. "It is entirely out of fashion now. Nobody wants it." Peggy and her mother cared nothing about the fashion; and indeed they seemed to set the fashion, whatever they wore. "How many yards are there in the piece?" Mrs. Owen asked. He told her and she made a rapid calculation. "I'll take it all," she said. The man could not conceal his surprise. "We only sell seven yards for a grown person and four would do for her." "I know, but I am going to make two dresses for myself and she will need four. It is so much cheaper and stronger than any of the other wash materials that I shall make all her dresses out of the same piece. She won't mind having them all alike, will you, Peggy?" "I'll like it; it's so pretty." "Oh, please, mother, do make me one," Alice begged. "I'm afraid you will have to be contented with the ten dresses you already have," said her mother. "For, as I will have six dresses to make for Peggy and two for myself, I think that will be all I can manage." "Perhaps one of my dolls can have a dress out of it," Alice said hopefully. "Yes, I'll cut out a dress for Belle, and I can teach you to make that so you can be sewing on it while I am making Peggy's frocks." But it was some time before Peggy began to wear them, for it took her mother a long time to make them. The very next afternoon, after the dinner dishes were washed, Mrs. Owen got out the blue material and she cut out a dress for Peggy, and then a small one for Belle. Alice was learning to hem and she took as careful stitches as a grown-up person. Peggy was divided between wanting to do what the others were doing and hating to be tied down. She made frequent trips to the kitchen for a drink of water and to see how Lady Jane was getting on. "You can overcast these sleeves, Peggy," her mother said later in the afternoon. "That is much easier than hemming." "It's better than hemming," Peggy said, "because you can take such long spidery stitches. But I just hate sewing. I'm never going to sew when I grow up." "But that is just the time you'll have to sew," said Alice. "No, I'm going to be a writing lady." "But they have to wear just as many frocks as other people," said Alice. "I'll have them made for me. I'll get such a lot of money by my writings." "You may be married and have to make clothes for your children," said her mother. "I'll just have boys," said Peggy. "That would be much the best. Then I could climb trees with them and climb over the roofs of houses, and nobody could say, 'Peggy, you'll break your neck,' because I'd be their mother, so everything I did would be all right." "Oh, Peggy, you haven't been putting your mind on your work," said her mother. "Pull out those last few stitches and do them over again, and think what you are doing and not how you will climb trees with your sons." "I'll have all girls," said Alice. "Some will be dressed in pink and some in blue." "And some in red and some in yellow, and some in purple and some in green," added Peggy, "and you'll be called the rainbow family. There, mother, is that any better?" "A little better, but you don't seem to make any two stitches quite the same length." Peggy suddenly flung down her work. "There's somebody at the back door," she said. "It's the grocer's boy. You can go and get the things, only be sure not to let the cat out." Peggy never quite knew how it happened. She did not mean to disobey her mother, but the afternoon was very pleasant and the kitchen was hot. It seemed cruel to keep a cat in the house. She held the door open and, while she was debating whether it would not be possible for her and the cat to take a walk together, Lady Jane slipped out. Something gray and fluffy seemed to fly along the grass and disappear under the fence. She had gone without waiting for their pleasant walk together. Instead they would have a mad race. Peggy liked the idea of a chase. It was much more exciting than overcasting seams. Peggy and the pussy-cat had a wild race, and more than one person looked back to see why Peggy Owen, with flying yellow hair, was running at such speed cross-lots, through back yards, and climbing over fences. Suddenly Peggy was caught, as she was scrambling over a fence, by a piece of barbed wire. Her one remaining winter school frock was torn past mending. "Oh, dear, what will mother say?" said Peggy. The skirt was almost torn from the waist, and Peggy felt like a beggar-maid as she crept home. "Only, everybody will know I am not a beggar-maid," thought Peggy. "They'll all say, 'What mischief has Peggy Owen been up to now?'" And her mother did say something very much like it when she came in. "Peggy, what have you been doing now?" she asked. "I was hunting for Lady Jane," she said breathlessly. "She slipped out of the kitchen door." "Peggy, how could you be so careless?" said her mother. Then, as she noticed the confusion on Peggy's face, she said, "Did you let her out?" "Not exactly," said Peggy. "I was thinking perhaps it would be nice for us to have a walk together, when she ran away." "You don't deserve to have any new clothes," said her mother, as she looked at Peggy's torn frock. "The blue ones will be stronger than this old thing," said Peggy. CHAPTER IV PEGGY GOES FOR A YEAST-CAKE "Dear me," said Mrs. Owen, one hot morning, a few days later, as she started to make bread, "this yeast-cake isn't fresh. What a shame! Peggy, you'll have to go down to the village and get me another." Peggy was delighted at the chance for an errand. She never minded the heat, and she always liked to be out of doors better than in. It was Saturday morning so there was no school. This heat in April was very trying to Mrs. Owen and Alice. "You'll have to change your dress if you go to the village," said Peggy's mother. "You can put on one of your blue frocks if you like." So a few minutes later Peggy in her blue frock went out into the spring sunshine, a very happy little girl, with a small covered basket in her hand, for her mother had told her she might get half a dozen lemons and some sugar and a box of fancy crackers, so they could have some lemonade and crackers in the afternoon. "Be sure you don't forget the yeast-cake," her mother said, "and don't stop to talk to any strange children, and don't call on any of the neighbors. Don't run, it is too hot, but don't waste any time on the road, for I want to get my bread started as soon as I can." Peggy danced along the road in spite of the heat, for it was a happy thing to be alive. She had not gone far when she saw a boy coming out of a crossroad. It was Christopher Carter, and he too had a covered basket in his hand. "Hullo!" said Peggy. "Hullo!" said Christopher. He joined her as he spoke. "What have you got in your basket?" Peggy asked with interest. "Butter and eggs from the Miller farm. What have you got in yours?" "Nothing. Mother's sent me to the grocery store to get some things." "How's the cat?" he asked. "She's all right, only we have to keep her shut up, for if we let her out she'd go straight to your house. I can't think why she likes you better than us." "She gets lots of scraps of fish and meat, because we are such a big family; and then I suppose she likes her own old home, just as a person would." "I know, but Alice is so crazy about her: Alice is my sister," she explained. "My sister is just as crazy about her." "So you've got a sister? I thought you had, and I guessed her name was Matilda Ann." "Matilda Ann! What an awful name! What made you think her name was Matilda Ann?" "I don't know. It just came into my head that her name was Matilda Ann." "Well, it isn't." "Alice guessed it was Fanny," Peggy hastened to add, hoping that the credit of the family might be restored. "It isn't Fanny either. You could guess and guess and you'd never guess it. It's such an unusual name." Peggy was full of interest. She guessed several uncommon names, but they were all of them wrong. "What letter does it begin with?" she asked finally. "It begins with a D." "Dorothy?" "No, that's a very common name. I know lots of Dorothys." "Doris?" "That isn't uncommon, either. I know two Dorises." "Dora?" "That isn't uncommon, either. I know some Doras." Peggy was amazed at the size of the acquaintance of this boy who had come from the city, and she was very envious. She wished she knew all those Dorothys and Dorises and Doras. She wanted to hear all about each one of them. But he did not want to take the trouble to tell her about them. "Guess again," he said. "I can't think of any more girls' names beginning with a D, except Dorcas, in the Bible." "It isn't Dorcas." "Delia?" "No." "You'll have to tell me; I can't think of another thing." "Her name is Diana." "Diana! What a pretty name! Is she pretty?" "She's all right," the boy said heartily; "only she isn't very strong; and she has to stay in bed a lot when she is sick, and the cat amused her. She came and would get on the bed and would curl down by her." "She would? Mother would never let her go into our bedrooms." Peggy was beginning to see why Lady Jane liked to live with the Carters. But she had a pang of jealousy when she thought of that adorable gray striped pussy, with her soft fur and her greenish eyes, curling down contentedly and giving her cheerful purr while she was stroked by another little girl. "Is she the only sister you've got?" Peggy asked. "Yes." "Have you only one brother?" "That's all. He's older than me. He's some brother," he added proudly. "He writes poetry." "Poetry? I write it too," said Peggy; "only mine is just nursery rhymes to amuse Alice, about bees and hens and things." "Tom is writing a poem about you." "About me?" Peggy was deeply interested. "Can you say any of it?" Christopher became very red and looked confused. "I can't remember it," he said. "You must remember some of it." She persisted until she wrung from him the confession that he could remember one line, and she teased and teased him to repeat it until he said, "All right, if you must hear it, I suppose you must: 'Peggy, Peggy, long and leggy.' It gets nicer as it goes on, but that's all I can remember." Peggy looked down at her long legs thoughtfully. The poem was a distinct shock. She had never had one written to her before. "If he's like most boys I guess he's longer and leggier than I am," she said. "You are right there, he is." "I'm glad I have long legs," said Peggy. "They are so useful when you are climbing trees." Christopher looked at her with new interest. "Do you like to climb trees?" he asked. "I just love to," said Peggy. They were coming to the stone wall that enclosed the Thornton place. Peggy climbed up and began to walk across it. At one end was a pine tree, with convenient branches that she had often longed to climb. It looked very tall and symmetrical with its spreading green branches against the heavenly blue of the sky. She could never quite remember whether it was she or Christopher who first suggested climbing the tree. But they hid their baskets on the other side of the wall, and presently she and Christopher were climbing quickly from branch to branch. Peggy had never had a more blissful time. She had often envied Lady Jane her power to scramble up trees with no mother at hand to tell her to come down, or to warn her against spoiling her frock. But now she envied nobody. It was too wonderful to be sitting in the topmost branches of that pine tree. But the thought of Lady Jane's furry garment made her look down at her less substantial frock, and, to her dismay, she saw a long streak on it. She put her hand down and it felt sticky. "Oh, dear," she said, "I've got some of the pitch from the pine all over my dress! Oh, dear, what will mother say? She told me to be sure not to stop on the way, and not to talk to any strange children." "I'm not a strange child," said Christopher. "She wouldn't mind your talking to me." "Yes, but I have stopped on the way. I'll have to hurry," she said. "But, oh, dear, I'm afraid my dress is spoiled! Oh, what will mother say? I've only worn it one other time, and she's only got one more of these blue frocks finished." "Only one more! How many are you going to have?" "Four," said Peggy. She glanced up at him, and he looked as if he, too, would be hard on his clothes and would have some sympathy for her, so she added: "You see, it doesn't tear easily. The man in the shop said it was as strong as nails. I am always spoiling my things." He looked down at the long smear with genuine concern. "If I hadn't come along it wouldn't have happened," he said. "I'll take you round to Aunt Betsy's. She's got stuff that takes out all kinds of spots. She's got them out for me." "Is your Aunt Betsy the same as Clara's Aunt Betsy?" Peggy asked. "My Aunt Betsy is father's aunt," he said. "That's the reason we came here to live. She told us your house was going to be sold and there wasn't any good doctor here any more." They turned down a side street. "That's the house she lives in," he said, pointing to a small white cottage with green blinds. "Oh, yes, I know her," said Peggy. "She's Miss Betsy Porter." Aunt Betsy was in her pleasant kitchen taking something with a delicious, spicy smell out of the oven. She came to the door and asked the children to come in. She was tall and thin, with gray hair and dark eyes. Peggy thought of her as an old lady, but much more interesting than old ladies usually were. There always seemed to be something very nice in the way of food at her house, no matter at what time one arrived. "Now you children must each have a piece of my gingerbread," she said. "I've just taken it out of the oven." Miss Betsy Porter was deeply interested in the stain on Peggy's frock. "That's a very enticing tree to climb," she said, when the children had told her the whole story. "I climbed it once when I was a little girl." Peggy looked with wonder into the kindly face of Aunt Betsy, with its many lines. It seemed so impossible to think that she had ever been a little girl climbing trees. "I've got some stuff here that will take that out," said Aunt Betsy, going to a cupboard in the other room. "It would be a great pity for you to spoil that pretty dress." There was a jet-black cat curled up on the red bricks of the kitchen hearth. After the spots had been taken out, Peggy went over to make friends with the cat. It did not seem polite to eat and run when Miss Betsy had been so kind about taking the stain out of her dress, so Peggy stayed to make a call, after the gingerbread had been eaten. And she and Christopher told her all about Lady Jane Grey, and how she lived first at one house and then at the other. Finally, the striking of a clock made Peggy realize that the morning was slipping away. "I guess I'll have to be going now," said Peggy, "for mother told me to hurry and not to stop on the way. Oh, dear, what did I do with my basket?" "You didn't have any basket when you came in here," said Miss Betsy. "We left our baskets behind the stone wall," said Christopher. "I forgot all about them. I'll run back and get them." "I'll run, too," said Peggy. "I guess I can run as fast as you can." "It's too hot a morning to run, children," Miss Betsy called after them. But they were already some distance away. Christopher in his brown suit was a little ahead, but he was closely followed by Peggy in her blue frock, with her flying yellow hair, and her long, slim legs. The children gathered up their baskets and Peggy started to go to the grocery store when her attention was caught by the melodious singing of Mrs. Butler's canary-bird. "He's crazy about being alive, just as I am," thought Peggy. "I wish I could sing like that." "I must just go and say good-morning to Mrs. Butler. See, she's got the window open and the cage hanging there. Don't you wish you could sing like a canary-bird?" "No, I don't. What strange things you do think up!" "Well, I'd like to sing like one," said Peggy, "because it sounds so joyous, and there's never anything I can do to show how joyous I feel." Mrs. Butler came to the open window, to speak to the children. She didn't look at all joyous, for she had been having rheumatism, but this warm day made her feel better. "Won't you come in?" she asked. "I've just baked some gingerbread. You must be hungry. Come in and let me give you some." Peggy was about to say that they had already had some gingerbread, but she had only had one piece, and it seemed to make her hungry for more. She knew she ought not to stop again, but the temptation was too great. So they went into Mrs. Butler's cool parlor. This time it was crisp, thin gingerbread. One could eat several pieces and it seemed nothing at all. And all the time, the canary-bird in the sunshine was singing his glad song, "Spring is coming, spring is really coming," he seemed to say, "and there will be daffodils out, and tulips and Mayflowers. And the days will grow longer and longer, and more and more sunshiny." A clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour. That was not a joyous sound. "I guess I ought to be going," said Peggy. "Mother told me to hurry and not to stop on the way." "Mother told me she was in a hurry for the butter and eggs," said Christopher. "I'll have to go right home." Christopher left Peggy when they came to her old house, which was now his, and she felt a little pang of regret when she saw how pleasant it looked with its new coat of paint, behind the two horse-chestnut trees, which would soon be coming into blossom. At one of the upper windows she saw a boy who she was sure must be the poet, and she hurried by, very conscious of her long legs. The grocery store was a place full of interest--there were such delightful things to be seen. There was a box full of oranges and another full of grapefruit, and a lady was buying some raisins. Peggy was sure her mother would like some raisins if she had only happened to remember about them, and it would be such a good chance to get some oranges and grapefruit. But she remembered that her mother had not liked it at all when she had brought back some oranges once that she had not been told to order, so she turned regretfully from the oranges and grapefruit to the lemons that were in another box. "I'd like six lemons, please," she said to the clerk, "and two pounds of sugar and a box of Butter Thins." "Is that all?" he asked. "Yes," said Peggy. She never once thought of the yeast-cake, for so many exciting things had happened since she left home. When she reached the house her mother said, "What have you been doing, Peggy? You are an hour and a half late. There is no use now in starting my bread before night." It was then that Peggy remembered the yeast-cake. She turned red and looked very unhappy. "Mother, I forgot all about the yeast-cake," she confessed miserably. "I remembered everything else." "You remembered all the things you wanted yourself, but the one thing you were sent for, the only important thing, you forgot. I wonder what I can do to make you less careless. What is this smell? Why, it comes from your frock! Peggy, what mischief have you been in now?" Peggy and her mother were intimate friends, and they shared each other's confidence, but Peggy had not intended to tell her about the frock until the next day. However, there was no escape now. "Christopher and I climbed the pine tree, the one by the Thornton place, and I got pitch all over me, and I thought you'd be so discouraged that he took me to his Aunt Betsy's house and she got the spots out." "I told you not to stop to talk to any children." "You said 'strange children.' He wasn't 'strange.'" When Mrs. Owen had heard the whole history of the morning, she said: "Now Peggy, I think you ought to be punished in some way. While you were out Mrs. Horton telephoned to say that she and Miss Rand and Clara had come up to spend part of the Easter vacation. She wants you and Alice to come over and play with Clara this afternoon. I think Alice had better go without you." "Oh, mother," Alice protested, "that would be punishing Clara and me too." "I think it would be too awful a punishment," said Peggy. "Yes, I suppose it would," said Mrs. Owen thoughtfully. She was a very just mother, and Peggy always felt her punishments were deserved. "I can't let it go and do nothing about it," said Mrs. Owen. "I tell you what I'll do. I'll go over to Mrs. Horton's with Alice and leave you to keep house, Peggy, until I come back. Old Michael may come with some seed catalogues. If he does you can keep him until I get back. As soon as I do, you can run right down for the yeast-cake, and this time I am sure you will not stop on the way. Then you can go to Clara's for what is left of the afternoon." CHAPTER V AT CLARA'S HOUSE Peggy was walking up the long avenue that led to Clara's house. She had had a wonderful afternoon. "Only I haven't been punished at all," thought Peggy. This was because old Michael had arrived with his seed catalogues soon after her mother left, and, as he was one of her best friends, Peggy was very happy. "Mother will be back soon," said Peggy. "Let's play that I am mother, and we'll look at all the pictures of flowers and vegetables and mark the ones I want, just as she does." Old Michael was quite ready to play the game, only he said it might be confusing to her mother if they marked the catalogues; so Peggy got a sheet of her own best note-paper, with some children in colored frocks at the top of it. "It's a pity to waste that good paper," said he. "It's my own paper, Mr. Farrell," said Peggy, in a grown-up voice. "You forget that I am Mrs. Owen and can do as I please." "Sure enough, ma'am, I did forget," he said as he looked at the small lady in her blue frock. "Peonies, poppies, portulaca," said Peggy; "we'll have a lot of all of those, Mr. Farrell. And we'll have the poppies planted in a lovely ring." "It was vegetables we were to talk about to-day, ma'am," said Mr. Farrell respectfully. "How many rows of string-beans do you want to start with, and how many butter-beans? And are you planning to have peas and corn and tomatoes?" "Mother is planning to can things to sell," Peggy began. "Oh, dear, I forgot I was mother! I think a hundred rows of string-beans will be enough to start with, Mr. Farrell. I am afraid that is all my children can take care of. They are to help me with the garden. We haven't much money; and we have to earn some or Peggy may have to go to live with her grandmother, and I just couldn't stand that. I could not be separated from my child; and Peggy and Alice must always be together. Perhaps you can't understand this, Mr. Farrell, never having been a mother yourself. It is no laughing matter," she said, looking at old Michael reprovingly. Her mother came a great deal too soon; and she did not approve of all of Peggy's suggestions about the garden. "Run along now, Peggy, and get the yeast-cake, and don't bother us any more," she said unfeelingly. Surely no little girl had ever gone to the village and back so quickly as Peggy went. She resisted the temptation to get two yeast-cakes, for fear one might not be fresh, thinking it wiser to do exactly as her mother said. And now, as she was walking between the rows of trees, she could hardly wait to see Clara. She had not seen her since Thanksgiving Day. There were three men at work at the Hortons' place, raking leaves and uncovering the bushes in the rose garden. Peggy was glad they did not have so many people at work. It was much more fun doing a lot of the work one's self and talking things over with old Michael. Mrs. Horton was talking with the man in the rose garden. He looked cross as if he did not like to be interrupted. Mrs. Horton was short and plump, with beautifully fitting clothes, but she never looked half so nice, in spite of them, as Peggy's mother did in her oldest dresses, for Mrs. Owen carried her head as if she were the equal of any one in the land. Mrs. Horton looked pleased when she saw Peggy. She shook hands with her and said how tall she had grown. Peggy was tired of hearing this. And then she told her that the children were up in the apple tree. "You can go right through the house and out at the other door," she said. "The path is too muddy. Miss Rand will let you in. We are camping out; we haven't brought any of the servants with us." They only had the care-taker and her husband and these men on the place. If this was camping out, Peggy wondered what she and her mother and Alice were doing, with nobody but themselves to do anything, except old Michael or Mrs. Crozier for an occasional day. Miss Rand opened the door for Peggy. She was a small, slim little thing, with big frightened eyes with red rims. She looked as if she had been crying. Peggy wondered what the trouble was. She felt sorry for her, so she gave her a kiss and a big hug and said how glad she was to see her. And Miss Rand smiled and her face looked as if the sun had come out. She was very nice-looking when she smiled. "You are the same old Peggy," said Miss Rand, and Peggy was so grateful to her for not saying how tall she had grown that she stopped and told her all about Lady Jane and how she lived first at one house and then at the other; for Miss Rand had a heart for cats, and it was a trial to her that Mrs. Horton would never have one. Speaking of Lady Jane, Peggy had an awful feeling that she had slipped out of the kitchen door when old Michael came in. "I didn't see her after he left when I went into the kitchen for a drink of water," said Peggy. "Wouldn't that be too bad?" "It would be nice for Diana to have a little visit from her," said Miss Rand. "Do you know Diana?" "Yes, I used to teach in a school near where they lived. She came to school when she was well enough, and when she wasn't I gave her lessons at home. She is a dear child." But Peggy was getting too impatient to see Clara to stop to hear more about Diana. So she went through the wide hall and out of the other door to the brick terrace and down the steps that led to the formal garden and the orchard beyond. A peacock was strutting about as if he owned the place. His tail looked so very beautiful that Peggy felt a little envious. "I wish people could wear ready-made clothes as lovely as his," she thought. "They are much nicer than my blue frocks, and they can never get spoiled." She ran quickly along past the pool, where the water-lilies would blossom later on, to the orchard. In one of the nearest apple trees there was a platform built around it with a flight of steps leading up to it. It was what the children called the apple tree house. Here Clara and Alice were playing dolls. Peggy could seldom be induced to play dolls. She ran up the steps and made a dash for Clara. Clara, in a lilac frock, was sitting primly on one of the wooden chairs with which the platform was furnished. Her hair was a darker brown than Alice's, and her face had the pallor of the city child who has lived indoors all winter. She was rather a stiff little girl in her manners, and however glad she might feel inside at seeing Peggy again, she did not show it. She submitted to being kissed and hugged gravely as if she were taking a doctor's prescription, and she kissed Peggy's cheek with a gentle peck. "Dear me, but you have grown a lot," said Clara. "Well, I can't help it if I have," said Peggy. She felt cross and a little hurt because Clara had not seemed any more glad to see her when she had been just crazy to see Clara. Miss Rand had been delighted to see her, and even Mrs. Horton had seemed more glad than Clara. Only the peacock and Clara had seemed proud. Perhaps Clara had been afraid Peggy would rumple her dress. It was a very lovely shimmery dress with smocking. Peggy liked dresses that were smocked. She seated herself on a branch of the apple tree and began to swing back and forth. She was never shy herself, so it did not occur to her that Clara was shy. There did not seem to be anything to say, and it seemed a long, long time, since Thanksgiving Day, when she had last seen Clara, and as if they would have to get acquainted all over again. "Did you have a nice journey?" said Peggy. "No, horrid! I'm always car-sick. Father's coming for us and we are going back in the automobile." "That will be great fun," said Peggy. "It will be better than the train," said Clara, "but it's a long ride, and I always get awfully tired." "Do you?" said Peggy, swinging back and forth again. "How long your legs are," said Clara. Peggy stopped short in her swinging. "If you say anything about my legs I shall go crazy," she announced. Then she climbed as high in the apple tree as she could get and dared them to come and join her. "Come up into my house, you short-legged people," she called down. "I have a room in a tower and there are windows in it, and I can see all over the place. Come up here--why don't you come?" "Don't be cross, Peggy," said Alice. "You know I am scared to, and Clara would spoil her dress if she climbed up there." "What are dresses for if you can't climb trees in them?" Peggy called down. "I wish I had a frock like yours, it is such a pretty color," said Clara, who always liked other people's things better than her own. The compliment to her dress restored Peggy's good humor. She was very seldom cross, and she felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. So she condescended to play dolls with Clara and Alice, and there was no fun so great as to have Peggy play dolls. She put them through such adventures and made them have such narrow escapes that the little mothers were positively thrilled. So it was a very happy afternoon for every one, even for Miss Rand, who came out just before it was time for the children to go home, with a tray on which there was a pitcher of something nice and cold that tasted of orange, and some small doughnuts. Miss Rand sat down on an apple branch, which seat she preferred to a chair, and she sang for them, at Peggy's request, some Scotch songs, in a sweet contralto voice. "It has been a nice afternoon," said Peggy, as she kissed Clara good-bye, and this time Clara gave her a most responsive kiss. CHAPTER VI DIANA Peggy did not think of Lady Jane again until supper-time, when Mrs. Owen said to Alice, "I've warmed some milk for the cat. It is in the blue pitcher; you can turn it into her saucer." Peggy kept very still. She hoped against hope that her furry little gray friend would come at the sound of her name. "I can't find her anywhere, mother," said Alice. "I haven't seen her all the afternoon, now I think of it," said Mrs. Owen. "Did you see her, Peggy? Do you suppose she could have slipped out when Michael Farrell came in?" "I am afraid she did, mother," said Peggy. "Well, Peggy Owen," said Alice, "I never knew any one as careless as you are. You ought to be punished." "You are not my mother," said Peggy. "It is a very serious matter," and Alice gave a wise shake to her small head. "It is the second time you've let her get out." "Well," said Mrs. Owen, "if she is so anxious to live at the other house and they want to keep her, suppose we let them have her? The other day when I called, Mrs. Carter told me how fond her little girl was of her, and the child hasn't been well." "Give up Lady Jane!" cried Peggy in dismay. "Mother, what are you thinking of!" said Alice. "She's one of the family. Would you give me up if I kept going back to the Carters'?" "Certainly not; but that is entirely different." "I love Lady Jane just as much as you love me, mother," said Alice. "That is impossible. Don't talk such nonsense," said her mother. It seemed an extreme statement, even to Peggy. "Do you love her as much as you love mother?" she asked. Alice paused to consider. "Don't ask her such a trying question, Peggy. She would probably find it a little less convenient to live without me than without the cat; but if you children care so much about her you can go and get her. It is too much to expect them to send her back again." Mrs. Owen telephoned to Mrs. Carter and found that the cat had been spending the afternoon with them. "I won't trouble you to send her back," said Mrs. Owen. "The children will go for her to-morrow afternoon." The next day Peggy and Alice could hardly wait to finish their dinner, they were so eager to go for Lady Jane and get back in time to spend a long afternoon with Clara. As they came near the Carters' house, they saw Christopher just coming out of the gate. "So you are going to take the cat back again?" he said disapprovingly, as he looked at the basket. "She's our cat," Alice said sweetly, but very firmly. Christopher looked down at Alice, who smiled up at him and showed her dimples. "Yes, of course, she is your cat," he said; for nobody could resist Alice. "But it seems too bad to yank her out every time she comes back to her old place." "We've had her a very long time," said Alice. "I can hardly remember anything before we had her." "She must be a very old cat," said Christopher, laughing. It seemed strange to ring the doorbell of their own old house. The front door was painted green now and it had a shiny brass knocker. The office door was green, too. It was sad not to see their dear father's name there any more. "Dr. T. H. Carter" seemed very unnatural. The grass was beginning to grow green, and the snowdrops and crocuses were in blossom by the front door. Mrs. Carter opened the door for them herself. She looked so pleasant that Peggy wanted to kiss her. "I know you've come for Lady Jane," she said, glancing at the basket. "She's out calling this afternoon, but I'm sure she'll be in before long. While you are waiting for her you can go up and see Diana. She is expecting you. You can go upstairs; she is out on the piazza." Everything seemed strange and yet familiar about the house. There was a new paper in the hall, and the floor and the stairs had been done over. They went out on the upper side piazza, which was glassed in, and here Diana was lying in a hammock that looked almost like a bed. Peggy loved Diana the moment she saw her. She had the same friendly face that Mrs. Carter had. Her hair was a sunshiny brown and so were her eyes, and her face, too, was a warm color, as if she had been out of doors a great deal. She had on a pale green wrapper with pink roses and green leaves embroidered on it. Peggy thought she had never seen anything so sweet in her life as Diana was, lying there in her green wrapper. She seemed a part of the pleasant springtime. Peggy noticed a copy of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" lying on the hammock. This was one of her favorite books, and she began to talk about it at once. Alice's attention was caught by the sight of a flaxen-haired doll lying beside Diana in the hammock. "So you like dolls?" Alice said. "I just love them," said Diana. "So do I," said Alice. And Peggy felt quite left out. "What's her name?" Alice asked. "Alice." "That's my name." "I named her for the 'Wonderland Alice.'" "Oh, but now she must be my namesake. I'll be her aunt. She can call me 'Aunt Alice.'" Peggy picked up "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" while Diana and Alice made friends over the doll. "Doesn't your sister like to play dolls?" asked Diana. "No," said Alice, "and I don't see why, for she makes up such exciting things when she does play. Yesterday when we played with Clara she had the dolls fly in an aeroplane, and she took them up into the highest branch of the apple tree." "Oh, do play with us now," Diana begged. So Peggy good-naturedly put down her book, and Alice, the doll, had never had so many exciting adventures in all her young life. They were so busy playing they did not any of them hear Lady Jane's quiet footsteps as she climbed the rose trellis. Peggy saw her first, a furry, gray ball, poised lightly on the piazza rail. Alice saw her give a spring through the open pane of glass and land on the hammock. She was giving her joyous tea-kettle purr, and, oh, it was too much to bear, she was actually licking Diana's hand. "Darling pussy," said Diana. She held her lovingly against her shoulder, and stroked her gray back. Alice could hardly bear it. "Lady Jane, I am here," she said. But Lady Jane did not stir. Diana moved her into a more comfortable position, and she curled herself down for a nap. Alice could bear it no longer. She went over, and, picking her up, she said, "You are going to stay with me." But Lady Jane scratched Alice's hands in her desire to escape, and gave a flying leap back to the hammock. Peggy almost decided to take her mother's advice and let Diana keep the cat. She seemed to love her so very much, and to have so much less to make her happy than they had. It must be hard to lie still instead of being able to frisk about wherever one pleased. And yet, Diana looked happy. She didn't see why; she knew she could not be happy if she had to keep still like that. "I think we ought to be going now," said Peggy, "because we told Clara we'd come early. We might leave Lady Jane to make Diana a little visit." This seemed a good compromise. "No," said Alice, with decision, "I want to take her back right off now." So Peggy helped Alice put the struggling cat into the basket. They shut the cover down tight, paying no attention to Lady Jane's dismal mews. "I wish you didn't have to go," said Diana, a little sadly. "Do come again soon, and perhaps you'll bring Lady Jane with you." "We'll come again soon," said Peggy. "Yes," said Alice; and in her own mind she thought, "We'll never, never bring Lady Jane." CHAPTER VII THE CANARY-BIRD Peggy and Alice had a very happy time the next few days playing with Clara. Their school had a vacation, too, so the children were able to spend long hours together, sometimes at one house and sometimes at the other. They liked better going to see Clara on account of the tree-house; and Clara liked better going to see them. She liked to come early and help to make the beds and do the dishes, for she was never allowed to help about the work at her own house, even now, when they were supposed to be camping out. The field behind the Owens' house, where the garden was to be, was a delightful place to play, and so was the little hill beyond. The time passed only too quickly, and, at the end of the vacation, Clara was whisked back to New York with her father and mother and Miss Rand, this time in an automobile. The children missed her very much at first; and June, when she would be coming back again, seemed a long way off. But they soon got interested in the children at school. Peggy liked school, and she was very fond of her teacher. On the way to school they passed Mrs. Butler's house. Peggy was always eager to stop and listen to the canary and have a little talk with Mrs. Butler, but Alice was always eager to go on for fear they would be late. Sometimes they saw Mrs. Butler's daughter Flora, starting off for her work. She was in a milliner's store and wore the prettiest hats. Every time Peggy went by the milliner's window, she stopped to look at the hats. She had longed to have a new one for Easter, for her old brown straw looked so shabby. One day, when she was with her mother and Alice, she made them cross the street to look at a hat in the window that she wanted very much. It was a peanut straw with a ribbon of the same color around it, with long ends. The ribbon had a blue edge, just the color of Peggy's blue frocks. "It does seem as if I'd got to have it," said Peggy. "Why should there be a hat with blue on it, just the color of my dresses, if it wasn't for me?" "I wish I could get it for you, Peggy," said her mother. "When my ship comes in perhaps I will." "When will it come in, mother?" Alice asked. "I have not even got a ship--that's the worst of it. However, as we don't live at the seashore a garden is more useful. If we make the garden pay perhaps we can all have new hats." "But they'll be winter hats if we wait for the garden, and I want the peanut straw," said Peggy. Flora Butler, who was behind the counter, came to the door and spoke to them. "How much is the peanut straw hat?" Peggy asked. "Peggy, I have told you I can't get the hat for you," said her mother. "It really is a bargain," said Miss Butler. "It is a very pretty hat," said Mrs. Owen, "but I am spending more than I can afford on my garden." "How's the canary?" Peggy asked. "He is all right. He will give you a free concert any time you can stop to hear him." "It seemed too bad he could not be free like the other birds," Peggy thought. And then one day, as they were coming back from school, she saw the empty cage in the window, and Mrs. Butler, half distracted, was asking the school-children if any of them had seen her canary-bird. "I don't know what my husband will say when he comes back from the store for his dinner, and he finds it gone," she said. "He sets as much store by that canary as if it was a puppy." The school-children stood about in an interested group. "How did it get out?" Peggy asked. "I was cleaning Sol's cage, as usual, and he was out in the room. The window was open a little at the top, same as I've had it before once or twice these spring days, and Sol never took notice. The worst of it is, my husband told me I hadn't orter keep it open, even a speck, while the bird was out of his cage. 'Sol can wriggle through the smallest kind of a crack,' says he; and it appears he was right. My, but he'll be angry! 'Marthy, it'll serve you right,' he'll say." The children saw Mr. Butler coming down the street, just then, and they waited in fascinated silence to see what would happen next. One of the schoolboys, who always loved to make a sensation, called out as he passed, "Did you know your canary-bird is lost?" "You don't expect I am going to swallow that yarn, Gilbert Lawson?" the old man said. "You'd better shut up. 'Taint the first of April." "But it really and truly has flown away, Mr. Butler," said Peggy. "Flown away! Did my old woman leave the window open? Marthy, didn't I tell you what would happen?" he said angrily as he vanished into the house. They could hear his voice raised louder and louder. Peggy could see Mrs. Butler putting her handkerchief up to her eyes. "She's crying," said Peggy in an awed voice. "Oh, let's see if we can't find the canary-bird." "Find it!" said Gilbert scornfully. "You might as well look for a needle in a haymow." "Perhaps if we put the cage out he'd come back into it," said Peggy. "Do you suppose anything clever enough to get out of prison would be fool enough to go back again?" said he. "Well, there seems to be nothing doing now and I guess I'll go home." Gilbert and his brother Ralph and the other boys went toward the village, and so did the girls who lived in that direction. But Peggy and Alice and Anita Spaulding still lingered. "I'm going to tell them that I'll come back as soon as dinner is over and find the bird for them," said Peggy. "I know I can find it." "Oh, Peggy, maybe mother won't let you come," said Alice. "She's a sensible mother; I know she'll let me come," said Peggy, as she ran up the steps. Mrs. Butler came to the door. Her eyes looked very red and she still seemed quite upset. "Oh, Mrs. Butler," said Peggy breathlessly, "I know I can find the canary-bird--I know I can. I'll come right straight back as soon as I've had my dinner." Alice and Peggy ran home and Peggy explained breathlessly about the canary. "Mother dear, Mrs. Butler has lost Sol; and I know I can find him. So please give us our dinner quick." "Who is Sol?" Mrs. Owen asked. "The canary--I know I can find him. I can tell him by his song, and then I can climb up and put his cage in a tree and get him back into it." "He won't come back once he's free: Gilbert says he won't," said Alice. "Don't you pay any attention to what Gilbert says," said Peggy. Mrs. Owen was very much interested. "Peggy is right," she said. "I once knew of a canary-bird that escaped and went back into his old cage. If you can only find him it is not impossible." "There, I told you she was a sensible mother," said Peggy. She could hardly wait to finish her dinner, and thought of going off without any dessert. But when she found it was rice pudding with raisins, she changed her mind. The two little girls went so fast to Mrs. Butler's it was almost like flying. "We've come to find Sol," said Peggy. Mr. Butler was just finishing his dinner. "I tell you what," he said, "I'll give five dollars to any one who'll bring back that canary-bird safe and sound." Peggy and Alice went across the street and they ran along until they thought they had reached a spot that might appeal to Sol. This was the Thornton place, which was a bower of green with its partly open foliage. "I'm sure he'll be here," said Peggy. "I'd come here if I were a canary. Oh, Alice, listen!" From somewhere, far, far above them, there came delicious trills and the joyous sound that Peggy longed to make herself. Nothing but a canary could sing like that. "Spring has come and I am free; and the world is too beautiful for anything," he seemed to say. "It is Sol; I know his voice," Peggy cried. "It seems 'most too bad to put him in prison again--only I'm sure he'll be homesick when the dark night comes." "And it might rain and get his feathers all draggled," said Alice. "And perhaps the other birds would be horrid to him because he's so different," said Peggy. "Anyway, we've got to get him if we can. Look, Alice!" Far up at the top of the maple tree, the leaves of which were partly open, was a tiny golden ball, and from its throat came forth the glad spring song. "Stay and watch him, Alice, while I go over to Mrs. Butler's and get the cage." Alice stood rooted to the spot, watching the little creature, like a yellow sunbeam among the green opening leaves. It seemed a long time before Peggy came back. Mrs. Butler was with her, creaking along heavily. She was carrying the cage. "Of course, he won't come back now he's free," said Mrs. Butler. "Dear help us, but it's him that's singin'!" she said. "I thought you'd just mistaken a song sparrow for him." She looked up and saw her favorite in the tree-top. Peggy took the cage out of Mrs. Butler's hand. "I'll climb up," she said, "and I'll leave his house-door open, for he hasn't any latch-key." "Well, if that isn't the limit," said Mrs. Butler with a laugh. "To think of Sol with a latch-key!" "But I said he didn't have one," said Peggy. Peggy, in her blue frock, climbed up into the maple tree, and her yellow hair looked almost as sunshiny as the canary. Mrs. Butler handed the cage up to her. There was some of the bird's favorite seed in the cage and water for him to drink. "I guess he'll go home when he gets hungry," said Peggy. Mrs. Butler kept laughing to herself and saying over and over, "He hasn't any latch-key; if that don't beat all." Peggy scrambled down again, and they all stood waiting to see what would happen next; and nothing happened. It was very discouraging. Finally they sat down on the Thorntons' wall to rest. "Oh, look!" Peggy cried in excitement. The bird gave a few little hops along the branch and then fluttered down to a lower perch nearer the cage. The children's eyes grew big with excitement. Alice jumped down from the wall and ran nearer to the tree to get a better view. The noise she made startled the bird, and he flew on to a higher branch. "There, Alice, see what you've done!" Peggy said. "Oh, dear, oh, dear!" They sat still for a long time, and after this Alice did not dare either to speak or move. "Well, I guess I'll go home," said Mrs. Butler. "'A watched pot never boils.' Mebbe you'd like some refreshments as well as Sol. Don't you want to go home with me and get some lemonade and cake?" But even this offer could not lure the children from the spot. Peggy was afraid to go off, even for a moment, for fear the canary would slip in for a meal and out again before she could close him in. The time passed slowly. After what seemed hours Mrs. Butler came back and brought them some cake and lemonade. It tasted very good, but they soon finished it, and Mrs. Butler went away with the empty dishes, shaking her fist at Sol. "You are the most provoking bird," she said, "keeping everybody waiting, and you so small you could go in one's pocket, if only you hadn't wings." Alice lost her patience before Peggy did. "We ought to be going home," she said. "Mother'll wonder what has become of us." "All right, go home if you want to. I'm going to stick right here until he gets hungry and goes into his house." "Perhaps I'll come back again," said Alice. It seemed lonely after Alice had left her. Peggy was tired of keeping still. She took one run across the Thornton place, but this seemed to disturb the canary, so she flung herself down on the grass. "I'll look away while I count a hundred," she said. She counted a hundred and when she looked back, there was the canary in his cage, and she had not seen him go in. It was too provoking. She climbed up, breathless with excitement, and shut the door. CHAPTER VIII THE REWARD Mr. Butler was just coming back from his work as Peggy reached the gate of his house. "I've got him," she called triumphantly. "Bless my soul!" said the old man. "Have you been waiting for him all this time?" "Yes," said Peggy "What a patient little girl you are." He put his hand in his trousers' pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He looked them over until he came to a crisp, new, five-dollar bill which he handed to Peggy. Peggy ran all the way home, with the five-dollar bill clasped in her hand. She had never once thought of the money while she was watching the canary. He was so beautiful, with his yellow feathers against the branches of the tree, with the blue sky above him, and his song was so wonderful, that she had not thought about any reward. But now that she had the money, she felt as if some one had given her a fortune, for she had never had so much money at once, in all her short life. Now she could get the hat, for it did not cost nearly five dollars; and there would be some money left to buy--what should she buy? Something for Alice and her mother. "Oh, mother," she said, as she burst into the room, "I got him, and see what Mr. Butler gave me! Now I can get my new hat!" "You don't mean to say you took money for doing a kindness?" said Mrs. Owen. "He gave it to me," said Peggy. "Yes, so I understood, but, my dear little girl, the Butlers haven't any more money than we have. They are poor people. Five dollars means a great deal to them." "He seemed to want to give it to me," said Peggy. "That was very kind, but you ought to have said, 'I didn't think of the reward. I shouldn't feel it right to be paid for doing a kindness. I am sure my mother wouldn't want me to keep the money.'" "But I never thought about you. Truly, mother, you never once came into my head. And I did not think it was being paid. I thought it was kind of a thank-offering." "Well, we'll take the money back as soon as supper is over," said Mrs. Owen. Peggy ate her supper in silence. She was sure her mother could not know how much she wanted the new hat. And to think she felt so sure of having it, and then to have it snatched away was hard! And she was afraid Mr. Butler's feelings would be hurt; for she was sure he did not think of a reward, but a thank-offering. After supper Mrs. Owen and the two children went down the street to Mrs. Butler's house. It was pleasant to see the canary-bird in his cage in the window. He was silent, as if he were tired out with the excitement of the day. Peggy felt tired, too, and she thought, "If I were only the kind of little girl who cried, I should cry now, because I am so disappointed about the hat." Mrs. Butler's daughter Flora had just come in from the milliner's shop. She was wearing a pretty hat, with a wreath of wild roses around it. "Well, Peggy, I hear you have found the most important member of the family," said Flora. "I'm sure they wouldn't take on half so bad if I was lost." "I guess you could find your way home if you were lost," said Peggy. They begged Mrs. Owen and the children to sit down and have supper with them. "Thank you, but we have had our supper," said Mrs. Owen. "I only came down for a minute, just to say how good you were to give my little girl the five dollars, but I could not let her keep it. I don't want her to feel she is to be benefited in any other way when she does a kindness, except having the pleasure that comes from helping somebody." "I thought I'd like to have the pleasure of helping somebody," said Mr. Butler. "I offered the reward, and she seemed real pleased to get it." "Of course, she was pleased," said Peggy's mother. "But I am sure it was not the idea of the reward that started her out to find the canary. So, if you please, Mr. Butler,"--and Mrs. Owen handed him the five-dollar bill as she spoke,--"I'd rather you kept this. We've always been good friends and neighbors, and I am glad if my little girl has been able to help you, and sometime, I am sure, you and Mrs. Butler will be ready to help me." Mrs. Butler had been watching Peggy's face. She saw she was sorry not to have the money, and she shrewdly guessed there was something she wanted very much that the five dollars would buy. "I see just the way your ma feels," said Mrs. Butler, "but it does seem as if Sol might make you a little present. Can you think of anything you would like?" "Yes," said Peggy promptly, "the hat in the milliner's window with the ribbon with the blue edge." "My dear little girl--?" began Mrs. Owen. "That is just the thing," said Mrs. Butler. "I'm sure Sol will be real pleased to give it to you." Mrs. Owen was about to say it was too much of a present, but she looked at Peggy's shining eyes and then at Mrs. Butler's beaming face. Who was she to stand out against these two? If it were indeed more blessed to give than to receive, Mr. and Mrs. Butler were getting their reward. So the next day a paper box arrived at the Owens' door for "Miss Peggy Owen, with the compliments and gratitude of her friend Sol." Oh, joy of joys! It was the hat. Peggy tried it on, and it was even nicer than she had thought, for it was so light, and it had such a good brim. She went down that very afternoon to make a special call on Mrs. Butler and Sol; and the canary sang again his melodious song. CHAPTER IX CHOOSING A KITTEN Now the warm weather had come to stay, Mrs. Owen decided that it was cruel to keep Lady Jane in the house, besides being almost impossible. The children must take the risk. If she chose to live with the Carters, it could not be helped. Perhaps Diana needed her more than they did. "But she is my cat," said Alice. "Can't I go and get her back whenever she goes there?" "Yes, if you have the patience." "I shall have the patience to go a hundred and seventy-five times," said Alice. She and Peggy liked Diana, but whenever Mrs. Owen had suggested to her little girls that they should go to see her, they had always some good reason for not going. Mrs. Owen suspected it was on account of Lady Jane. It was awkward to meet Diana when they had locked Lady Jane up, knowing perfectly well that she preferred to live with Diana. Peggy thought it was not fair to take advantage of anything so small. But the cat was Alice's, not hers, as Alice reminded her. And then, one pleasant day, Lady Jane decided to set up housekeeping for good and all in her old home. Alice wanted to go down at once and bring her back. But Mrs. Owen insisted that she should be allowed to stay in the home of her choice for at least a week. And before the week was up, Diana telephoned to Alice. "What do you think, Alice," she said, "Lady Jane has four teenty-tinety kittens--the darlingest, most cuddly things!" "Oh, she does have such lovely children!" said Alice, with a pang of envy. "They are in a wood-box out in the shed," said Diana. "At least it looks like a wood-box, but there isn't any wood in it." "Yes, that is her old house," said Alice. "Mother has put in an old piece of blanket so as to make them comfortable," said Diana. "Has she really?" said Alice. "Mother won't let us touch the kittens until they get their eyes open. She says in two weeks she hopes you and Peggy will come down and see them." "Not for two weeks?" said Alice. "We always look at them a lot. I'd like her back before two weeks. That is too long a visit." "Mother says it is bad for kittens to be handled. She says to forget all about them for two weeks." "Ask her if she knows what color they are," said Peggy. "Have you seen them?" Alice asked. "Yes, mother let us look at them just once, and we each chose a kitten for ourselves." "Do you mean to say she is going to let you keep them all?" Alice asked. "Mother never let us keep but two." "We can keep them if you will let us have them," said Diana. "Of course we know she is your cat, but mother thought maybe your mother wouldn't want the bother of four kittens." "You didn't ask her what color they are. Let me talk to her," said Peggy, and she seized the receiver. "It is Peggy talking now. What color are the kittens?" "Tipsy is black with just a white tip to his tail, and Topsy is black with a white vest and four white paws, and Lady Janet is silvery gray, almost exactly like her mother, and Gretchen is gray and white with a gray chin." "And your mother doesn't mind the bother of four kittens?" said Peggy. "Mother," she said, as Mrs. Owen came into the room, "Lady Jane has four children, and Mrs. Carter is going to keep all of them if we'll let her." "We shall want one ourselves so as to keep her contented," said Alice. "My dear little girl," said her mother, "it would be cruel to move Lady Jane until the kittens are big enough to look out for themselves. I have a few things to do besides taking care of her and her family. If the Carters want her and she wants to stay, there is no use in fighting any longer." "But she is my darling cat," said Alice, with tears in her eyes. "How would you feel, mother, if I decided I would rather live in my old house with the Carters than with you. Would you let me stay?" "Certainly not, because you are not capable of judging what is best for yourself, and because I could not spare you, and neither would Mrs. Carter want to bring up another child. But if you were my pussy-cat, instead of my child, and you preferred to live with a little girl who was sick half the time, and had so few pleasures, and if you had four furry children, and the Carters wanted to keep them, I should be glad to have everybody happy." "All but me, mother," said Alice, "and Peggy--she will miss Lady Jane." "I am sure they will let you have one of the kittens," said Mrs. Owen. "In about two months you can have one of them." "Not for two months?" said Peggy. "Oh, mother, think of a catless house for two months. It will be so desolate." "But you can go and choose your kitten in two weeks," said Mrs. Owen, "and you can often go to see it." It was a bright spring afternoon when Peggy and Alice went down to Diana's house to choose the kitten. They took along with them a great bunch of Mayflowers for Diana. They had picked them the afternoon before, when they had gone with their mother up to their camp on the hill. It was a rude little hut that their father had built. Later in the season, wild strawberries would grow on the place, and then would come raspberries, and afterwards blueberries and blackberries. Mrs. Owen was planning to make preserves for themselves, and for some of the neighbors. She looked over the ground with interest while the children frisked about and stopped from time to time to pick Mayflowers. Diana was sitting up in bed when the children arrived. The bed was of mahogany and had four twisted posts. The white quilt had been turned back and a book and Diana's doll Alice were lying on the blanket. The sun came shining in through the two west windows. The room looked very fresh, with the new white paint and pale green walls. "This used to be mother's room when we had the house," said Peggy. "It is much prettier now." Diana was wearing her green kimono with the pink roses on it. "They gave me the best room because I'm sick so much," said Diana. "Wasn't it nice of them, when I am the youngest in the family?" "I'd rather have the smallest room in the house, and be well," said Peggy. She was sorry she had said it, for a shadow seemed to cross Diana's bright face. "Father expects I'll be well much sooner, now we live in the country," she said. "Oh, what lovely Mayflowers!" she added, as Peggy dropped the big bunch down beside her. Diana picked it up and plunged her nose into it. "Peggy and I picked them for you yesterday," said Alice. "We were up at our camp." Diana listened with interest to the children's description of the place. "There are pine woods around the camp," said Peggy, "and on the hillside and in the pasture such delicious berries; and later on we shall go up and pick them; we always do. We have to walk now, for we haven't a horse or automobile any more. But it is a nice walk and not so very long. Maybe your father will drive you up when you get better." "I'd like to see it," said Diana. Just then Mrs. Carter came into the room with a basket. "Oh, have you brought the kittens?" Peggy asked. "Yes, they are all here." She took out one kitten after another and put them all on the bed in front of Diana. "Oh, what sweet things!" Alice cried. She put her hand on the black kitten with the white tip to his tail. "This is Tipsy, isn't it?" she asked. "Yes." "And I know this is Topsy," said Peggy, picking up the other black-and-white kitten. "Oh, what a darling!" said Alice as she spied the gray-and-white kitten. "That must be Gretchen." "Oh, see that one, Alice," and Peggy pointed to the silvery gray kitten that looked like a miniature Lady Jane. The children went into an ecstasy of delight over the four soft, furry little things that were so complete and yet small. As Mrs. Carter was leaving the room, she said, "I'll come back in a few minutes, for I want to take them home before Lady Jane comes back from her afternoon walk. She'd be terribly worried if she found they were gone. So you'll have to choose your kitten quickly." "Can we choose whatever one we want?" Peggy asked. "Almost any one," said Diana. "We've each chosen for ourselves, but I'll let you choose mine if you want her; and I don't believe Tom would mind if you chose his. I'm not sure about Christopher--he's so decided." "Well, anyway, I don't know which I like best," said Peggy. "Well, I know which one I want," said Alice, and she picked up the silvery gray kitten. "I want Lady Janet, she's so like her mother, except she's a lighter color." "That's Christopher's kitten," said Diana. "Well, I don't care if it is," said Alice in her gentlest voice; "I want it. I think if I am so unfortunate as to lose my precious Lady Jane, I ought to have the child that's most like her." "They are all sweet," said Peggy. "Which is the kitten that doesn't belong to anybody?" "Topsy." "Let's take Topsy," said Peggy. "It would be a change to have a black-and-white kitten." "It would not be a nice change," said Alice. "I'd like to go and find Christopher." He came in while the kittens were still there. "Oh, Christopher," said Alice, "please I want Lady Janet. I want her very much because she's so like her mother. I know she's your kitten, but I want her very much, please, Christopher." "I want her very much, too," said Christopher. In spite of his pleasant smile, he had a determined face. He looked as if when his mind was made up he did not easily change it. "You see, if I can't have Lady Jane I want Lady Janet," said Alice. "Who says you can't have Lady Jane?" said Christopher. "You can have her back as soon as the kittens are old enough to look out for themselves." "You know she won't stay with us," said Alice reproachfully. "Well, I can't help that," said Christopher. "Come, Alice," said Peggy, "we must be going now." She turned and looked at Christopher. "If you are so mean as not to let my sister have the kitten she wants when Lady Jane is her cat, I shall never speak to you as long as I live. I think you are a selfish pig. You can keep all four kittens. There are plenty of kittens in town. Good-bye, Diana." "Oh, don't go," said Diana, looking very much worried. "Christopher was only teasing her." This was true, but Peggy was not sure of it. She thought Diana wanted to make peace. "Peggy doesn't really mean it," Alice said. "Sometimes she gets angry, but she doesn't stay angry. Please, Christopher,"--and she looked at him beseechingly,--"I would like Lady Janet." "She is my kitten," said Christopher, and Alice's face clouded, "but I will give her to you," he added. CHAPTER X THE WILD GARDEN Meanwhile, as the kittens were growing, the garden was growing, too. Peggy thought it was strange that small furry things and plants and vegetables should change so much in a few weeks, while children did not seem to change at all. The garden had been a delight from the very first, for they had found it so interesting to follow old Michael about with the horses, as he ploughed the field at the back of the house and got it ready for planting. It was still more exciting to watch their mother and the old gardener, as they planned where the different crops were to be. Mrs. Owen had made one of her blue frocks, which she wore, and Peggy had on one of hers, and Alice felt sorry not to be in uniform, but she made a nice bit of color in the landscape in a pink frock. Next came the planting. They helped about this. It was such fun to pat the earth down after the seed had been put in. There were rows and rows of peas, and rows and rows of string-beans and shell-beans, and some corn and turnips and carrots, and, also, a great many tomato plants. Mrs. Owen was going to put up all the peas and beans and tomatoes that Mrs. Horton needed, as well as her jams and jellies. And she was going to put up vegetables, fruit, and berries for Mrs. Carter, also, as she had been too busy getting settled to have any time to start a garden this year. May was a joyous month. The planting was all done, and some bits of green were poking their heads above the ground. In June Clara came back, and they had her to play with. They saw a great deal of Diana, too, for they made frequent trips to see how Lady Janet was getting on. One day Clara went with them, and she decided she must have Topsy just as soon as she was big enough to leave home. This would leave only two kittens for three children, but Diana said if Lady Jane was to be hers she would let Christopher have Gretchen. If Peggy and Alice took pleasure in the garden behind the house, this was nothing compared with their delight in what they called the wild garden, on the hill. The strawberries were the first of the berries to be picked. There were not a great many of them, but as Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Carter both wanted wild strawberry preserves, Mrs. Owen thought it best to get what she could from her own land. So one glorious June day she and the children started for the hill, with their luncheon, and pails to pick the berries in. Alice picked as carefully as her mother did, although not so fast; but Peggy put soft berries in with the good ones, and some bits of leaves somehow got in with her berries. "Peggy, look what you are doing," said her mother. "Those berries are over-ripe." "I don't see what difference it makes, mother, so long as you are going to make strawberry jam. Oh, mother, look at that squirrel, he gave a skip from one branch to another. See what a bushy tail he has." "Peggy, do attend to your work." "Mother, you can't expect me to work all the time on such a sunshiny day. It is just as important to watch squirrels and birds." "Well, perhaps it is for you, but not for me. I can't put up squirrels for my neighbors by the cold-pack process." When it came to the preserving of the strawberries, Peggy and Alice were so interested that they went out into the kitchen so as to watch the whole process. "Children, you mustn't eat any more of the strawberries," said their mother. "Remember, I am putting them up for other people." "But, mother, you've got lots and lots of them," said Peggy. "I didn't know we picked so many." "I had to buy a great many more to fill my orders," said Mrs. Owen, "and even now I shan't have as much wild strawberry preserve as Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Carter wanted; remember the strawberries represent just so much money." "But, mother," said Peggy, "I think it would be so much nicer to keep the strawberry preserve for ourselves than to have the money. We can't eat that." "Children, do keep out of this kitchen." "Mother, I don't see why it is called the 'cold-pack' process, when you heat the jars," said Peggy. "Oh, do run along, children; you might go down to Diana's and see how Lady Janet is getting along." "She is getting quite big," said Alice. "Can we bring her home to-day?" "Not to-day," said her mother firmly. "I must get this preserving done before she comes." Picking raspberries was even more delightful than picking strawberries, because they were bigger, and there were so many more of them; but going for blueberries was the best of all, for there were such quantities of them in the pasture on the hill that one could get quarts and quarts. Indeed, there were so many that Mrs. Owen was glad of extra pickers. She proposed having a picnic and asking Miss Rand and Clara, and Diana and her brothers. Diana was much stronger now, and her father was going to take her to the picnic in his automobile. Mrs. Carter decided she would like to go, too, and so did her brother, who was staying with them for a few days. Diana thought that, next to her father, there was no other man in the whole world so delightful as her Uncle Joe. He was tall and slim and had friendly brown eyes, and such a kind face and merry smile that Peggy and Alice and Clara liked him the first moment they saw him. The first moment had been the day Clara went for her kitten. He had put the struggling Topsy into the basket in such a nice way, and he talked to her as if she had been a person. "Topsy, you are going to a very good home," he said. "Miss Rand is one who understands people like you, and so does Clara. You will have the choicest food--lamb and fish, and all that you most desire, and you will be so well fed you will not have to live, like the Chinese, on mice." Lady Janet was still living at the Carters' on account of the preserving, but she was getting so big she was to come to them very soon. "If we wait until she gets much bigger, she will be running home just as her mother did," said Peggy. The day of the picnic was a glorious one. Peggy called it a "blue day" because the sky was so blue. It was a deep blue, and there were great fleecy clouds floating about. The blueberries were the most wonderful blue, two shades, dark and light, with a shimmer to them, and Peggy's blue frock seemed a part of all the brightness of the day. Alice had on her yellow frock, and Diana was in green, and Clara in pink. It was almost too beautiful a day for them to stop and pick berries, Peggy thought; but that was what they had come for. Mrs. Owen said she would give a pint of preserved blueberries to the boy or girl who picked the first quart, provided they were carefully picked. So every one set to work to pick with a will. Tom got his pail filled first, but as he was older than the other children, Diana said she thought Peggy ought to have the prize, because she had filled her quart pail almost as soon as Tom had; for Peggy, who was naturally quick, had been so anxious to come out ahead that she had not stopped to look at squirrels and birds. When Mrs. Owen examined the berries, however, she found some that were not ripe in Peggy's pail. Diana and Alice had both of them picked slowly, but carefully. Christopher had almost as many as Peggy, but his had to be gone over, and some unripe ones taken out. Clara had the fewest and poorest of all. She was not used to applying herself, and very soon she said she was tired and that the sun made her head ache; so Miss Rand said she could go into the little hut and rest. But this did not suit her, for she liked to be with the other children. "I am going to give the prize to Diana," said Mrs. Owen, "as Tom won't take it, for she has picked carefully." "Let's see who has picked the most," said Peggy, as she examined the pails. "Oh, mother has a lot more than anybody. Mother, you'll have to keep some for yourself, and Alice and I can help you eat them." Miss Rand had a great many, and so had Mrs. Carter, but her brother Joe had the fewest of all the grown people, for he had been building a fire in the hut, so that Mrs. Owen could fry bacon and heat cocoa for dinner. When they all took a recess in picking and sat down on the piazza of the camp for their dinner, Peggy thought she had never tasted anything so good in her life as the bread and butter and hard-boiled eggs and crisp bacon. For dessert they had saucers of blueberries and cups of cocoa, and some cake and doughnuts, which Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Horton had contributed to the feast. As they were resting after dinner, Mrs. Carter read a story aloud to them. Then they all picked blueberries again. Diana and Clara soon got tired, and Miss Rand fixed a comfortable place for them to lie down on the window-seats in the hut. Mrs. Owen took some gray blankets out of one of the lockers and covered them up carefully. At night, when Dr. Carter came for them with the automobile, they had the large pails Mrs. Owen had brought filled with blueberries as well as the quart pails. Peggy had never seen so many blueberries together in her life. The automobile had seats for seven. There were four grown people at the picnic, and Dr. Carter made five. And there were six children. "I'll come back for a second load," Dr. Carter said. "I'd rather walk," said their Uncle Joe, "and I am sure the boys would." "We'll go down by the short cut," said Tom. "All right. I can stow the rest of you in." The three ladies got in on the back seat, Diana was in front with her father, and Alice and Clara were in the side seats. "Peggy, we can make room for you in front," said Dr. Carter. But Peggy had no idea of missing that walk down the hill with the boys and their Uncle Joe. "I'd rather walk," she said. "Jump in, Peggy," said her mother, "you must be very tired." "I'm not a bit tired, truly I'm not, mother. I've been so tied down all day picking berries, I'm just crazy for a run." "Let the young colt have a scamper," said Dr. Carter; "it will do her good." As Peggy danced along down the hillside, she thought how fortunate Diana was to have a father and an uncle and two brothers. She raced down the hill with Christopher while Tom and his uncle followed at their heels. "There, I have beaten you, Christopher," said Peggy, breathlessly, as she sank down on a rock at the bottom of the hill. "I could have beaten you if I had tried," said Christopher. "Then why didn't you?" "Well, I thought, as you were a girl and younger, I'd let you get a start, and I expected to pass you." "Oh, dear, I am tired of being a girl. Just let's play I'm a boy. You can call me Peter." "I don't want to play you are a boy. I like you better the way you are," Christopher said, as he glanced at her blue frock. "Yes, Peggy," said Uncle Joe, "we all like you better the way you are." "Well, I suppose I'll have to be a girl and make the best of it. But I do wish I had men and boys in my family." "You might adopt us," said Uncle Joe. "I would like you and Alice for nieces. A lot of children I'm no relation to call me 'Uncle Joe,' and I'm sure the boys would like you and Alice for cousins." "You bet we would," said Christopher. So Peggy came back from the picnic a much richer little girl than she had been when she went to it. "Alice," she said, as she burst into the house, "Mr. Beal says we can call him 'Uncle Joe,' and we can play that Tom and Christopher are our cousins." "I'd like to call him 'Uncle Joe,'" said Alice, "for he was so nice about Topsy, but I don't want the boys for my cousins." CHAPTER XI THE GEOGRAPHY GAME The children's Uncle Joe was an architect. He was making some additions to Mrs. Horton's house, and so he came up every little while to see how the work was getting on; and later, he was given the new Savings Bank to build. He often came on from New York for a few days and stayed with the Carters. All the children were delighted when he came, for he was just as nice as a child to play with. In fact, he was nicer, for he knew so much more. He was a great traveler, for he had been a Lieutenant in the army and had been across seas. He had traveled, also, in the United States, and there was hardly a State he had not stayed in. The children were never tired of hearing his stories about places and people. He had, too, a delightful way of inventing games, making them up out of his own head. One rainy October afternoon, Alice and Peggy were sitting in the living-room when the telephone rang. Alice had Lady Janet curled up in her arms, and Peggy was reading aloud from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Peggy flung down her book and ran to the telephone. "Oh, Peggy," said Diana's plaintive voice, "it is so wet I have had to stay in all day; can't you and Alice come and play with me?" "I guess so," said Peggy, who was always ready to go anywhere; "I'll ask mother." "Don't let's go out, it is so wet," said Alice, who was interested in the story. "I'm going if mother'll let me," said Peggy. Mrs. Owen had no objection, and, as Alice did not like to be left behind, she and Peggy put on their rubbers and raincoats. Alice gave Lady Janet a parting hug. "You darling, I am going to see your mother," she said; "shall I give her your love? Peggy, she is licking my hand," said Alice. The two children went out into the chilly October rain. Alice shivered, but Peggy was delighted to be out. She walked into every puddle she came to. "You'll get your feet wet," said Alice. "I'm just trying to see if it will go over my rubbers," said Peggy. "Oh, it did that time--I didn't think it would." "You've got your feet very wet," said Alice. "I know I have, but I can dry my shoes and stockings at Diana's." Diana was sitting before the fire in her room with a book. She jumped up and flung her arms about Alice, who was nearer her, and then about Peggy. "Peggy has got her feet wet," said Alice anxiously. "She'll have to put on some of your stockings while hers are drying." "I can't get into Diana's stockings," Peggy said, as she looked down at her feet. "I'll just sit in my bare feet until my shoes and stockings are dry." "Uncle Joe and the boys may come in. I'll get you some of mother's," said Diana. So Peggy was dressed in a pair of black silk stockings that were much too large for her, and a pair of bedroom slippers that were so big that she was afraid to walk for fear they would fall off. She liked the slippers very much, however, for they were such a pretty shade of blue, and they had black fur all around the edge. It was early in the afternoon, so the children settled down for a long play. They were beginning to wish they could think of something else to do when Uncle Joe came in. "How cozy you look," said he. "Can you give a poor working-man a seat by the fire?" Peggy who was nearest the fire, sprang up, forgetting all about her slippers. "I think I see a bird in borrowed plumage," said Uncle Joe. "Did you get your feet wet?" "I walked into a mud-puddle on purpose, for the fun of it," said Peggy. "I wanted to see if it would go over my rubbers. I didn't think it would, but it did." "Oh, Uncle Joe, can't we play the geography game?" said Diana. "Peggy has never played it." "I don't like geography so very much," said Alice. "It's just a game," said Diana. "We have to see who can say the forty-eight States quickest. We say them like the alphabet, those beginning with A first, and the one who gets the A's done first looks them up on the map, to see where they are. It's lots of fun." "Diana likes it because she always beats Tom and Christopher," said her uncle. "Let's begin," said Diana, "one, two, three." But neither Peggy nor Alice could think of a single State beginning with A. "There are three," said Diana. "You can look them up on the map and find them." She brought out an atlas and turned to a map of the United States. Alice and Peggy pored over the map eagerly. "I've found one," said Peggy, "it's Arizona." "Here is Alabama," said Alice. "Here, is another one, Arkansas," said Peggy. "Now for the B's." "There aren't any B's," said Diana. Tom and Christopher came in just then, and Peggy and Alice listened as the others played the game. Once in a while Peggy thought of a State beginning with the right letter, but, as a rule, she thought of the wrong States. Massachusetts would pop into her head when Uncle Joe was asking for I's, and South Carolina when he wanted the K's. It was quite discouraging, for the other children had played the game so much. "This is only the first part of the game," said Diana. "Uncle Joe has had us each trace a map of the United States, and then we play we have to live in one of the States that begins with the same letter our first name begins with; then we put the tracing over white cardboard and cut out our State, and we can paint it any color we like. We are going to put in the rivers and big towns by and by. I can't live in any State but Delaware," she said regretfully. "There is only Pennsylvania for me to live in," said Peggy. "Alice can live in Arizona or Alabama or Arkansas," said Christopher. "I don't want to live in any of them," said Alice gently, with her sweetest smile. "I want to live just where I do live." "But New Hampshire doesn't begin with an A," said Peggy. "I know it doesn't, but I don't want to live in any other State." "But it's only a game," said Peggy. "Don't you want to play you live in nice Alabama where they have such warm winters, and there are such lots of cunning little black children?" "No, I don't. I want to cut out a map of New Hampshire and paint it pink." "But, Alice, you've got to play the game," said Peggy. "I'm going to play my own kind of game and cut out a map of New Hampshire and paint it pink." "If she doesn't care to live in Alabama or Arizona or Arkansas, we might let her live in a State beginning with the first letter of her last name," said Uncle Joe. "How do you feel about living in Ohio or Oklahoma or Oregon?" "I don't want to live in any of those States. I want to live in New Hampshire and paint it pink." "But you can't," Peggy insisted. "You've got to play the game." Alice looked up beseechingly at Uncle Joe. She smiled and showed her dimples. "Dear Uncle Joe," she said sweetly, "can't you fix the game some way so I can live in New Hampshire and paint it pink?" Uncle Joe looked thoughtful. A bright idea occurred to him. "Alice, what word do the three last letters of your last name spell if you begin at the end and spell backwards?" "New," said Peggy, before Alice could speak. "She can live in New Hampshire on that account," said Uncle Joe. "That isn't fair," said Peggy. "I ought to be able to live in New Hampshire." "You can if you like--or in New York, or New Jersey, or New Mexico." Peggy was dazzled by these opportunities for travel. "It isn't a bit fair," said Christopher. "Poor Diana oughtn't to have to live in Delaware when Peggy and Alice have such a lot of States to choose from." "It doesn't seem quite fair," Uncle Joe admitted. "I'll have to let Diana live in a State beginning with a C if she prefers." "And I am C. C., so I don't have much choice," said Christopher. "When I get my map of Delaware painted and fixed and I've lived there awhile, I'll come and live in Colorado with you, Christopher." "I'm going to begin with Pennsylvania," said Peggy. "I'm going to play the game in the right way. But where can Uncle Joe live? In Jersey with the New left off?" "As I'm uncle to half the children I know, I feel justified in taking up my residence in the State of Utah," he said. "Mother," Diana called out, as Mrs. Carter passed the door, "do come in; you can live in any of eight States, beginning with an M--Maine, Massachusetts--" "My mother can, too," Peggy interrupted. "Her name is Mary. What is your mother's name?" "Her name is Mary, too." The two little girls wondered at the coincidence. "Tom can only live in Tennessee or Texas," said Diana. "I'm going to live in Texas," said Tom. "Uncle Joe has been there. He said he saw a prairie fire once and it looked like the waves of the sea. And at the ranch where he was, the turkeys roosted in trees and the moon looked as big as a cart wheel." The children were soon busy tracing their States and cutting them out. Alice found New Hampshire so hard to do that she was sorry she had not chosen Alabama, but she would not let anybody know this on any account. She painted New Hampshire a delicate shade of pink. Peggy painted Pennsylvania a blue that shaded in with her blue frock. Diana painted Delaware green, and Tom chose crimson for Texas, the color of the college he hoped to go to some day. "I was going to paint Colorado crimson," said Christopher. "You can't," said Tom. "I have chosen crimson." "Can't I paint Colorado crimson, Uncle Joe?" "If you like. I think I'll paint Utah orange, so as to have as much variety as possible on the map." "That is a good idea," said Christopher; "I'll paint Colorado yellow." Alice and Peggy were so interested in the game that they played it every morning when they first waked up, and they got so they could say the forty-eight States while they were putting on their shoes and stockings. It amused them to see which States their different friends could live in. They felt there were very few children and still fewer grown people who ought to be told the game. It was like a secret society. Some people were so scornful they would think it silly, and they did not care enough about most people to let them into the secret. Mrs. Owen thought it a good game, but she was too busy to play it. Age did not seem to make any difference. Old Michael, for instance, took to it very kindly. Peggy sat in the wheelbarrow one day while he was raking leaves and she explained the game to him. "You are very lucky," she ended, "for you can live in so many States--Maine, Massachusetts--" she began; and she said over the whole eight, ending with Minnesota. "I think I'll try Minnesoty for a change," said the old man. "I've a cousin who went out to St. Paul. Will you be my grandchild and come and keep house for me?" "I'd love to, Mr. Farrell, but I have to live in Pennsylvania. I'm learning all about William Penn and Independence Hall in Philadelphia, and Betsy Ross, who made the first flag, so I can tell it to Uncle Joe when he comes back. And I have to read about New Hampshire to Alice, so I'm quite busy. Did you know it was called the Granite State, Mr. Farrell?" "I have heard tell as much." "Oh, Mr. Farrell," said Peggy hopping up, "do let me try to rake the leaves. They dance about as if they were at a party. What does Mrs. Farrell's name begin with--can she go to Minnesota with you?" "Her name is Hattie. I guess my old woman will have to stay right here in New Hampshire. It is hard to break up families that way. My old woman and I haven't been separated for forty-two years, come Christmas." Miss Betsy Porter was another of Peggy's friends who was greatly interested in the game. Peggy often dropped in to see her and her cat. Miss Betsy Porter always had something very good and spicy to eat. This time it was spice cake. Peggy was on her way back from the village with some buttons and tape for her mother, so she could not stop long. Miss Porter thought it a grand game. "Only, I am a woman without a country," she said. "There are no States beginning with B, and I can't even come in on Elizabeth." "You can come in on your last name," said Peggy. "You can live in Pennsylvania with me." "That is great. I went to Philadelphia once when I was a girl." And she told the eagerly listening Peggy all about the Quaker city with its straight streets and its old buildings. "I am afraid if your mother is in a hurry for those buttons and that tape," said Miss Betsy, "you'd better be going home now, but some afternoon when you can stay longer I'll read you a book about some of the signers of the Declaration of Independence." "What a lucky child I am to have my name begin with a P," Peggy said. "There can't be any other State as interesting as Pennsylvania." CHAPTER XII HOW PEGGY SPENT HER MONEY As Peggy was going out of Miss Betsy's kitchen door, some hens straggled along the grass. Some were brown and some were white and some were yellow. Peggy thought they were all fat, prosperous-looking hens. She admired their red combs and their yellow legs. "I wish we had some hens," she said to Miss Betsy. "Eggs cost such a lot we can't ever have any cake." "I'd give you some fresh eggs to take back to your mother, only I am afraid you might slip and break them." Peggy looked thoughtful. It would be nice to have the eggs, but it would be hard to have to walk home with the eggs on her mind. "Mother, I wish we kept hens," she said as she ran into the kitchen. "Miss Betsy has such nice ones." "How do you happen to know anything about Miss Betsy's hens?" her mother asked. "Is calling on Miss Betsy your idea of coming straight home from the village?" "You didn't say to come straight home, truly, you didn't, mother. I thought you wouldn't mind my making a short call on her and the cat." Mrs. Owen found it as hard to find fault with Peggy as it had been to find fault with Peggy's father. "We've got a hen-house out in the yard," Peggy went on. "The people who lived here before us must have kept hens, so it must be a good climate for them." "I have a few things to do besides taking care of hens," said Mrs. Owen firmly. "I'd take all the care of them." "I should as soon trust them to Lady Janet's care." "But Alice could help me. She'd remind me to feed them." "And, besides, hens cost a great deal," said Mrs. Owen. She had been thinking of the possibility of keeping hens. "Do chickens cost a lot? Couldn't we begin with little chickens and let them grow into hens?" "If we want eggs this winter we'd have to buy hens." "Maybe people will give us a few hens," said Peggy hopefully. "Miss Betsy has a lot, and the Hortons' farmer has millions; and the Thorntons have some, and so has Michael Farrell." "My dear little girl, people who are so fortunate as to have hens prize them more than if they had gold. You might as well expect me to give away my preserves and canned vegetables." Peggy was never tired of looking at the rows of jars of preserves and vegetables, and the tumblers of jelly that her mother had put up. The greater part of them had been sent away, and there was enough money in the bank from their sale to buy winter coats and hats for both of the children, besides something toward then coal. Peggy went into the pantry for another look at the shelves. There was a pint jar of the precious strawberry preserve and four pints of raspberries and a dozen pints of cherries from their own tree, and there were a great many jars of blueberries and blackberries, and there was currant jelly and grape jelly. Peggy liked the rich color of the strawberries and raspberries and cherries next the more somber blueberries and blackberries. The shelf where the vegetables were was almost more delightful in color. The green peas and beans were next the red tomatoes, and beyond them were a few jars of pale yellow corn. They had turnips and carrots and beets stored in the cellar, ready for use. The children felt very important, and as if their mother could not have had the garden without their help. As she believed in profit-sharing, she paid them for part of their work, while some they did just to help the garden along. At the end of the season they had each earned nearly two dollars. Their mother made it quite two dollars and told them they could spend the money exactly as they pleased, provided they did not get anything to eat with it, like candy. "You can each get a toy if you like--something that won't break too easily; or you can get something to wear, or something growing--like a house plant." As usual, Alice knew exactly what she wanted most. It was a doll carriage, and she and Peggy went down to the store and chose it. Peggy did not care for any of the toys. "I want something that's alive," she said, "like a canary-bird, or one of Miss Betsy's hens. I think I'll buy a hen--that will be most useful. If she laid an egg every day we could take turns in having a fresh egg." "That would be great," said Alice. Miss Betsy Porter was greatly interested in the children's plan. "Only, are you sure your mother will be willing to let you keep hens?" she asked prudently. "Yes, we have a house for them, and she said we could get anything we liked. She had thought about keeping hens, only they are so expensive." "I will sell you a Rhode Island Red," said Miss Betsy. "They lay well, and I will throw in a fine young cock. My neighbors are complaining because the young spring roosters are beginning to crow, and I was expecting to have to send them to the market. I'll let Michael Farrell take them up to your house this afternoon, if your mother will let you have them. You can stop at his house and send me word by him whether or not your mother wants them." Peggy and Alice went out into the yard with Miss Betsy to choose a hen and a rooster. "It is like a family," said Peggy, "having two of them. They won't be lonely. I shall call them Henry Cox and Henrietta Cox." "Well, children, what did you buy with your two dollars?" Mrs. Owen asked when they came home that morning. "I got a carriage for Belle," said Alice. "And what did you get, Peggy?" She hesitated--"Something very useful," she said. "Guess, mother. It's something that will grow and something that is alive." "A rose in a pot," said her mother. Peggy laughed. "Oh, mother, you are 'way off. It has feathers." "You haven't bought a canary-bird?" Mrs. Owen said in tones of dismay. "No, mother, she is much more useful. It is a hen, and her name is Henrietta Cox, and Miss Betsy gave me a young cock because he crowed so he woke up the neighbors; and we haven't any near neighbors. And his name is Henry Cox." "A hen and a cock! Peggy, what will you think of next!" "You said I could get anything I liked, mother, and I am sure a hen is much more useful than a doll's carriage. I'll let you have one of her eggs every third morning for your breakfast." "Did you ever stop to think how they were to be fed? Grain is so high now many people have stopped raising hens." "Miss Betsy says the Rhode Island Reds aren't so particular as some hens. She says you can feed them partly with sour milk and scraps off the table." "Sour milk!" said Mrs. Owen; "it's all very well for Miss Betsy to talk about sour milk, for her brother keeps a cow, and he sends her all the skim milk she can use. I am surprised she let you have a hen and cock without consulting me." "She did say she would send them up this afternoon by old Michael if you would let me have them," faltered Peggy. "But, oh, mother dear, I do want them so much. It isn't as if I had spent my money on something foolish, like candy." "No, that is true," said Mrs. Owen. After all, she had thought of keeping hens herself. "I'll tell you what we'll do, Peggy," she said. "You can sell Henrietta's eggs to me, when she begins to lay, at whatever the market price is, and the money can go toward their food, and if there is any left you can have it to spend. That will be a good lesson in arithmetic for us." So Peggy and Alice ran over to old Michael's house, where he was always to be found at his dinner-hour, to tell him the glad news. Mrs. Farrell came to the door. She was a prosperous, comfortable looking person, with a plump, trig figure and smoothly arranged white hair. Peggy thought of telling her about the geography game, but there was something about her that made her hesitate. She was afraid Mrs. Farrell would think it a crazy game. "Won't you come in, you little dears?" said Mrs. Farrell. Alice looked pleased at being called a "little dear," but Peggy was all the more sure that Mrs. Farrell would not care for the geography game. "I just wanted to see Mr. Farrell a minute," she said. "He is at dinner. Can't you give me the message?" "I don't think I could," said Peggy. "It is very important, and it is not easy to remember all of it. We'll not keep him a minute--truly, we won't." "I guess I can remember the message if you can." "It is about a hen and a rooster that Miss Betsy Porter wants him to call for to send down to our house--only mother wants our hen-house fixed first." How bald it seemed put in this way! If only she could have seen old Michael himself, how differently she would have worded the message! "It isn't very hard to remember that message, dearie," said Mrs. Farrell, in her cooing voice. Peggy hated to have her call her "dearie." Half the pleasure in her purchase would be gone if she could not see old Michael. Suddenly, she had a bright idea. She ran around the side of the house to the kitchen window and waved her hand to old Michael. It was one of the warm days in late autumn, and she was still wearing one of her blue frocks. Her hair was flying about and she pushed it back. Old Michael loved children, and he never hesitated to come at their call. He hastily shoved a large piece of apple pie into his mouth, and, seizing a piece of cheese, he came out of the kitchen door. They were out of hearing of Mrs. Farrell--that unfortunate "Hattie," who was doomed always to live in New Hampshire, while her husband was free to travel into any State, beginning with M, where his imagination led him. "Well, what is it now?" he asked. "Oh, Mr. Farrell, the most wonderful thing has happened!" said Peggy; "I have bought such a lovely hen from Miss Betsy Porter, and she has given me a young rooster, and I am going to play they are people from the State of Rhode Island; and their names are Mr. Henry Cox and Mrs. Henrietta Cox--only, of course, for most people, they are just a cock and hen--just two Rhode Island Reds." "I see," said old Michael. "But why are you telling me about it?" "Miss Betsy said you could bring them to us this afternoon. She said you were working for her, but mother wanted the hen-house fixed up a little first. Can you do it to-morrow?" "I see," said old Michael; "you want the apartment in the hotel made ready for Mr. and Mrs. Cox?" "Oh, yes," Peggy said, laughing with delight; "I want everything done for the people who are renting my house." "All right, Peggy, I'll look out for the comfort of your tenants." "My tenants are not going to keep any maid, Mr. Farrell; I've got to give them most of their meals, although they will get some out, and I thought you'd advise me what food is cheapest and best." They talked about the best food for Mr. and Mrs. Cox all the way to Peggy's house, where Mr. Farrell stopped to inspect the hen-house on his way to Miss Porter's. "I always meant to keep hens sometime," Mrs. Owen confided to Mr. Farrell, "but I did not mean to begin this winter." "If you have them at all, you might as well have a few more," he said; "it is a little like summer boarders--the more you have, the more profit you get." "I know," said Mrs. Owen, "but unfortunately, you have to begin by buying the hens." CHAPTER XIII MRS. OWEN'S SURPRISE PARTY Mrs. Owen was to have a birthday, and Peggy and Alice felt something especial ought to be done to celebrate it. It was Miss Pauline Thornton who put the idea of a surprise party into Peggy's head. She came over one rainy evening to tell Mrs. Owen about a surprise party the Sewing Circle was to give to the minister's wife on her fiftieth birthday. Miss Pauline Thornton lived with her father in the large gray stone house behind the stone wall on which Peggy was fond of walking. She was a great friend of Mrs. Owens, who could never understand why the children did not like her, for she was tall and good-looking and always wore beautiful clothes. Older people found her very agreeable and efficient. Mrs. Owen helped her off with her raincoat. Underneath it was a dress the color of violets. If Miss Pauline had been the kind of person with whom one could play the geography game, Peggy thought what a good time they could have had living together in Pennsylvania. But as it was, she did not like to spend even a half-hour with her. Miss Pauline's big house seemed dreary to Peggy, with its high ceilings and stately furniture and pictures. When she went there to call with her mother, she always hoped that she might see the collie dog and Miss Pauline's father. She liked old Mr. Thornton. He had white hair and a kind face, and he looked as if he might like to play the geography game, if only his daughter was not there, but she always was there. Mrs. Owen was reading aloud to the children when Miss Thornton came in. "I didn't mean to interrupt; I thought the children were always in bed by this time," she said, glancing at the clock. "It is their bedtime, but I was late in beginning to read to them to-night. You can finish the story to yourselves if you like." "Aren't you going to shake hands with me, Peggy?" Miss Thornton asked. Peggy slowly unlocked her arms, which she had folded behind her, and held out an unwilling hand. "What is the story that is so interesting?" Miss Thornton asked, as she took the book out of Peggy's other hand. "'Snow White and Rose Red,'" she said. "I never cared for fairy-tales when I was a child." Peggy and Alice seated themselves in the same chair, with the book between them. "You ought to come over nearer the light; you will strain your eyes," said Miss Thornton. Mrs. Owen gave up her seat to the children and Miss Thornton began to talk about the surprise party. Peggy soon found herself listening. "It is to be in the afternoon--like an afternoon tea," she said. "Are all the parish to be there--men as well as women?" asked Mrs. Owen. "No, only the women. It is what Prissy Baker calls a 'hen-party.'" Peggy could keep silent no longer. "Do you mean people are going to give her hens?" she asked. "Hens? No; that is just an expression, Peggy; that means a party of ladies." Peggy was silent. She might have known that they would not have thought of anything so interesting. The fact that they were to take the minister's wife ten five-dollar gold pieces, in a silk bag, was a poor substitute, indeed, for living, cackling, laying hens. After the children went to bed, they could still hear Miss Pauline's voice going on and on. "It's funny mother likes her so much," Peggy said. "If I ever grow up I shall have friends who like to do interesting things, and read fairy-stories, and talk on nice subjects, the way Miss Betsy Porter does. Oh, Alice," she said, shutting up her eyes and then opening them wide, "I am beginning to see things on the wall. Look and see what is coming." Alice stared at the wall, in the darkness, but as usual, she could see nothing. "What do you see?" she asked. "Hens!" Peggy exclaimed dramatically; "white ones, Rhode Island Reds, Plymouth Rocks, yellow ones--all kinds, a regular procession; and I see ladies, too, in bright dresses. They are all going to a hen party." "I wish I could see them," said Alice. "Do you really see them, Peggy?" "Yes, in my mind's eye. It is such a nice picture, Alice," she cried, "let's have a surprise party of just hens for mother!" "That would be great!" said Alice. "We'd ask Mrs. Horton and Clara and Miss Rand." "They wouldn't come all the way from New York." "They might come. Sometimes they do come for a week-end, and her birthday comes on a Saturday. And we'll ask all the Carters, of course. Each family need only give one hen." "And Miss Pauline Thornton," said Alice. "They have lots of hens." "No," said Peggy firmly; "I'm not going to ask her. She'd spoil the party." "She had on a lovely gown," said Alice, "and she's one of mother's best friends." Peggy went to consult Miss Betsy Porter about the party, and Miss Betsy thought it a fine idea. She said that Peggy and Alice could bring their note-paper, with colored pictures on it, down to her house, and write the notes, and she would enclose them in a note she would write each person, so they would know there was some responsible person to help about the surprise party, and that it was not merely an idea of the children's. She said she would bring a loaf of her best spice cake and some cookies and sandwiches, and she knew that Mrs. Carter would be delighted to make and pour the tea, and Miss Thornton would pour the chocolate. "But I don't want Miss Pauline," said Peggy. "She would spoil the party." "But she is one of your mother's best friends. Whose birthday is it, Peggy? Yours or your mother's?" "Mother's," said Peggy, hanging her head. "Pauline is a good sort," said Miss Betsy. "There is no use in disliking good people, Peggy. I think it had better be a small party, for your mother would not want the care of many hens, and, besides, small parties are the most fun. We'll ask all of the Carters--that will make five." "Six with Uncle Joe--I know he'll come on 'specially for it, if I ask him," said Peggy. "He needn't bring a hen, because he belongs to the family. There's to be just one hen for every family." "Then, if Mrs. Horton and Miss Rand and Clara should come on," said Miss Porter, "that would make nine, I would make ten, and Miss Pauline eleven." "If I've got to have Miss Pauline," said Peggy, with a sigh, "I'm going to have the dog and her father." "All right," said Miss Betsy, "that will make one hen for the Carters, one for the Hortons,--for I'm sure they will give a hen, even if they can't come themselves,--one for the Thorntons, and one for me." "Not one for you," said Peggy. "You have given me Mr. Henry Cox already." "I would not be left out on any account," said Miss Betsy. "Six hens would be as many as your mother would want, as she isn't planning to run a poultry farm. I am sure Mrs. Horton would like to give a pair--she has so many. I'll suggest they send Rhode Island Reds--it is better to have all of a kind." "I think it would be more fun to have them different," said Peggy. "They get along better if they are all of a kind," said Miss Betsy. "I have too many kinds, but I can give you another Rhode Island Red. It is like the Jews and the Italians--they are happier in a quarter by themselves." "It will be a Rhode Island Red Quarter," said Peggy, in delight. "I can name one Mrs. Rhoda Rhodes." "I know some people who are named Henn," said Miss Betsy. Peggy looked doubtful. "It may be all right for people," she said, "but I don't like it for hens. I think Henderson sounds nicer." She and Alice sat down to write the notes. Miss Betsy made no suggestions, but they were glad to ask her about the spelling. Peggy wrote the notes to the Carters and Hortons, and Alice wrote the one to Miss Thornton. _Dear Mrs. Carter_, Peggy wrote-- Mother is to have a birthday a week from next Saturday, and we are going to celebrate it by giving her a surprise party consisting of hens,--each family to bring one hen,--Rhode Island Reds preferred,--as we have Mr. Henry Cox and Mrs. Henrietta Cox already. Please ask Uncle Joe to come. He need not bring a separate hen, but can join in with you. Old Michael Parrell has them for sale. Your loving friend PEGGY This invitation is for you all,--Dr. Carter, if he is not too busy,--Tom, Christopher, and Diana. "You haven't given the hour, or asked her to pour tea," Miss Betsy said, as she read the note through. "Oh, bother! so I haven't. I'll put in a postscript:" The party will begin at four o'clock. We'd like it if you would pour tea. Alice's note was as follows: _Dear Miss Pauline_, We are going to have a surprise party for mother a week from next Saturday, at four o'clock. Will you please wear your pretty violet gown and pour chocolate and bring a hen. Please bring your father and Bruno. Your loving little friend ALICE OWEN When Saturday came there was great excitement at the Owens' house. The children dressed Lady Janet up with a blue ribbon, which Peggy with difficulty tied in a bow around her resisting neck. They gave their mother the little presents they had for her at breakfast-time. It seemed strange she was so unsuspicious. After the dinner dishes were done, she said she thought she would go down to see Miss Thornton for a little while, and she invited the children to go with her. "We don't want to go," said Peggy. "I think you ought to change your gown, mother, and put on your pretty black, one, with the thin sleeves," said Alice. "My dear child, why should I put on my best gown just to call on a friend?" "Because it is your birthday," said Peggy. "We are going to dress up, too. One never knows what may happen on a birthday. Somebody might call." If Mrs. Owen began to suspect that something unusual was to happen, she showed no sign of it, but she obediently went up and put on her black gown, with the thin sleeves, while Peggy and Alice dressed up in their best white frocks. Peggy wore a blue sash and Alice a pink one. "It will be great to get mother out of the house," said Peggy. "I'll telephone to Miss Pauline that she is coming, so she can slip out before she gets there, and Mr. Thornton can keep mother until four o'clock, and then he and Bruno can walk back with her." "That will be great," said Alice. Mrs. Owen was disappointed not to find Pauline at home, and she was going to call on Mrs. Carter when Mr. Thornton invited her in with such a courtly bow that she could not refuse. She noticed that he gave an uneasy glance at the clock, from time to time. "I am afraid I am keeping you from some engagement," she said at last. "I was going out for a walk with Bruno at four," said he. "We will walk home with you if you will let us." "I shall be delighted, and so will the children." There was no one in sight when she opened the front door, but there was a suspicious noise from the dining-room. People seemed to be walking about and setting the table. "I think I am going to have a surprise party," said Mrs. Owen. "Won't you stay for it?" "That is just what I mean to do," said Mr. Thornton. "Bruno and I had an especial invitation." The dining-room door opened, and who should come into the parlor but Mrs. Owen's dear friend Mrs. Horton, who she thought was miles away. "Hester!" she cried, in delight. And the two ladies kissed each other, just as heartily as if they had been little girls. "Why, Clara, how do you do? Here are more surprises," she said. Clara gave a stiff little curtsey and held up her cheek primly to be kissed. "And Miss Rand, too; this is great! Oh, and Mr. Beal! I did not see you at first. What a delightful party this is!" and she greeted Mrs. Carter and her children, as they came out of the dining-room. "The doctor had to go out of town to see a patient," said Mrs. Carter, "but he hopes to get here before we go." Then the door from the kitchen opened, and Miss Betsy Porter came into the dining-room with the chocolate urn, and Miss Pauline followed with plates of cake. It was a delightful party. Everybody enjoyed it. The only trouble was that Uncle Joe found so much to say to Miss Pauline that Peggy did not see as much of him as she would have liked. If he had to talk to a grown-up young lady, she did not see why he did not talk to Miss Rand--she was so much nicer. Mrs. Owen had no idea there was anything more in the way of a surprise. She drank her cup of tea and talked to Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Carter with pleasure that seemed to shine out from her face. "Would you take me out to the hen-house, to see your cock and hen, Mrs. Owen?" Mr. Thornton asked, a little later. "I have heard so much about Peggy's new family, I'd like to see them." "Certainly," said Mrs. Owen, a little surprised; "they are not much to look at, just a pair of Rhode Island Reds." She was surprised to find all of her guests following them, but she had no suspicions. They went out of the front door, and walked around through the side yard to the back of the house. What was Mrs. Owen's surprise to see a sign on the hen-house, painted in red letters, outlined in white: HOTEL HENNERY she read. "Why, how amazing!" she said. "It's Mr. Farrell's present to you, mother," Peggy said. "He has been working at home, painting that board, and he put it up while you were at Mr. Thornton's. Isn't it a nice sign?" As Mrs. Owen came near the hen-house, she stood still, in amazement. It seemed as if something was the matter with her eyes, and she was seeing double. For there, walking about the netted-in hen-yard, with an air of being completely at home, were not only Henry and Henrietta Cox, but two others, closely resembling Henrietta. "They are Henrietta's cousins," Peggy explained, "the Henderson sisters, Charity and Hope, and Faith is inside the house." Sure enough, there was Faith and another lady from Rhode Island whom Peggy introduced to her mother as Biddy Henshaw. But who was the seventh feathered person walking out of the door? Peggy counted again--yes, there were the three Hendersons and Biddy Henshaw--that made four; and Rhoda Rhodes, and her own dear Henrietta, and Henry Cox--six hens and a cock--there were surely seven hens. Where did the seventh come from? She counted them over and over again. There were seven. Who had brought the seventh? She asked everybody. No one knew. Suddenly, she knew as well as if she had been told. It must have been old Michael. He had brought it as a surprise when he came with the sign. And the hen's name flashed into her mind. "Mother," she said, "this is Angelica Seraphina Hen-Farrell." "What a silly name!" said Clara. "I'm tired of giving them sensible names," said Peggy. And so the surprise party turned into a surprise for Peggy herself. Peggy had asked old Michael to come to the surprise party, but he had refused. "I haven't the right clothes to wear," he said. "It doesn't matter about the clothes," said Peggy. "It is the person inside them." Old Michael was so curious to see how Peggy took the surprise of the seventh hen that he strolled around to see. He had on his working clothes, but his face and hands had been well scrubbed after the day's work was over. He waited until the grown-up people turned to go back into the house, and then came forward where Peggy could see him. Alice, followed by the other children, was going toward the house. "Well, Peggy, was it a good surprise party?" he asked. "It was great, and I got surprised myself! How nice of you to give mother Angelica Seraphina Hen-Farrell! That is her name, isn't it?" "Certainly," said Mr. Farrell. "How did you happen to know it?" "It just popped into my head," said Peggy. "I shut up my eyes, and I just seemed to know she was Angelica Seraphina Hen-Farrell." "She is called 'Angel' for short," he said. "Angel? What a nice name! I'm so glad we have seven hens. Don't you like odd numbers best, Mr. Farrell? I think they are much more interesting." "They say there is luck in odd numbers," he said. "Alice likes even numbers best," said Peggy. "Yes, she would; she's a kind of even-dispositioned young one." "Yes, Alice is a darling," said Peggy. "There are other darlings round here," he said. "Yes, seven of them: Hope, Faith, and Charity Henderson; Biddy Henshaw, Rhoda Rhodes, Angel Hen-Farrell, and my own dear Henrietta Cox. Oh, there are eight--I forgot Mr. Henry Cox. He's the greatest darling of them all." CHAPTER XIV A CHRISTMAS EGG Carols are what one thinks of at Christmas, and eggs seem to belong to Easter, but this was an especial egg that was very dear to Peggy because it was one of the first. Peggy and Alice had hunted with such anxious care, every morning in Hotel Hennery, to see if they could find any eggs, and each morning they were disappointed; for all the hens were moulting. "It does seem as if they needn't all moult at the same time," said Peggy. "I do hope somebody will begin to lay before Thanksgiving, so we can have a Thanksgiving egg. Henrietta, don't you think you could give me just one egg for Thanksgiving?" Whatever Henrietta's thoughts were, she kept them to herself, and not one hen produced an egg in time for Thanksgiving. Mrs. Owen, with Peggy and Alice, dined with the Carters. Mrs. Carter wrote saying what pleasure it would give them all if they could come, and she added there would be no other guests except her husband's Aunt Betsy and her brother Joe. She hoped it would not be too hard for Mrs. Owen to have a Thanksgiving dinner in her own old house; if she did not feel like it, she would understand. _Dear Mrs. Carter_ Mrs. Owen replied-- It would be much harder to stay at home than to go to you. The greatest cause I have for Thanksgiving this year is the fact that you are my friend, and that Diana is the friend of my children. Since we had to leave the house, I am glad it is you who are living in it. Faithfully yours MARY OWEN So the children had a happy Thanksgiving, even without the Thanksgiving egg. And still Peggy and Alice looked eagerly for eggs and could not find even one. Autumn had changed to winter, and still the hens were moulting, and there were no eggs. The vegetable garden, at the back of the house, was now turned into a fairy country, for the brown earth was covered with a snowy quilt, and every twig on the trees and shrubs was encased in diamonds. The snow came suddenly--one night, when the children went to bed, the ground had been bare, and in the morning the world seemed all made over new. But still the dwellers in Hotel Hennery showed no signs of laying eggs. And then one morning, a few days before Christmas, just as the children had given up hope, Peggy found an egg. It was a thrilling moment; and Angel Hen-Farrell was so proud to be the first of the hens to lay an egg that she would not stop talking about it. What she said sounded to Alice like "Cut-cut-cad-ar-cut, cadarcut, cadarcut," but Peggy said she was talking a foreign language. "I can translate it for you, Alice," she said; "it is the Rhode Island Red language." "What is she saying?" "She is saying: 'Come and look at my first egg of the season. It is very beautiful. The shell is of the palest brown, like coffee ice-cream. It is very beautiful. Look at it, all ye hens who have laid nothing. It is very beautiful--of palest brown, like coffee ice-cream.'" Diana had one of her ill turns, just before Christmas; and the poor little girl had to spend Christmas in bed. She was much better when the day came, but her father said she must not get up, but that she could see Peggy and Alice for a little while in the afternoon. The children had hung their stockings up the night before, and they had been surprised and delighted with their presents. Peggy wanted to take them up to show to Diana. "But there are such a lot of them," Alice protested, "and some of them are so big." "We can wear up the furs and stocking-caps and mittens," said Peggy, "and we can put the other things in a basket and carry them up on our new sled. She'd love to see her namesake." "I'm not going to take Diana out in such slippery walking," said Alice, "she might get a fall and break her head." "As you please," said Peggy; "but I know if I liked a person well enough to name a child after her, I'd take her up the first minute, slippery or not." "You might," said Alice, "but I'm not going to. She is my child, and she's very breakable." "Well, anyway, I am going to take Diana a Christmas egg, breakable or not." "It isn't your egg; it's mother's," Alice reminded her; for Henrietta had not begun to lay. "I'm sure mother will let me have an egg to give to Diana, won't you, mother?" "Certainly," said Mrs. Owen; "I should never have had any of my Rhode Island friends if it had not been for Peggy." "I think I'll write a verse to go with the egg," said Peggy. Alice admired the way in which Peggy could write verses. Peggy had only to take a pencil in hand, and a verse seemed to come out on the paper. "I think the verses live inside the pencil," Peggy once said. She liked a blue pencil best. It seemed to have more interesting verses living inside it than a black one. "I'd like to see if I can do it," Alice said. "All right," and Peggy handed the pencil over. "Don't hold it so tight; hold it loosely, like this." But the pencil would write nothing for Alice, no matter how she held it. And Peggy had only held it a few minutes before she wrote a verse. She sat with her eyes tight shut, for she said she could think better. And presently Peggy and the pencil wrote a Christmas verse. She liked it so well she copied it on a sheet of her best Christmas note-paper. At the head of the sheet was the picture of a window with a lighted candle and a Christmas wreath; and there were a boy and a girl outside, singing Christmas carols. This was the verse that Peggy and the pencil wrote. "I'd like to send a Christmas carol, To please and cheer my dear Diana: But here's an egg Angel Hen-Farrell Has laid in her best Christmas manner." Mrs. Owen packed the egg carefully with cotton wool in a small box. She folded the paper with the verse on it and put that on top. She tied the box up with some Christmas ribbon that had come around one of Peggy's presents. The ribbon had holly leaves with red berries on it. She slipped a tiny Santa Claus card under the ribbon. On the card Peggy wrote, "Diana, from a friend who lives in Hotel Hennery." Peggy put the box in a bag, and some other presents for Diana, from Mrs. Owen and Alice and herself; and they put in a few of their presents and cards to show her. It was very slippery. Their mother went with them as far as the Thorntons' and she carried the bag. Then Peggy carried it, for a time, and then Alice. Peggy fell down once. She landed on the back of her head, but she held the bag out in front of her so the egg should not get broken. Diana was delighted to see them. She was in bed, in a pretty brown woolen dressing-gown, that was just the shade of her hair and eyes. The bed was covered with books and games, and there were two dolls leaning against the footboard, and one in Diana's arms. She was a pretty doll, with yellow hair, almost the color of Peggy's hair, and eyes that opened and shut. "See, she shuts her eyes tight, just as you do, Peggy, when you are thinking hard," said Diana. "She looks quite a lot like you." "Her eyes are blue and mine are gray," said Peggy. "I wonder why they never make dolls with gray eyes." "She is named for you," Diana announced. "Tom and Christopher gave her to me, and she came with her name written on a Christmas card that was pinned to her dress, 'Peggy Owen Carter,' and Tom wrote a poem that came with her." Diana hunted through the box which held her Christmas cards and letters, and finally found the verses, which she read aloud. "Closed in her room, in her white bed, Poor little suffering martyr, While others skate or coast with sled, There lies Diana Carter. "But she's so joyous in her mind, She makes our Christmas merry. She's quite adorably kind, With lips like a red berry. "A holly berry, bright and gay, Some children may be smarter, But there's no child on Christmas Day Sweeter than dear Di Carter. "So, while in her white bed she lies, Poor little Christmas martyr, We give her as a glad surprise, Miss Peggy Owen Carter. "Her eyes are blue, her hair is gold, She surely is a charmer. We rescued her, like knights of old, And vowed that naught should harm her. "For she was living in a shop, In a glass case, this treasure, Where she could neither run nor hop, With weary months of leisure. "So Peggy Owen Carter comes, With joyous Christmas greeting, A carol gay, she softly hums, Joy's long, if time is fleeting." "What a nice poem," said Peggy, with a sigh of envy. "Yes, isn't it?" said Diana. "I wish I could write poetry like that," said Peggy. "I just wrote one verse. It's in my present to you." "Oh, have you brought me a present?" Diana said, in delight. "Yes, mother and Alice and I have each given you one, and there is this one from Angel Hen-Farrell." "An egg!" Diana cried. "Father said I could have an egg for my supper. I'll have it dropped on toast. I couldn't have any of the Christmas dinner, except the oyster soup." "Oh, you poor darling!" said Peggy. "It was very good soup," said Diana, "and I was so happy to have Peggy Owen Carter and the rest of my presents; and the carols, last night, were so lovely!" "Carols last night?" the children cried. "We didn't hear any." "The Christmas Waits came and sang under my window. I could see them from my bed. The leader carried a torch so the others could see to read their books. He had on a red cloak. And they sang such beautiful carols!" "Oh, why didn't they come out and sing to us?" said Alice. "You are pretty far out of town. I think they only sang to sick people and old people. They went up to the hospital, and they asked father for a list of his patients who were not too sick to be disturbed by the singing." "Well, anyway, I'd rather have been well than to have heard the carols," said Peggy. "You poor dear, I can't get over your being in bed on Christmas Day." But Diana's eyes were shining. "I shouldn't have had Tom's poem if I had been well," she said, "or the Christmas egg. Even if one is sick, Christmas is the happiest time in all the year." CHAPTER XV THE GREAT STORM That was a winter of great storms. They began in November, and the snow piled up higher and higher, so that when one went down to the shops, one walked between walls of snow. The oldest inhabitant remembered nothing like it. "It seems like going up mountains," Peggy said to Alice, one day when they came to a house where the sidewalk had not been shoveled out. It was a wonderful winter for children, for such coasting and tobogganing had never been known. It was not such a good winter for creatures who wore fur and feathers. Lady Janet, who had never known any other winter and did not realize that the oldest inhabitant had not known one like it, would return from an encounter with the snowflakes in dazed wonder and take her seat on a chair in front of the kitchen stove, or she would patiently watch by a mouse-hole for hours together. The inhabitants of Hotel Hennery took life placidly, although they were confined to the hotel. But, having nothing more interesting to do, they turned their attention to laying eggs; after January set in, they all began to lay, so that Mrs. Owen and the children each had a fresh egg for breakfast most of the time. The snow-storms grew more and more frequent as the winter passed, and the snow was deeper and deeper. It was all great fun for Alice and Peggy. They never tired of the coasting and the walk to and from school. It was hard for Diana, however, for in stormy or very cold weather she had to stay in the house. She was so much better after the summer that, in the autumn, she began to go to school. Diana was in the same room with Peggy, in the class below her. She had to be out of school almost half the time. "I wouldn't mind being out of school," said Alice. "Think of having no lessons to get and staying in that lovely room with a wood fire on the hearth, and everybody coming to see you." "You wouldn't like it a bit if you didn't feel well," said Peggy. "Think of not being able to go coasting." The children went to see Diana almost every day, and there did not seem to be any room quite so pleasant as Diana's room, with the fire on the hearth and the blooming flowers. Diana was often well enough to be downstairs in the parlor, and this was a pleasant room, too. It seemed strange to the children to think it was their own old parlor, for it was so differently arranged. There was a large piano at which Diana practiced when she was well enough. It took up the side of the room where their mother's writing-desk had been. Their piano was an upright one, and it had been on the opposite side of the room. Small as it was, it almost filled up one side of their tiny parlor now. It had been used very little since it had gone to its new surroundings, for there was no longer any money for music-lessons, and Mrs. Owen had been too busy to touch it; besides, she had never played a great deal, except the accompaniments for her husband's singing. So the piano was resting. But Mrs. Owen had determined that, just as soon as she had got ahead a little, the children should have their music-lessons again. Alice's birthday came in February, and when her mother asked her what she would like best, in the way of a celebration, she did not hesitate a minute. "I should like to have Diana come the night before and spend the whole day." "Don't you want any one else?" "No one else," said Alice, "except you and Peggy, of course. I never have played dolls all I wanted to, because Peggy doesn't like to play, and so, on my birthday, I'd like to have just a feast of dolls, from morning until night." "But there will be your school," said her mother. "I couldn't let you skip that." "Couldn't you? I thought perhaps you could." "No, I couldn't. I think it would be better if Diana came to dinner and for the afternoon." "No," said Alice, "the night is the best part. Peggy can sleep in the spare room, and we can have our dolls sleep with us, and the next day, Diana can rest while I go to school." It seemed a pretty good plan--Alice's plans were usually reasonable. The only doubt was, whether Diana would be well enough to make the little visit. But she was well enough, and her father drove her down in his sleigh, all bundled up in many wraps. Diana had on a brown cap made of beaver fur that almost matched her golden-brown hair. And over this, to make sure she did not take cold, was a thick, brown veil. Wrapped around her shoulders and pinned with a large gilt pin, in the shape of a feather, was a warm, green-and-blue plaid shawl. Under this was her own brown coat, and under that, a blue sweater. Peggy undid her wraps and pulled off her blue mittens. They had a fire in the parlor because Diana was coming, and they gave Diana the small company chair that their grandmother used to sit in when she was a little girl. While Peggy was busy getting Diana out of her wraps, Alice was taking off the wraps of her namesake Alice, and those of Peggy Owen Carter, for Diana had been asked to bring these two with her. The dolls were wrapped up in the same way their little mother was, only they wore hoods instead of fur caps, and they did not have sweaters under their coats. But they were carefully wrapped up in Turkish towels, instead of shawls. "I hope my children have not taken cold," said Diana. "Peggy is rather delicate." "I won't have a delicate namesake," said Peggy. "She can't be delicate if she is named for me." No sooner had Peggy said it than she noticed a shadow on Diana's bright face, and she remembered that Diana was delicate. One never thought of her as an invalid, for she was always so cheerful. "I think it is nice for people to be delicate," Peggy hastened to add, "but not for dolls. If a doll is delicate, she might get broken." "Our dolls are people," Alice said, "aren't they, Diana?" "Certainly," said Diana. "They are just as much people as the Rhode Island Reds are." "Indeed, they are not," said Peggy. "My darling Rhode Island Reds are alive." "Your Rhode Island Reds could be killed and eaten," said Alice. "Nobody would eat a doll any more than they would a person. And they look like people, and the Rhode Island Reds don't." It was hard for Peggy to have Alice and Diana sleep together without wanting her. It was the first time in her life that she had not slept with Alice the night before her birthday. In fact, the only times she could remember their being separated at night was when Alice had the measles, and one other time, when she herself had gone for a short visit to her grandmother with her father. And the worst of it was, there was plenty of room for three in the wide bed, if it were not for the room those ridiculous dolls took up. Diana was her intimate friend just as much as she was Alice's. Indeed, even more, because they liked to read the same books and to write stories. Diana was nearer her age than Alice's; and yet, Alice liked to have these stupid dolls sleep with her better than her own flesh-and-blood sister! Mrs. Owen noticed that Peggy looked very sober at supper time, and, while she was helping with the dishes, she said, "What is my little girl looking unhappy about?" "Do I look unhappy, mother?" "Yes, what is the trouble?" Then Peggy told her the whole story. "Now, Peggy, let's sit right down and see what we can do about it," said Mrs. Owen. "You are jealous because Alice wants Diana all to herself. It is very natural, but it is not a nice feeling." "I am not jealous of Diana," said Peggy; "but I just can't stand having Alice like to play with dolls better than to play with me. I could tell them fairy-stories, and see things on the wall." "But that is no treat for Alice. You can do that any night. What she wants is somebody who likes to play dolls just as much as she does. It is Alice's birthday we are celebrating, not yours. When your birthday comes, you can have Diana all to yourself, if you like, for the night." "But I'd always rather have Alice, too--always, always," said Peggy. "But if you were fond of dolls, and Alice had been saying impolite things about them, you might find it pleasanter to have Diana all to yourself. I suspect you have been saying some not very kind things about Alice's family." "I said Belle looked as if she had smallpox," Peggy owned, "and so she does. I said Sally Waters's feet were so small she could put them in her mouth." "Do you think those remarks were very kind?" Peggy looked thoughtful. "Perhaps not exactly kind," she said. "Now, Peggy, I am going to let you sleep with me to-night," said Mrs. Owen. "Truly mother," said Peggy, with a radiant face. "And now we will think out just how we can make Alice and Diana have a good time to-morrow," Mrs. Owen went on. "Suppose, while I am making cookies and biscuit for the flesh-and-blood members of the family, you make small ones for the dolls? I am sure that will delight the little mothers. To tell the truth, Peggy, I didn't like dolls a bit better than you do when I was a little girl. I liked playing around with my brother William and your father a great deal better." Peggy felt a little happier when Diana said, in a disappointed tone, "Isn't Peggy going to sleep with us?" "No," said Alice; "the dolls are going to sleep with us. Peggy doesn't care about dolls. I am going to have a real feast of dolls, for once in my life." "And I am going to sleep with mother," said Peggy proudly. "You are not!" said Alice, thinking Peggy was joking. Peggy could hear the children's voices going on and on in the other room, as she lay in bed. It made her feel lonely. Her mother always sat up late, so she would not come to bed for a long time. She tried to amuse herself by seeing things on the wall, but this was no fun without Alice. The voices in the other room went on and on until Peggy grew drowsy, and at last, fell asleep. She was waked up by the slamming of a blind. The wind had risen, and she felt the cold air blowing in at her window. She looked at the face of the illuminated clock, which stood at the side of her mother's bed, on a small table. The hands pointed to ten minutes past ten. Her mother would soon come upstairs. The wind was so cold she got up to shut the window, and her bare feet walked into a snowdrift. Yes, there was really quite a little mound of snow on the floor, for it had begun snowing fast just before supper. She stopped to brush it up, and then took the electric candle and went into the other room to see if there was any snow coming in there. But there was not, for the windows were not on the same side of the house. She could see by the light of her candle that the bed was, indeed, too full to have left any place for her. On the outer side of the white pillow lay Belle, her staring brown eyes wide open; and next her was Sally Waters, peacefully sleeping; and beyond her, the doll that was Diana's namesake. Then came Alice herself, fast asleep, her long, dark lashes against her cheek, and a happy look on her face. Beyond her lay Peggy Owen Carter, also asleep; and next to Alice's namesake, and on the inner side of the bed and beyond her, lay Diana herself, fast asleep, with slightly parted lips. "Well," said Peggy, "I never saw anything like that before. She has dolls on both sides of her. I guess she has a feast of dolls, for once in her life." Peggy hurried back to bed, for her feet were icy cold. She was still awake when her mother came upstairs. "Mother, what do you think? I walked into a snowdrift," said Peggy. "What do you mean?" said her mother. So Peggy told her all about it. "You ought to have called me," said Mrs. Owen. "But it was such fun sweeping it up and throwing it out of the window. We can't throw dust out of the window." When Peggy waked in the morning, the air was thick with snowflakes, and everything was heaped and piled high with snow. It seemed as if it would be impossible to get out to feed the hens, for not only was it very deep, but it was drifting with the wind. "It is a real blizzard," said Mrs. Owen. "It is the worst storm we have had yet." "Oh, there is no going to school to-day, mother," Alice said, dancing about the room in glee. It was not often that Alice danced. She was a quiet child. Peggy caught Alice by the waist, and they both danced together, and then they each took one of Diana's hands and they all three danced in a strange dance that they made up as they went along. It was full of bobbing curtsies and racing and scampering about the room. They ended by coming up to Mrs. Owen and making more curtsies, just the number that Alice was years old. "Madam, it is your daughter's birthday," said Peggy. "Madam, the Frost King has decided to celebrate it by his best blizzard. He has planned it so we can't go to school, and so Diana can make us a longer visit. All hail to the Frost King!" "I wish the Frost King had planned it so we could get our milk this morning," said Mrs. Owen; "he didn't tell me he was planning the blizzard, and now I haven't a bit of milk in the house." "The Frost King says the water is all right for drinking," said Peggy. "He says it is so cold it doesn't have to be put on ice." The children had a merry time eating their breakfast, although even Peggy's fertile imagination could think of no way by which the Frost King could make oatmeal taste well without milk. Suddenly Mrs. Owen had a bright idea. "We can have maple syrup on our oatmeal," she said. This was, indeed, a treat, and so were the eggs the Rhode Island family had laid, and there was delicious toast and butter, and oranges, as an especial birthday treat. "I am afraid old Michael won't be able to come and shovel us out, on account of his rheumatism," said Mrs. Owen. Peggy and Alice put on their raincoats and rubber boots and stocking caps, and they took their snow-shovels and tried to make a path to the hen-house. Diana watched them, with her face close to the kitchen window. Peggy stopped to wave to Diana, and lost her footing, tumbling down into the snow. She got up, shaking herself and laughing heartily. Diana watched the children as their eyes grew brighter and their cheeks redder and redder with their exercise. The snow powdered them over with flakes from head to foot. It was impossible to make a good path, for the wind kept blowing the snow back, but they made enough headway so they could get out to Hotel Hennery. They came back to the house for food for its hungry inhabitants. There were others to be fed--blue jays, chickadees, sparrows, and crows; and then a flock of pheasants. And there was Lady Janet. She could not understand why there was no milk in her saucer and looked at them with beseeching eyes. As the long morning passed, and Peggy and Mrs. Owen were busy in the kitchen, making the large biscuits and cookies, and the small ones, even Alice had begun to get tired of playing with dolls. "Can't we come out in the kitchen and help you?" she asked. "No, I don't need your help." "Can't Peggy come in and play games with us?" "No, Peggy is helping me." "I am very busy," said Peggy. "You can play games by yourselves." Then Alice realized how flat every game seemed without Peggy. It was all right so long as they were playing dolls, but one could not play dolls all day. The geography game would be a pleasant change. Alice proposed having an afternoon tea for the dolls, and Diana agreed, although it did not seem quite a suitable hour for it in the middle of the morning. "I wish mother would let us go out into the kitchen and help her," Alice said. They had had too much play, and this was the truth. A little real work would have been interesting. "I guess they are making some kind of a surprise for your birthday dinner," said Diana. And when dinner came, and they saw the big biscuits and the little ones, and large cookies with caraway seeds in them, and the small ones, they were perfectly delighted. The dolls were all allowed to come to the table with them, and, as there were four people and five dolls, each doll was well looked after. Alice had two on one side of her and one on the other. It was a merry meal; Peggy, having made up her mind to play dolls, did it thoroughly. She answered for the dolls in a different voice for each. Her namesake, Peggy Owen Carter, who sat beside her, ate so much her little mother had to reprove her. "My dear child, you mustn't be so greedy," said Diana. "I should think you had never tasted lamb stew before." "I haven't," said Peggy Owen Carter, in a shrill, high-pitched voice that made the children laugh. "We only have such things as legs of lamb and roast beef and turkey and broiled chickens at our house." "Oh, please, can't we help to do the dishes?" Diana asked, when the lively meal was over. "Yes, you and Alice can do the dishes inside while Peggy helps me in the kitchen with the pots and pans." "Can't Peggy help us?" Alice asked. She had learned the value of Peggy. Everything was so much more exciting when she was around. "You can begin by yourselves, and I'll be through with her pretty soon," said Mrs. Owen. It kept on snowing fast all day, and, toward the end of the afternoon, Diana began to wonder how she was to get home. Mrs. Owen went to the telephone to call up the Carters, but could not make it work. She tried again and again. The line was out of order. This had happened once before that winter in another snowstorm. Diana began to look a little sober. She was not exactly homesick, but the thought of home with her father and mother and her two brothers seemed very pleasant. It seemed forlorn not to be able to reach them by telephone. They knew where she was, however, and it was pleasant to have Peggy and Alice so overjoyed at the great storm. "They never can come for Diana to-day," Peggy said. "The roads aren't broken out." When night came, both Diana and Alice begged Peggy to sleep with them, and this was a triumph. They asked her to sleep in the middle, as each wanted Peggy next to her; and they kept her telling stories of what she saw on the wall until Mrs. Owen came up and said, "Children, you must stop talking, or I shall take Peggy into my room again." Peggy saw wonderful things. They were all snow scenes, in deep forests where every twig was coated with diamonds or powdered with snow. She saw the Frost King there, having his revels, and finally, just before Mrs. Owen came up to stop their talking, she saw the roads being broken out, and Tom and Christopher coming for Diana with the big sled. Diana went to sleep with this pleasant picture in her mind, and, toward the end of the next day, it really happened. It stopped snowing early the next morning, but the snow-plough did not get around in time for the children to go to school. It was just after dinner when Tom and Christopher appeared. "We've come to make a path to your front door, Mrs. Owen," Tom said. "And we'll make one to the hen-house, too." They had brought their snow-shovels along with them, and they began to dig with a will. Peggy got her shovel and went out to help them, and Alice and Diana watched the merry trio from the window. "I can't bear to have Diana go," said Peggy. "I wish she could live here always." "I've had a lovely time," said Diana. But, like Lady Jane Grey, she was glad to get back to the other house. CHAPTER XVI GRANDMOTHER OWEN'S VISIT There were other great storms before the winter was over, and spring was very late that year, but when it did come it seemed to the children as if the world had never been so beautiful. This was the joy of living in New England. There was no monotony about the seasons. After a winter with banks and banks of snow, and coasting enough to satisfy one's wildest dreams, the snow vanished; and the brown earth soon became ready for planting; the same miracle began again, of green points poking their heads up to the light. And if other springs had been delightful, this was so thrilling Peggy wanted to dance and shout with joy--for her own dearly beloved Henrietta Cox was sitting on a dozen eggs, and one day some downy, fluffy chickens were hatched out. Yes, actually, these tiny creatures--living, moving, breathing creatures, all of them Peggy's very own--were chipping their shells, and making their entrance into this wonderful world. Alice took the chickens more calmly, but she was greatly interested in them in her quiet way. "Oh, mother, I do hope grandmother likes chickens," Peggy said, when Mrs. Owen told the children that she had a letter from their grandmother, fixing the time of her annual spring visit. "Peggy, you never seem to be able to think of but one thing at a time," said her mother. "What difference will it make whether your grandmother likes chickens? She won't have to do anything about them." The children were very much interested in helping arrange the spare room for their grandmother. Alice got out the prettiest bureau cover from the linen closet, and the children helped their mother wash the china for the washstand. It was pretty china, covered with small pink roses, with green leaves. And there was a pincushion, that was white over pink, on the bureau. Peggy went out and picked some of the hemlock and put that in a green vase on the table. It was a pleasant excitement to have their grandmother come. She always brought them presents. She was a quiet, dignified woman, and she had brown eyes very like Alice's, but her hair, that was once brown, was now snow-white. They all went down to the station to meet her, and they rode back with her in the taxi, and that was great fun. Their grandmother was not a person who expressed a great deal, so, when she came into the house and said, "Mary, how pleasant you have made this little house look," they were all very much pleased. The children could hardly wait for her trunk to be unpacked, for they were eager to see what she had brought. They did not venture to go into her room; she liked to have her room to herself. She was tired, and it was almost supper-time before she came down. She had some things in her hands. "I have some blue gingham here for a dress for Peggy, and some pink for Alice," she said. "I have brought some material for new white dresses, too." The children were delighted with the thought of their new frocks. Their grandmother brought them each a book besides. Lady Janet wandered into the parlor. "You have the same cat, I see," said their grandmother. "Oh, no, grandmother, she's different," Alice said. "Don't you see how different she is? She's her daughter. She hasn't so many stripes on her tail, and she's a lighter gray. And she's got a different character." "Has she?" said their grandmother, as pussy began to sharpen her claws on the sofa. "It seems to me her nature is very much the same. Do you let her come into the parlor?" "Sometimes," said Mrs. Owen. "If the children see that she doesn't go up into the bedrooms and make small footmarks on the bed quilts--that is all I ask." "You don't like cats very well, do you, grandmother?" said Peggy. "Yes, I like them in their proper place." "What is their proper place?" Peggy asked. "I like to see a cat sitting patiently in front of a mouse-hole, or lying on the bricks in front of the kitchen stove; but I don't like to see it scratching the parlor furniture." "Neither do I," said Mrs. Owen. "Put Lady Janet out into the kitchen, Alice." They all went out to supper, and again the older Mrs. Owen praised the dainty appearance of the table. "Mary, I don't know how you have done it, but you have made this tiny house just as attractive as your large one." "All the paper and paint are new and fresh here, and I got rid of all my ugly furniture and have only kept the old pieces." "I wish you would come and do my house over for me. And, by the way, I am hoping you and the children will come and spend three months with me this summer. I am sure the sea air will do the children good." She did not notice how their faces clouded over. The mere suggestion filled them with despair. Leave her beloved Rhode Island Reds, Peggy was thinking, just as Henrietta had hatched out twelve downy, fluffy balls? Why, they would be big chickens when they came back. Leave Lady Janet? was Alice's thought. No sea-bathing and boating could make up for the loss of her friendly little face. "Could I take Lady Janet with me, grandmother?" Alice asked. "I hardly think so. A cat does not like to be moved." "It is very kind of you to think of it," said Mrs. Owen, "but I am afraid I shall have to stay right here by my garden and my hens." "Oh, have you hens?" Mrs. Owen asked. "Yes, grandmother, seven of them and a cock," Peggy said; "and twelve teenty, tinety chickens, the dearest, cunningest things. Don't you remember," she added, reproachfully, "how I wrote and told you we had a birthday surprise party of hens for mother?" "I do remember it now." Peggy said no more about the hens. How terrible it was to be so old that the idea of seven hens and a cock and twelve chickens made no more impression on one than that! And yet, Miss Betsy Porter must be nearly as old as her grandmother, and Miss Betsy was deeply interested in hens. After all, it was the kind of person you were, and not the age. Two or three days later, as Mrs. Owen was writing letters, she heard Peggy say to Alice, "I like it better when grandmother isn't here." "So do I," said Alice. "I wonder when she is going home?" Mrs. Owen looked up from her writing. "She is going to stay ten days longer, and then, if I can persuade her, she will come back to us for the whole summer." Mrs. Owen turned to look at her little girls. Their faces wore a discontented, rebellious look. "Did it ever occur to you that it is of no importance whether you like the way things are or not?" she asked. "You are two very small, unimportant people. Did you ever stop to think what your grandmother has had to bear?" They had never thought anything about it. Their minds had been entirely taken up with their own affairs. "Your father was your grandmother's only child," Mrs. Owen went on, and her voice was unsteady. "She owned the big house we used to live in, and every summer they came to it, so that your father and your Uncle William and I played together when we were children. When your father became a doctor and married me and settled down here, she gave us the house for a wedding present. Think, Peggy, for a minute, of what it meant to you to lose your father. But you had only known him a few short years, and you and Alice are so young you have a whole rich life before you. But your grandmother is not young; she had had him all his life, and he was her only child." There were tears in her mother's eyes. Peggy had seldom seen them there. She slipped down from her chair and went over to her mother, putting an arm about her waist. It was not of her grandmother that she was thinking, but of her mother, who had lost so much, and yet was so brave. Mrs. Owen dried her eyes and was silent for a minute. Then she said: "Your grandmother is a very lonely person." "But she lives in the city where there are lots and lots of people," said Alice. "Yes, and she has many friends and acquaintances, but that does not prevent her being lonely. We are the only near relations she has. You remember how she wanted to take Peggy and bring her up. I could not consent to that. Then she wanted us all to spend the summer with her, and we all of us like better to be at home. But I think she would really like to spend the summer with us. Now, Peggy, the better one knows people, the more one finds to like in them, if they are good people; and it is just a question of what we are looking out for most in this world, whether it is to be happy ourselves, or to try to make other people happy. If we are trying to be happy ourselves, all kinds of things turn up that we did not expect, to spoil our fun. After all, it is not so very important, whether we are happy or not." "I think it is very important," said Peggy. "And I guess you thought so when you were a little girl, mother." "You are right, Peggy, I did. But now the question is, will you children try to make your grandmother happy?" "I'll try," said Peggy; "but I just can't stand it if she doesn't care about my dear Rhode Island Reds." But her grandmother did grow to appreciate them, to Peggy's great surprise. One morning she went out with Peggy when she fed the chickens. It was a sunny morning, with a soft blue sky and fleecy clouds. "To think of my being here all these days and not having seen your hens," said Mrs. Owen. "I thought, if you waited until you wanted to see them, it would be more of a treat," said Peggy. "Who put that idea into your head, your mother?" "No, I don't want people to see them unless it is a treat." Peggy's grandmother looked at the little girl's eager, upturned face. "Do you like them so much, Peggy?" she asked. Peggy hesitated. It was one of the great decisions of her life. On her answer depended the success or failure of her intercourse with her grandmother. If she said, "I like them well enough," they would remain just seven Rhode Island hens and a cock, so far as her grandmother was concerned. She looked up at her grandmother, inquiringly. Her grandmother smiled down at her pleasantly. "I just love them!" said Peggy. "What a handsome cock!" said her grandmother. This compliment to her favorite pleased Peggy. "Isn't he a beauty?" she said. "He certainly is," said her grandmother warmly. "His name is Mr. Henry Cox," said Peggy, in a burst of confidence. "What a nice name," said her grandmother. And so it was that the elder Mrs. Owen became interested in feeding the hens and chickens and helping hunt for eggs, and when she went home, at the end of the visit, they were all glad to think that she was to spend the summer with them. "I am glad she is coming back," said Peggy to Alice. "Do you know, Alice, I think when she comes back, we'll teach her the geography game." "I don't think she's got a very nice name," said Alice. "I'm glad they didn't call me Rebecca, for her. And she can only live in one State." "Yes," said Peggy, "but it is such a nice State. She could live in Rhode Island, with all my dear Rhode Island Reds." THE END 
10340	----	Proofreaders DAB KINZER A STORY OF A GROWING BOY BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD 1884 CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE KINZER FARM, THE NEW SUIT, AND THE WEDDING. CHAPTER II. DAB'S OLD CLOTHES GET A NEW BOY TO FIT. CHAPTER III. A MEMBER OF ONE OF THE OLDEST FAMILIES MEETS A YOUNG GENTLEMAN FROM THE CITY. CHAPTER IV. TWO BOYS, ONE PIG, AND AN UNFORTUNATE RAILWAY-TRAIN. CHAPTER V. NEW NEIGHBORS, AND GETTING SETTLED. CHAPTER VI. CRABS, BOYS, AND A BOAT-WRECK. CHAPTER VII. A VERY ACCIDENTAL CALL. CHAPTER VIII. A RESCUE, AND A GRAND GOOD TIME. CHAPTER IX. THERE ARE DIFFERENT KINDS OF BOYS. CHAPTER X. A CRUISE IN "THE SWALLOW". CHAPTER XI. SPLENDID FISHING, AND A BIG FOG. CHAPTER XII. HOW THE GAME OF "FOLLOW MY LEADER" CAN BE PLAYED AT SEA. CHAPTER XIII. "HOME AGAIN! HERE WE ARE!". CHAPTER XIV. A GREAT MANY THINGS GETTING READY TO COME. CHAPTER XV. DABNEY KINZER TO THE RESCUE. CHAPTER XVI. DAB KINZER AND HAM MORRIS TURN INTO A FIRE-DEPARTMENT. CHAPTER XVII. DAB HAS A WAKING DREAM, AND HAM GETS A SNIFF OF SEA-AIR. CHAPTER XVIII. HOW DAB WORKED OUT ANOTHER OF HIS GREAT PLANS. CHAPTER XIX. A GRAND SAILING-PARTY, AND AN EXPERIMENT BY RICHARD LEE. CHAPTER XX. A WRECK AND SOME WRECKERS. CHAPTER XXI. DAB AND HIS FRIENDS TURN THEMSELVES INTO COOKS AND WAITERS. CHAPTER XXII. THE REAL MISSION OF THE JUG. CHAPTER XXIII. ANOTHER GRAND PLAN, AND A VERY GRAND RUNAWAY. CHAPTER XXIV. DABNEY'S GREAT PARTY. CHAPTER XXV. THE BOYS ON THEIR TRAVELS. A GREAT CITY, AND A GREAT DINNER. CHAPTER XXVI. THE FIRST MORNING IN GRANTLEY, AND ANOTHER EXCELLENT JOKE. CHAPTER XXVII. A NEW KIND OF EXAMINATION. CHAPTER XXVIII. AN UNUSUAL AMOUNT OF INTRODUCTION. CHAPTER XXIX. LETTERS HOME FROM THE BOYS.--DICK LEE'S FIRST GRIEF. CHAPTER XXX. DABNEY KINZER TRIES FRESH-WATER FISHING FOR THE FIRST TIME. CHAPTER XXXI. A FIGHT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. CHAPTER XXXII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS OF HIS COME TO VISIT DABNEY. DAB KINZER CHAPTER I. THE KINZER FARM, THE NEW SUIT, AND THE WEDDING. Between the village and the inlet, and half a mile from the great "bay," lay the Kinzer farm. Beyond the bay was a sandbar, and beyond that the Atlantic Ocean; for all this was on the southerly shore of Long Island. The Kinzer farm had lain right there--acre for acre, no more, no less--on the day when Hendrik Hudson long ago sailed the good ship "Half Moon" into New-York Bay. But it was not then known to any one as the Kinzer farm. Neither was there then, as now, any bright and growing village crowding up on one side of it, with a railway-station and a post-office. Nor was there, at that time, any great and busy city of New York, only a few hours' ride away, over on the island of Manhattan. The Kinzers themselves were not there then. But the bay and the inlet, with the fish and the crabs, and the ebbing and flowing tides, were there, very much the same, before Hendrik Hudson and his brave Dutchmen knew any thing whatever about that corner of the world. The Kinzer farm had always been a reasonably "fat" one, both as to size and quality; and the good people who lived on it had generally been of a somewhat similar description. It was, therefore, every way correct and becoming for Dabney Kinzer's widowed mother and his sisters to be the plump and hearty beings they were, and all the more discouraging to poor Dabney that no amount of regular and faithful eating seemed to make him resemble them at all in that respect. Mrs. Kinzer excused his thinness, to her neighbors, to be sure, on the ground that he was "such a growing boy;" but, for all that, he caught himself wondering, now and then, if he would never be done with that part of his trials. For rapid growth has its trials. "The fact is," he said to himself one day, as he leaned over the north fence, "I'm more like Ham Morris's farm than I am like ours. His farm is bigger than ours, all round; but it's too big for its fences, just as I'm too big for my clothes. Ham's house is three times as large as ours, but it looks as if it had grown too fast. It hasn't any paint to speak of, nor any blinds. It looks as if somebody'd just built it there, and then forgot it, and gone oft and left it out of doors." Dabney's four sisters had all come into the world before him; but he was as tall as any of them, and was frequently taken by strangers for a good two years older than he was. It was sometimes very hard for him, a boy of fifteen, to live up to what was expected of those extra two years. Mrs. Kinzer still kept him in roundabouts; but they did not seem to hinder his growth at all, if that was her object in so doing. There was no such thing, however, as keeping the four girls in roundabouts of any kind; and, what between them and their mother, the pleasant and tidy little Kinzer homestead, with its snug parlor and its cosey bits of rooms and chambers, seemed to nestle away, under the shadowy elms and sycamores, smaller and smaller with every year that came. It was a terribly tight fit for such a family, anyway; and, now that Dabney was growing at such a rate, there was no telling what they would all come to. But Mrs. Kinzer came at last to the rescue; and she summoned her eldest daughter, Miranda, to her aid. A very notable woman was the widow. When the new railway cut off part of the old farm, she had split up the slice of land between the iron track and the village into "town lots," and had sold them all off by the time the railway company paid her for the "damage" it had done the property. The whole Kinzer family gained visibly in plumpness that year, except, perhaps, Dabney. Of course the condition and requirements of Ham Morris and his big farm, just over the north fence, had not escaped such a pair of eyes as those of the widow; and the very size of his great barn of a house finally settled his fate for him. A large, quiet, unambitious, but well-brought-up and industrious young man was Hamilton Morris, and he had not the least idea of the good in store for him for several months after Mrs. Kinzer decided to marry him to her daughter Miranda; but all was soon settled. Dab, of course, had nothing to do with the wedding arrangements, and Ham's share was somewhat contracted. Not but what he was at the Kinzer house a good deal; nor did any of the other girls tell Miranda how very much he was in the way. He could talk, however; and one morning, about a fortnight before the day appointed, he said to Miranda and her mother,-- "We can't have so very much of a wedding: your house is so small, and you've chocked it so full of furniture. Right down nice furniture it is too; but there's so much of it, I'm afraid the minister'll have to stand out in the front yard." "The house'll do for this time," replied Mrs. Kinzer. "There'll be room enough for everybody. What puzzles me is Dab." "What about Dab?" asked Ham. "Can't find a thing to fit him," said Dab's mother. "Seems as if he were all odd sizes, from head to foot." "Fit him?" exclaimed Ham. "Oh, you mean ready-made goods! Of course you can't. He'll have to be measured by a tailor, and have his new suit built for him." "Such extravagance!" emphatically remarked Mrs. Kinzer. "Not for rich people like you, and for a wedding," replied Ham; "and Dab's a growing boy. Where is he now? I'm going to the village, and I'll take him right along with me." There seemed to be no help for it; but that was the first point relating to the wedding, concerning which Ham Morris was permitted to have exactly his own way. His success made Dab Kinzer a fast friend of his for life, and that was something. There was also something new and wonderful to Dabney himself, in walking into a tailor's shop, picking out cloth to please himself, and being so carefully measured all over. He stretched and stretched himself in all directions, to make sure nothing should turn out too small. At the end of it all, Ham said to him,-- "Now, Dab, my boy, this suit is to be a present from me to you, on Miranda's account." Dab colored and hesitated for a moment: but it seemed all right, he thought; and so he came frankly out with,-- "Thank you, Ham. You always was a prime good fellow. I'll do as much for you some day. Tell you what I'll do, then: I'll have another suit made right away, of this other cloth, and have the bill for that one sent to our folks." "Do it!" exclaimed Ham. "Do it! You've your mother's orders for that. She's nothing to do with my gift." "Splendid!" almost shouted Dab. "Oh, but don't I hope they'll fit!" "Vit," said the tailor: "vill zay vit? I dell you zay vit you like a knife. You vait und zee." Dab failed to get a very clear idea of what the fit would be, but it made him almost hold his breath to think of it. After the triumphant visit to the tailor, there was still a necessity for a call upon the shoemaker, and that was a matter of no small importance. Dab's feet had always been a mystery and a trial to him. If his memory contained one record darker than another, it was the endless history of his misadventures with boots and shoes. He and leather had been at war from the day he left his creeping-clothes until now. But now he was promised a pair of shoes that would be sure to fit. So the question of Dab's personal appearance at the wedding was all arranged between him and Ham; and Miranda smiled more sweetly than ever before upon the latter, after she had heard her usually silent brother break out so enthusiastically about him as he did that evening. It was a good thing for that wedding, that it took place in fine summer weather; for neither kith, kin, nor acquaintances had been slighted in the invitations, and the Kinzers were one of the "oldest families." To have gathered them all under the roof of that house, without either stretching it out wider or boiling the guests down, would have been out of the question; and so the majority, with Dabney in his new clothes to keep them countenance, stood out in the cool shade of the grand old trees during the ceremony, which was performed near the open door; and were afterwards served with the refreshments in a style which spoke volumes for Mrs. Kinzer's good management, as well as for her hospitality. The only drawback to Dab's happiness that day was that his acquaintances hardly seemed to know him. He had had almost the same trouble with himself, when he looked in the glass that morning. Ordinarily, his wrists were several inches through his coat-sleeves, and his ankles made a perpetual show of his stockings. His neck, too, seemed to be holding his head as far as possible from his coat-collar, and his buttons had no favors to ask of his button-holes. Now, even as the tailor had promised, he had received his "first fit." He seemed to himself, to tell the truth, to be covered up in a prodigal waste of new cloth. Would he ever, ever, grow too big for such a suit of clothes as that? It was a very painful thought, and he did his best to put it away from him. Still, it was a little hard to have a young lady, whom he had known since before she began to walk, remark to him,-- "Excuse me, sir, but can you tell me if Mr. Dabney Kinzer is here?" "No, Jenny Walters," sharply responded Dab, "he isn't here." "Why, Dabney!" exclaimed the pretty Jenny. "Is that you? I declare, you have scared me out of a year's growth!" "I wish you'd scare me, then," said Dab. "Then my clothes would stay fitted." Every thing had been so well arranged beforehand, thanks to Mrs. Kinzer, that the wedding had no chance at all except to go off well. Ham Morris was rejoiced to find how entirely he was relieved of every responsibility. "Don't worry about your house," the widow said to him, the night before the wedding. "We'll go over there, as soon as you and Miranda get away, and it'll be all ready for you by the time you get back." "All right," said Ham. "I'll be glad to have you take the old place in hand. I've only tried to live in a corner of it. You don't know how much room there is. I don't, I must say." Dabney had longed to ask her if she meant to have it moved over to the Kinzer side of the north fence, but he had doubts as to the propriety of it; and just then the boy came in from the tailor's with his bundle of new clothes. CHAPTER II. DAB'S OLD CLOTHES GET A NEW BOY TO FIT. Hamilton Morris was a very promising young man, of some thirty summers. He had been an "orphan" for a dozen years; and the wonder was that he should so long have lived alone in the big, square-built house his father left him. At all events, Miranda Kinzer was just the wife for him. Miranda's mother had seen that at a glance, the moment her mind was settled about the house. As to that and his great, spreading, half-cultivated farm, all either of them needed was ready money and management. These were blessings Ham was now made reasonably sure of, on his return from his wedding-trip, and he was likely to appreciate them. As for Dabney Kinzer, he was in no respect overcome by the novelty and excitement of the wedding-day. All the rest of it, after the departure of Ham Morris and the bride, he devoted himself to such duties as were assigned him, with a new and grand idea steadily taking shape in his mind. He felt as if his brains too, like his body, were growing. Some of his mother's older and more intimate friends remained with her all day, probably to comfort her for the loss of Miranda; and two or three of them, Dab knew, would stay to tea, so that his services would be in demand to see them safely home. All day long, moreover, Samantha and Keziah and Pamela seemed to find themselves wonderfully busy, one way and another, so that they paid even less attention than usual to any of the ins and outs of their brother. Dabney was therefore able, with little difficulty, to take for himself whatever of odd time he might require for putting his new idea into execution. Mrs. Kinzer herself noticed the rare good sense with which her son hurried through with his dinner, and slipped away, leaving her in undisturbed possession of the table and her lady guests, and neither she nor either of the girls had a thought of following him. If they had done so, they might have seen him draw a good-sized bundle out from under the lilac-thicket in the back yard, and hurry down through the garden. A few moments more, and Dabney had appeared on the fence of the old cross-road leading down to the shore. There he sat, eying one passer-by after another, till he suddenly sprang from his perch, exclaiming,-- "That's just the chap! Why, they'll fit him, and that's more'n they ever did for me." Dab would probably have had to search along the coast for miles before he could have found a human being better suited to his present charitable purposes than the boy who now came so lazily down the road. There was no doubt about his color, or that he was all over of about the same shade of black. His old tow trowsers and calico shirt revealed the shining fact in too many places to leave room for a question, and shoes he had none. "Dick," said Dabney, "was you ever married?" "Married!" exclaimed Dick, with a peal of very musical laughter, "is I married? No. Is you?" "No," replied Dabney; "but I was very near it, this morning." "Dat so?" asked Dick, with another show of his white teeth. "Done ye good, den; nebber seen ye I look so nice afore." "You'd look nicer'n I do if you were only dressed up," said Dab. "Just you put on these." "Golly!" exclaimed the black boy. But he seized the bundle Dab threw him, and he had it open in a twinkling. "Any t'ing in de pockets?" he asked. "Guess not," said Dab; "but there's lots of room." "Say dar was," exclaimed Dick. "But won't dese t'ings be warm?" It was quite likely; for the day was not a cool one, and Dick never seemed to think of getting off what he had on, before getting into his unexpected present. Coat, vest, and trousers, they were all pulled on with more quickness than Dab had ever seen the young African display before. "I's much obleeged to ye, Mr. Kinzer," said Dick very proudly, as he strutted across the road. "On'y I dasn't go back fru de village." "What'll you do, then?" asked Dab. "S'pose I'd better go a-fishin'," said Dick. "Will de fish bite?" "Oh! the clothes won't make any odds to them," said Dabney. "I must go back to the house." And so he did: while Dick, on whom the cast-off garments of his white friend were really a pretty good fit, marched on down the road, feeling grander than he ever had before in all his life. "That'll be a good thing to tell Ham Morris, when he and Miranda get home again," muttered Dab, as he re-entered the house. Late that evening, when Dabney returned from his final duties as escort to his mother's guests, she rewarded him with more than he could remember ever receiving of motherly commendation. "I've been really quite proud of you, Dabney," she said, as she laid her plump hand on the collar of his new coat, and kissed him. "You've behaved like a perfect little gentleman." "Only, mother," exclaimed Keziah, "he spent too much of his time with that sharp-tongued little Jenny Walters." "Never mind, Kezi," said Dab: "she didn't know who I was till I told her. I'm going to wear a label with my name on it when I go over to the village to-morrow." "And then you'll put on your other suit in the morning," said Mrs. Kinzer. "You must keep this for Sundays and great occasions." "Any more weddings coming, right away?" said Dab, with a sharp glance around upon what remained of the family; but the girls were all very busy just then, with their books and their sewing, and he did not get any direct reply. Even his mother walked away after something she had left in the dining-room. When the next morning came, Dabney Kinzer was a more than usually early riser, for he felt that he had waked up to a very important day. "Dabney," exclaimed his mother, when he came in to breakfast, "did I not tell you to put on your other suit?" "So I have, mother," replied Dab: this is my other suit." "That?" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer. "So it is!" cried Keziah. "So it isn't," added Samantha. "Mother, that is not what he had on yesterday." "He's been trading again," mildly suggested Pamela. "Dabney," said Mrs. Kinzer, "what does this mean?" "Mean!" replied Dabney. "Why, these are the clothes you told me to buy. The lot I wore yesterday were a present from Ham Morris. He's a splendid fellow. I'm glad he got the best of the girls." That was a bad thing for Dabney to say just then, for it was vigorously resented by the remaining three. As soon as quiet was restored, however, Mrs. Kinzer remarked,-- "I think Hamilton should have consulted me about it, but it's too late now. Anyhow, you may go and put on your other clothes." "My wedding suit?" asked Dab. "No, indeed! I mean your old ones,--those you took off night before last." "Dunno where they are," slowly responded Dab. "Don't know where they are?" responded a chorus of four voices. "No," said Dab. "Bill Lee's black boy had em on all yesterday afternoon, and I reckon he's gone a-fishing again to-day. They fit him a good sight better 'n they ever did me." If Dabney had expected a storm to come from his mother's end of the table, he was pleasantly mistaken; and his sisters had it all to themselves for a moment. Then, with an admiring glance at her son, the thoughtful matron remarked,-- "Just like his father, for all the world! It's no use, girls: Dabney's a growing boy in more ways than one. Dabney, I shall want you to go over to the Morris house with me after breakfast. Then you may hitch up the ponies, and we'll do some errands around the village." Dab Kinzer's sisters looked at one another in blank astonishment, and Samantha would have left the table if she had only finished her breakfast. Pamela, as being nearest to Dab in age and sympathy, gave a very admiring look at her brother's second "good fit," and said nothing. Even Keziah finally admitted, in her own mind, that such a change in Dabney's appearance might have its advantages. But Samantha inwardly declared war. The young hero himself was hardly used to that second suit, as yet, and felt any thing but easy in it. "I wonder," he said to himself, "what Jenny Walters would say to me now. Wonder if she'd know me." Not a doubt of it. But after he had finished his breakfast, and gone out, his mother remarked,-- "It's really all right, girls. I almost fear I have been neglecting Dabney. He isn't a little boy any more." "He isn't a man yet," exclaimed Samantha. "And he talks slang dreadfully." "But then, he does grow so!" remarked Keziah. "Mother," said Pamela, "couldn't you get Dab to give Dick Lee the slang, along with the old clothes?" "We'll see about it," replied Mrs. Kinzer. It was very clear that Dabney's mother had begun to take in a new idea about her son. It was not the least bit in the world unpleasant to find out that he was "growing in more ways than one," and it was quite likely that she had indeed kept him too long in roundabouts. At all events, his great idea had been worked out into a triumphant success; and, before the evening was over, Pamela replied to a remark of Samantha's,-- "I don't care. He's taller than I am, and I'd ever so much rather have a frock-coat walk beside me to meeting." CHAPTER III. A MEMBER OF ONE OF THE OLDEST FAMILIES MEETS A YOUNG GENTLEMAN FROM THE CITY. Dick Lee had been more than half right about the village being a dangerous place for him, with such an unusual amount of clothing over his ordinary uniform. The very dogs, every one of whom was an old acquaintance, barked at him on his way home that night; and, proud as were his ebony father and mother of the improvement in their son's appearance, they yielded to his earnest entreaties, first, that he might wear his present all the next day, and, second, that he might betake himself to the "bay" early in the morning, and so keep out of sight "till he got used to it." "On'y, you jist mind wot yer about!" said his mother, "and see't you keep dem clo'es from gettin' wet. I jist can't 'foard to hab dem spiled right away." The fault with Dab Kinzer's old suit, after all, had lain mainly in its size rather than its materials; for Mrs. Kinzer was too good a manager to be really stingy. Dick succeeded in reaching the boat-landing without falling in with any one who seemed disposed to laugh at him; but there, right on the wharf, was a white boy of about his own age, and he felt a good deal like backing out. "Nebber seen him afore, either," said Dick to himself. "Den I guess I ain't afeard ob him." The stranger was a somewhat short and thick-set, but bright and active-looking boy, with a pair of very keen, greenish-gray eyes. But, after all, the first word he spoke to poor Dick was,-- "Hullo, clothes! Where are you going with all that boy?" "I knowed it, I knowed it!" groaned Dick. But he answered as sharply as he knew how,-- "I's goin' a-fishin'. Any ob youah business?"-- "Where'd you learn how to fish?" the stranger asked, "Down South? Didn't know they had any there." "Nebbah was down Souf," was the somewhat surly reply. "Father run away, did he?" "He nebber was down dar, nudder." "Nor his father?" "'Tain't no business ob yourn," said Dick, "but we's allers lived right heah, on dis bay." "Guess not," said the white boy knowingly. Dick was right, nevertheless; for his people had been slaves among the very earliest Dutch settlers, and had never "lived South" at all. He was now busily getting one of the boats ready to shove off; but his white tormentor went at him again, with,-- "Well, then, if you've lived round here as long as that, you must know everybody." "Reckon I do." "Are there any nice fellows around here? Any like me?" "De nicest young gen'lman round dis bay," replied Dick, "is Mr. Dab Kinzer. But he ain't like you. Not nuff to hurt him." "Dab Kinzer," exclaimed the stranger. "Where'd he get his name?" "In de bay, I 'spect," said Dick, as he shoved his boat off; "caught 'im wid a hook." "Anyhow," said the strange boy to himself, "that's probably the kind of fellow my father would wish me to associate with. Only it's likely he's very ignorant." And he walked away towards the village, with the air of a man who had forgotten more than the rest of his race were ever likely to find out. At all events, Dick Lee had managed to say a good word for his benefactor, little as he could guess what might be the consequences. Meantime Dab Kinzer, when he went out from breakfast, had strolled away to the north fence, for a good look at the house which was thenceforth to be the home of his favorite sister. He had seen it before, every day since he could remember; but it seemed to have a fresh and almost mournful interest for him just now. "Hullo!" he exclaimed, as he leaned against the fence. "Putting up ladders? Oh, yes, I see! That's old Tommy McGrew, the house-painter. Well, Ham's house needs a new coat as badly as I did. Sure it'll fit too. Only it ain't used to it, any more'n I am." "Dabney!" It was his mother's voice, and Dab felt like "minding" very promptly that morning. "Dabney, my boy, come here to the gate." "Ham Morris is having his house painted," he remarked, as he walked towards his mother. "Is he?" she said. "We'll go and see about it." The gate between the two "side-yards" had been there from time immemorial, and-they walked right through. As they drew nearer the Morris house, however, Dabney discovered that carpenters as well as painters were plying their trade in and about the old homestead. There were window-sashes piled here, and blinds there; a new door or so, ready for use, a great stack of bundles of shingles, some barrels of lime, and a heap of sand. Whichever way Dab looked, there were visible signs of an approaching renovation. "Going to fix it all over," he remarked. "Yes," replied his mother: "it'll be as good as new. It was well built, and will bear mending. I couldn't say that of some of the shackling things they've been putting up around the village." When they entered the house it became more and more evident that the "shabby" days of the Morris mansion were numbered. There were men at work in almost every room. Ham's wedding-trip would surely give plenty of time, at that rate, for an immense amount of "mending;" and his house would be, as the widow had promised, "all ready for him on his return." There was nothing wonderful to Dabney in the idea of his mother going about and inspecting work, and finding fault, and giving directions. He had never seen her do any thing else, and he had the greatest confidence in her knowledge and ability. He noticed too, before they left the place, that the customary farm-work was going ahead with even more regularity and energy than if the owner himself had been present. "Ham's farm'll look something like ours, one of these days," he said, "if things go on at this rate." "I mean it shall," replied his mother, a little sharply. "Now go and get out the ponies, and we'll do the rest of our errands." Dab started for the barn at a half trot; for, if there was one thing he liked better than another, it was to have the reins in his hands and that pair of ponies before him. Time had been when Mrs. Kinzer did her own driving, and only permitted Dab to "hold the horses" while she made her calls, business or otherwise; but that day had been safely put away among Dab's unpleasant memories for a good while. It was but a few minutes before the neat buggy held the widow and her son, and the ponies were taking them briskly down the road towards the village. It they had only known it, at that very moment Ham Morris and his blooming bride were setting out for a drive, at the fashionable watering-place where they had made their first stop in their wedding-tour. "Ham," said Miranda, "it seems to me as if we were a thousand miles from home." "We shall be a good deal farther before we get any nearer," said Ham. "But I wonder what they are doing there, this morning,--mother, and the girls, and dear little Dabney." "Little Dabney!" exclaimed Ham, with a queer sort of laugh on his face. "Why, Miranda, do you think Dab is a baby yet?" "No, not a baby, but"-- "Well, he's a boy, that's a fact; but he'll be as tall as I am in three years." "Will he? Do you think so? But will he ever get fat?" "Not till after he gets his full length," said Ham. "We must have him at our house a good deal, after we get home, and feed him up. I've taken a liking to Dab." "Feed him up!" said Miranda. "Do you think we starve him?" "No, I suppose not; but how many meals a day does he get?" "Three, of course, like the rest of us; and he never misses one of them." "Exactly," said Ham: "I shouldn't suppose he would. I never miss a meal, myself, if I can help it. But don't you think three meals a day is rather short allowance for a boy like Dab?" Miranda thought a moment, but then she answered positively,-- "No, I don't. Not if he does as well at each one of them as Dabney is sure to." "Well," said Ham, "that was in his old clothes, that were too tight for him. Now he's got a good loose fit, with plenty of room, you don't know how much more he may need. No, Miranda, I'm going to have an eye on Dab." "You're a dear good fellow, anyway," said Miranda, with one of her very best smiles, "and I hope mother'll have the house all ready for us when we get back." "She will," replied Ham, after a moment spent in somewhat thoughtful silence. "Do you know, Miranda, I shall hardly be easy about that till I see what she's done with it? It was in a dreadfully baggy condition." CHAPTER IV. TWO BOYS, ONE PIG, AND AN UNFORTUNATE RAILWAY-TRAIN. "That's him!" Dab was standing by his ponies, in front of a store in the village. His mother was making some purchases in the store, and Dab was thinking how the Morris house would look when it was finished; and it was at him the old farmer was pointing in answer to a question which had just been asked him. The questioner was the sharp-eyed boy who had bothered poor Dick Lee that morning, and he was now evidently making a sort of "study" of Dab Kinzer. At that moment, however, a young lady--quite young--came tripping along the sidewalk, and was stopped by Dabney, with,-- "There, Jenny Walters! If I didn't forget my label!" "Why, Dabney! Is that you? How you startled me! Forgot your label?" "Yes," said Dab; "I'm in another new suit today; and I meant to have a label on the collar, with my name on it. You'd have known me then." "But I know you now," exclaimed Jenny. "Why, I saw you yesterday." "Yes, and I told you it was me. Can you read, Jenny?" "Why, what a question!" "Because, if you can't, it won't do me any good to wear a label." "Dabney Kinzer!" exclaimed Jenny, "there's an other thing you ought to get." "What's that?" "Some good manners," said the little lady snappishly. "Think of your stopping me in the street to tell me I can't read!" "Then you mustn't forget me so quick," said Dab. "If you meet my old clothes anywhere you must call them Dick Lee. They've had a change of name." "So he's in them, is he? I don't doubt they look better than they ever did before." Jenny walked away at once, at the end of that remark, holding her head pretty high, and leaving her old playmate feeling as if he had had a little the worst of it. That was often the way with people who stopped to talk with Jenny Walters, and she was not as much of a favorite as she otherwise might have been. Dabney looked after her with his mouth puckered into shape for a whistle; but she had hardly disappeared before he found himself confronted by the strange young gentleman. "Is your name Dabney Kinzer?" "Yes, I believe so." "Well, I'm Mr. Ford Foster, from New York." "Come over here to buy goods?" suggested Dabney. "Or to get something to eat?" Ford Foster was apparently of about Dab's age, but a full head less in height, so that there was more point in the question than there seemed to be; but he treated it as not worthy of notice, and asked,-- "Do you know of a house to let anywhere about here?" "House to let?" suddenly exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Kinzer, behind him, much to Dab's surprise. "Are you asking about a house? Whom for?" Ford Foster had been quite ready to "chaff" Dick Lee, and he would not have hesitated about trying a like experiment upon Mr. Dabney Kinzer; but he knew enough to speak respectfully to the portly and business-like lady before him now. "Yes, madam," he said, with a ceremonious bow: "I wish to report to my father that I have found an acceptable house in this vicinity." "You do!" Mrs. Kinzer was reading the young gentleman through and through, as she spoke; but she followed her exclamation with a dozen questions, all of which he answered with a good deal of clearness and intelligence. She wound up at last, with,-- "Go right home, then, and tell your father the only good house to let in this neighborhood will be ready for him next week. I'll show it to him when he comes, but he'd better see me at once. Dabney, jump into the buggy. I'm in a hurry." The ponies were in motion, up the street, before Ford Foster quite recovered from the shock of being told to "go right home." "A very remarkable woman," he muttered, as he turned away, "and she did not tell me a word about the house, after all. I must make some more inquiries. The boy is actually well dressed, for a place like this." "Mother," said Dabney, as they drove along, "you wouldn't let 'em have Ham's house, would you?" "No, indeed. But I don't mean to have our own stand empty." With that reply a great deal of light broke in upon Dab's mind. "That's it, is it?" he said to himself, as he touched up the ponies. "Well, there'll be room enough for all of us there, and no mistake. But what'll Ham say?" That was a question which he could safely leave to the very responsible lady beside him; and she found "errands" enough for him, during the remainder of that forenoon, to keep him from worrying his mind about any thing else. As for Ford Foster, it was not until late on the following day that he completed all his "inquiries" to his satisfaction. He took the afternoon train for the city, almost convinced that, much as he undoubtedly knew before he came, he had actually acquired a good deal more knowledge which might be of some value. Ford was almost the only passenger in the car he had selected. Trains going towards the city were apt to be thinly peopled at that time of day; but the empty cars had to be taken along all the same, for the benefit of the crowds who would be coming out later in the afternoon and in the evening. The railway-company would have made more money with full loads both ways, but it was well they did not have a full load on that precise train. Ford had turned over the seat in front of him, and stretched himself out with his feet on it. It was almost like lying down, for a boy of his length; and it was the very best position he could possibly have taken if he had known what was coming. Known what was coming? Yes: there was a pig coming. That was all; but it was quite enough, considering what that pig was about to do. He was going where he chose, just then; and not only had he chosen to walk upon the railroad-track, but he had also made up his mind not to turn out for that locomotive and its train of cars. He saw it, of course, for he was looking straight at it; and the engineer saw him, but it would have been well for the pig if he had been discovered a few seconds earlier. "What a whistle!" exclaimed Ford Foster at that moment. "It sounds more like the squeal of an iron pig than any thing else. I"-- But at that instant there came to him a great jolt and a shock; and Ford found himself tumbled all in a heap, on the seat where his feet had been. Then came bounce after bounce, and the sound of breaking glass, and then a crash. "Off the track," shouted Ford, as he sprang to his feet. "I wouldn't have missed it for any thing. I do hope, though, there hasn't anybody been killed." In the tremendous excitement of the moment he could hardly have told how he got out of that car; but it did not seem ten seconds before he was standing beside the engineer and conductor of the train, looking at the battered engine, as it lay upon its side in a deep ditch. The baggage-car, just behind it, was broken all to pieces, but the passenger-cars did not seem to have suffered very much; and nobody was badly hurt, as the engineer and fireman had jumped off in time. There had been very little left of the pig; but the conductor and the rest seemed much disposed to say unkind things about him, and about his owner, and about all the other pigs they could think of. "This train'll never get in on time," said Ford to the conductor, a little later. "How'll I get to the city?" The railway man was not in the best of humors; and he answered, a little groutily, "Well, young man, I don't suppose the city could get along without you over night. The junction with the main road is only two miles ahead, and if you're a good walker you may catch a train there." Some of the other passengers, none of whom were much more than "badly shaken up," or down, had made the same discovery; and in a few minutes more there was a long, straggling procession of uncomfortable people, marching by the side of the railway-track, in the hot sun. They were nearly all of them making unkind remarks about pigs, and the faculty they had of not getting out of the way. The conductor was right, however; and nearly all of them managed to walk the two miles to the junction in time to go in on the other train. Ford Foster was among the first to arrive, and he was likely to reach home in season, in spite of the pig and his outrageous conduct. As for his danger, he had hardly thought of that; and he again and again declared to himself that he would not have missed so important an adventure for any thing he could think of. It almost sounded once or twice as if he took to himself no small amount of personal credit, not to say glory, for having been in so remarkable an accident, and come out of it so well. Ford's return, when he should make it, was to take him to a great, pompous, stylish, crowded "up-town boarding-house," in one of the fashionable streets of the great city. There was no wonder at all that wise people should wish to get out of such a place in such hot weather. Still it was the sort of home Ford Foster had been acquainted with all his life; and it was partly owing to that, that he had become so prematurely "knowing." He knew too much, in fact, and was only too well aware of it. He had filled his head with an unlimited stock of boarding-house information, as well as with a firm persuasion that there was little more to be had,--unless, indeed, it might be scraps of such outside knowledge as he had now been picking up over on Long Island. In one of the large "parlor-chambers" of the boarding-house, at about eight o'clock that evening, a middle-aged gentleman and lady, with a fair, sweet-faced girl of about nineteen, were sitting near an open window, very much as if they were waiting for somebody. Such a kind, motherly lady! She was one of those whom no one can help liking, after seeing her smile once, or hearing her speak. Ford Foster himself could not have put in words what he thought about his mother. And yet he had no difficulty whatever in expressing his respect for his father, or his unbounded admiration for his pretty sister Annie. "O husband!" exclaimed Mrs. Foster, "are you sure none of them were injured?" "So the telegraphic report said; not a bone broken of anybody, but the pig that got in the way." "How I wish he would come!" groaned Annie. "Have you any idea, father, how Ford could get to the city?" "Not clearly, my dear," said her father; "but you can trust Ford not to miss any opportunity. He's just the boy to look out for himself in an emergency." Ford Foster's father took very strongly after the son in whose presence of mind and ability he expressed so much confidence. He had just such a square, active, bustling sort of body, several sizes larger; with just such keen, penetrating, greenish-gray eyes. Anybody would have picked him out at a glance for a lawyer, and a good one. That was exactly what he was; and, if anybody had become acquainted with either son or father, there would have been no difficulty afterward in identifying the other. It required a good deal more than the telegraphic report of the accident, or even her husband's assurances, to relieve the motherly anxiety of good Mrs. Foster, or even to drive away the shadows from the face of Annie. No doubt, if Ford himself had known the state of affairs in his family circle, they would have been relieved earlier; for, even while they were talking about him, he had reached the end of his adventures, and was already in the house. It had not so much as occurred to him that his mother would hear of the disaster to the pig and the railway-train until he himself should tell her; and so he had made sure of his supper down stairs before reporting his arrival. He might not have done it perhaps; but he had entered the house by the lower way, through the area door, and that of the dining-room had stood temptingly open, with some very eatable things spread out upon the table. That had been too much for Ford, after his car-ride, and his smash-up, and his long walk. Now, at last, up he came, three stairs at a time, brimful of new and wonderful experiences, to be more than a little astonished by the manner and enthusiasm of his welcome. "Why, mother," he exclaimed, when he got a chance for a word, "you and Annie couldn't have said much more if I'd been the pig himself!" "The pig!" said Annie. "Yes, the pig that stopped us. He and the engine won't go home to their families to-night." "Don't make fun of it, Ford," said his mother gently. "It's too serious a matter." Just then his father broke in, almost impatiently, with,-- "Well, Ford, my boy, have you done your errand? or shall I have to see about it myself? You've been gone two days." "Thirty-seven hours and a half, father," replied Ford, taking out his watch. "I've kept an exact account of my expenses. We've saved the cost of advertising." "And spent it on railroading," said his father, with a laugh. "But, Ford," asked Annie, "did you find a house?--a good one?" "Yes," added Mrs. Foster: "now I'm sure you're safe, I do want to hear about the house." "It's all right, mother," said Ford confidently. "The very house you told me to hunt for. Neither too large nor too small. I've only seen the outside of it, but every thing about it is in apple-pie order." There were plenty of questions to answer now, but Ford was every way equal to the occasion. Some of his answers might have made Mrs. Kinzer herself open her eyes, for the material for them had been obtained from her own neighbors. Ford's report, in fact, compelled his father to look at him with an expression of face which very plainly meant,-- "That's my boy. He resembles me. I was just like him, at his age. He'll be just like me, at mine." There was excellent reason, beyond question, to approve of the manner in which the young gentleman had performed his errand in the country; and Mr. Foster promptly decided to go over in a day or two, and see what sort of an arrangement could be made with Mrs. Kinzer. CHAPTER V. NEW NEIGHBORS, AND GETTING SETTLED. The week which followed the wedding-day was an important one. The improvements on the Morris house were pushed along in a way that astonished everybody. Every day that passed, and with every dollar's worth of work that was done, the good points of the long-neglected old mansion came out stronger and stronger. The plans of Mrs. Kinzer had been a good while in getting ready, and she knew exactly what was best to be done at every hole and corner. Within a few days after Ford's trip of investigation, he and his father came over from the city; and Mr. Foster speedily came to a perfect understanding with Dabney's mother. "A very business-like, common-sense sort of a woman," the lawyer remarked to his son. "But what a great, dangling, overgrown piece of a boy that is! Still, he seems intelligent, and you may find him good company." "No doubt of it," said Ford. "I may be useful to him too. He looks as if he could learn if he only had a fair chance." "I should say so," responded Mr. Foster. "We must not expect too much of fellows brought up away out here, as he has been." Ford gravely assented, and they went back to report their success to Mrs. Foster and Annie. There was a great surprise in store, consequently, for the people of the village. Early in the following week it was rumored from house to house,-- "The Kinzers are all a-movin' over to Ham Morris's." And then, before the public mind had become sufficiently settled to inquire into the matter, the rumor changed itself into a piece of positive news:-- "The widder Kinzer's moved over into Ham's house, bag and baggage." So it was; although the carpenters and painters and glaziers were still at work, and the piles of Kinzer furniture had to be stored around as best could be. Some part of them had even to be locked up over night in one of the barns. The Kinzers, for generations, had been a trifle weak about furniture; and that was one of the reasons why there had been so little room for human beings in their house. The little parlor, indeed, had been filled until it put one in mind of a small furniture-store, with not room enough to show the stock on hand; and some of the other parts of the house required knowledge and care to walk about in them. It was bad for a small house, truly, but not so much so when the same articles were given a fair chance to spread themselves. It was a treat to Dab to watch while the new carpets were put down, and see how much more at home and comfortable all that furniture looked, after it was moved into its new quarters. He remarked to Keziah,-- "It won't be of any use for anybody to try to sit on that sofa and play the piano. They'll have to get up and come over." Mrs. Kinzer took good care that the house she left should speak well of her to the eyes of Mrs. Foster, when that lady came to superintend the arrival of her own household goods. The character of these, by the way, at once convinced the village gossips that "lawyer Foster must be a good deal forehanded in money matters." And so he was, even more so than his furniture indicated. Ford had a wonderful deal to do with the settlement of his family in their new home; and it was not until nearly the close of the week that he found time for more than an occasional glance over the north fence, although he and Dab had several times exchanged a word or two when they met each other on the road. "Take the two farms together," his father had said to him, "and they make a really fine estate. I learn, too, that the Kinzers have other property. Your young acquaintance is likely to have a very good start in the world." Ford had found out very nearly as much as that on his own account; but he had long since learned the uselessness of trying to teach his father any thing, however well he might succeed with ordinary people, and so he said nothing. "Dabney," said Mrs. Kinzer, that Friday evening, "you've been a great help all the week. Suppose you take the ponies to-morrow morning, and ask young Foster out for a drive." "Mother," exclaimed Samantha, "I shall want the ponies myself. I've some calls to make, and some shopping. Dabney will have to drive." "No, Sam," said Dabney: "if you go out with the ponies to-morrow, you'll have my old clothes to drive you. I'll go and speak to them about it." "What do you mean?" asked Samantha. "I mean, with Dick Lee in them." "That would be just as well," said Mrs. Kinzer. "The ponies are gentle enough, and Dick drives well. He'll be glad enough to go." "Dick Lee, indeed!" began Samantha. "A fine boy," interrupted Dab. "And he's beginning to dress well. His new clothes fit him beautifully. All he really needs is a shirt, and I'll give him one. Mine are getting too small." Samantha's fingers fidgeted a little with the tidy they were holding; but Mrs. Kinzer said composedly,-- "Well, Dabney, I've been thinking about it. You ought not to be tied down all the while. Suppose you take next week pretty much to yourself: Samantha won't want the ponies every day. The other horses have all got to work, or I'd let you have one of them." Dabney got up, for want of a better answer, and walked over to where his mother was sitting, and gave the thoughtful matron a good sounding kiss. At the same time he could not help thinking,-- "This comes of Ham Morris and my new rig." "There, Dabney, that'll do," said his mother; "but how'll you spend Saturday?" "Guess I'll take Ford Foster out in the bay, a-crabbing, if he'll go," replied Dabney. "I'll run over and ask him." It was not too late, and he was out of the house before there was any chance for further remarks from the girls. "Now," he muttered, as he walked along, "I'll have to see old lawyer Foster, and Mrs. Foster, and I don't know who all besides. I don't like that." Just as he came to the north fence, however, he was hailed by a clear, wide-awake voice,-- "Dab Kinzer, is that you?" "Guess so," said Dab: "is that you, Ford?" "I was just going over to your house," said Ford. "Well, so was I just coming over to see you. I've been too busy all the week, but they've let up on me at last." "I've got our family nearly settled," replied Ford; "and I thought I'd ask if you wouldn't like to go out on the bay with me to-morrow. Teach you to catch crabs." Dabney drew a long, astonished sort of whistle; but he finished it with,-- "That's about what I was thinking of. There's plenty of crabs, and I've got a tip-top boat. We won't want a heavy one for just us two." "All right, then. We'll begin on crabs, but some other day we'll go for bigger fish. What are you going to do next week?" "Got it all to myself," said Dab. "We can have all sorts of a good time. We can have the ponies, too, when we want them." "That's about as good as it knows how to be," responded the young gentleman from the city. "I'd like to explore the country. You're going to have a nice place of it, over there, before you get through. Only, if I'd had the planning of that house, I'd have set it back farther. Too much room all round it. Not enough trees either." Dab came stoutly to the defence of not only that house, but of Long-Island architecture generally, and was fairly overwhelmed, for the first time in his life, by a flood of big words from a boy of his own age. He could have eaten up Ford Foster, if properly cooked. He felt sure of that. But he was no match for him on the building question. On his way back to his new home, however, after the discussion had lasted long enough, he found himself inquiring,-- "That's all very nice, but what can he teach me about crabs? We'll see about that to-morrow." Beyond a doubt, the crab question was of special importance; but one of far greater consequence to Dab Kinzer's future was undergoing discussion, at that very hour, hundreds of miles away. Quite a little knot of people there was, in a hotel parlor; and while the blooming Miranda, now Mrs. Morris, was taking her share of talk very well with the ladies, Ham was every bit as busy with a couple of elderly gentlemen. "It's just as I say, Mr. Morris," said one of the latter, with a superfluous show of energy: "there's no better institution of its kind in the country than Grantley Academy. I send my own boys there; and I've just written about it to my brother-in-law, Foster, the New-York lawyer. He'll have his boy there this fall. No better place in the country, sir." "But how about the expenses, Mr. Hart?" asked Ham. "Fees are just what I told you, sir, a mere nothing. As for board, all I pay for my boys is three dollars a week. All they want to eat, sir, and good accommodations. Happy as larks, sir, all the time. Cheap, sir, cheap." If Ham Morris had the slightest idea of going to school at a New-England academy, Miranda's place in the improved house was likely to wait for her; for he had a look on his face of being very nearly convinced. She did not seem at all disturbed, however; and probably she knew that her husband was not taking up the school question on his own account. Nevertheless, that was the reason why it might have been interesting for Dab Kinzer, and even for his knowing neighbor, to have added themselves to the company Ham and Miranda had fallen in with on their wedding-tour. Both of the boys had a different kind of thinking on hand; and that night Dab dreamed that a gigantic crab was trying to pull Ford Foster out of the boat, while the latter calmly remarked to him,-- "There, my young friend, did you ever see anything just like that before?" CHAPTER VI. CRABS, BOYS, AND A BOAT-WRECK. That Saturday morning was a sad one for poor Dick Lee. His mother, the previous night, carefully locked up his elegant apparel, the gift of Mr. Dabney Kinzer. It was done after Dick was in bed; and, when daylight came again, he found only his old clothes by the bedside. It was a hard thing to bear, no doubt; but Dick had been a bad boy on Friday. He had sold his fish instead of bringing them home, and then had gone and squandered the money on a brilliant new red necktie. "Dat's good 'nuff for me to wear to meetin'," said Mrs. Lee, when her eyes fell upon the gorgeous bit of cheap silk. "Reckon it won't be wasted on any good-for-nuffin boy. I'll show ye wot to do wid yer fish. You' a-gettin' too mighty fine, anyhow." Dick was disconsolate for a while; but his humility took the form of a determination to go for crabs that day, mainly because his mother had long since set her face against that tribe of animals. "Dey's a wasteful, 'stravagant sort ob fish," remarked Mrs. Lee, in frequent explanation of her dislike. "Dey's all clo'es and no body, like some w'ite folks I know on. I don't mean de Kinzers. Dey's all got body nuff." And yet that inlet had a name and reputation of its own for crabs. There was a wide reach of shallow water, inside the southerly point at the mouth, where, over several hundred acres of muddy flats, the depth varied from three and a half to eight feet, with the ebb and flow of the tides. That was a sort of perpetual crab-pasture; and there it was that Dick Lee determined to expend his energies that Saturday. Very likely there would be other crabbers on the flats; but Dick was not the boy to object to that, provided none of them should notice the change in his raiment. At an early hour, therefore, Dab and Ford were preceded by their young colored friend, they themselves waiting for later breakfasts than Mrs. Lee was in the habit of preparing. Dick's ill fortune did not leave him when he got out of sight of his mother. It followed him down to the shore of the inlet, and compelled him to give up, for that day, all idea of borrowing a respectable boat. There were several, belonging to the neighbors, from among which Dick was accustomed to take his pick, in return for errands run and other services rendered to their owners; but on this particular morning not one of them all was available. Some were fastened with ugly chains and padlocks. Two were hauled away above even high-water mark, and so Dick could not have got either of them into the water even if he had dared to try; and as for the rest, as Dick said,-- "Guess dar owners must hab come and borrered 'em." The consequence was, that the dark-skinned young fisherman was for once compelled to put up with his own boat, or rather his father's. The three wise men of Gotham were not much worse off when they went to sea in a bowl than was Dick Lee in that rickety little old flat-bottomed punt. Did it leak? Well, not so very much, with no heavier weight than Dick's; but there was reason in his remark that,-- "Dis yer's a mean boat to frow down a fish in, when you cotch 'im. He's done suah to git drownded." Yes, and the crabs would get their feet wet, and so would Dick; but he resigned himself to his circumstances, and pushed away. To tell the truth, he had not been able to free himself from a lingering fear lest his mother might come after him, before he could get afloat, with orders for some duty or other on shore; and that would have been worse than going to sea in the little old scow, a good deal. "Reckon it's all right," said Dick as he shoved off. "It'd be an awful risk to trus' dem nice clo'es in de ole boat, suah." Nice clothes, nice boats, a good many other nice things, were as yet beyond the reach of Dick Lee; but he was quite likely to catch as many crabs as his more aristocratic neighbors. As for Dabney Kinzer and his friend from the city, they were on their way to the water-side, after all, at an hour which indicated either smaller appetites than usual or greater speed at the breakfast-table. "Plenty of boats, I should say," remarked Ford, as he surveyed the little "landing" and its vicinity with the air of a man who had a few fleets of his own. "All sorts. Any of 'em fast?" "Not many," said Dab. "The row-boats, big and little, have to be built so they will stand pretty rough water." "How are the sail-boats?" "Same thing. There's Ham Morris's yacht." "That? Why, she's as big as any in the lot." "Bigger; but she don't show it." "Can't we take a cruise in her?" asked Ford. "Any time. Ham lets me use her whenever I like. She's fast enough, but she's built so she'll stand 'most any thing. Safe as a house if she's handled right." "Handled!" Ford Foster's expression of face would have done honor to the Secretary of the Navy, or the Chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee in Congress, or any other perfect seaman, Noah included. It seemed to say,-- "As if any boat could be otherwise than well sailed, with me on board!" Dabney, however, even while he was talking, had been hauling in from its "float and grapnel," about ten yards out at low water, the very stanch-looking little yawl-boat that called him owner. She was just such a boat as Mrs. Kinzer would naturally have provided for her boy,--stout, well-made, and sensible,--without any bad habits of upsetting or the like. Not too large for Dabney to manage all alone, "The Jenny," as he called her, and as her name was painted on the stern, was all the better for having two on board, and had room in her then for more. "The inlet's pretty narrow for a long reach through the marsh," said Dabney, "and as crooked as a ram's horn. I'll steer, and you pull, till we're out o' that, and then I'll take the oars." "I might as well row out to the crab-grounds," said Ford, as he pitched his coat forward, and took his seat at the oars. "All ready?" "Ready," said Dab; and "The Jenny" glided gracefully away from the landing with the starting-push he gave her. Ford Foster had had oars in his hands before, but his experience had been limited to a class of vessels different in some respects from the one he was in now. He was short of something, at all events. It may have been skill, or it may have been legs or discretion; but, whatever was lacking, at the third or fourth stroke the oar-blades went a little too deeply below the smooth surface of the water. There was a vain tug, a little out of "time;" and then there was a boy on the bottom of the boat, and a pair of well-polished shoes lifted high in the air. "You've got it," shouted Dabney. "Got what?" exclaimed an all-but angry voice from down there between the seats. "Caught the first 'crab,'" replied Dabney: "that's what we call it. Can you steer? Guess I'd better row." "No, you won't," was the very resolute reply, as Ford regained his seat and his oars. "I sha'n't catch any more crabs of that sort. I'm a little out of practice, that's all." "I should say you were, a little. Well, it won't hurt you. 'Tisn't much of a pull." Ford would have pulled it now if he had blistered all the skin off his hands in doing so; and he did very creditable work for some minutes, among the turns and windings of the narrow inlet. "Here we are," shouted Dabney at last. "We are in the inlet yet, but it widens out into the bay." "That's the bay, out yonder?" "Yes; and the island between that and the ocean's no better'n a mere bar of sand." "How d'you get past it?" "Right across there, almost in a straight line. We'll run it next week in Ham's yacht. Splendid weak-fishing right in the mouth of that inlet, on the ocean side." "Hurrah!" exclaimed Ford, "I'm in for that. Is the bay deep?" "Not very," replied Dabney; "but it gets pretty rough sometimes." Ford was getting pretty red in the face just then, with his unaccustomed exercise; and his friend added,-- "You needn't pull so hard: we're almost there. Hullo! if there isn't Dick Lee, in his dry-goods box. That boat'll drown him some day, and his dad too. But just see him pull in crabs!" Ford came near "catching" one more as he tried to turn around for the look proposed, exclaiming,-- "Dab, let's get to work as quick as we can. They might go away." "Might fly?" "No; but don't they go and come?" "Well, you go and drop the grapnel over the bows, and we'll see 'em come in pretty quick." The grapnel, or little anchor, was thrown over quickly enough; and the two boys were in such an eager haste that they had hardly a word to say to Dick, though he was now but a few rods away. Now, it happened that when Ford and Dab came down to the water that morning, each of them had brought a load. The former had only a neat little japanned tin box, about as big as his head; and the latter, besides his oars, carried a seemingly pretty heavy basket. "Lots of lunch, I should say," had been Ford's mental comment; but he had not thought it wise to ask questions. "Plenty of lunch in that box," thought Dab at the same moment, but only as a matter of course. And they were both wrong. Lunch was the one thing they had both forgotten. But the box and the basket. Ford Foster came out, of his own accord, with the secret of the box; for he now took a little key out of his pocket, and unlocked it with an air of-- "Look at this, will you?" Dab Kinzer looked, and was very sure he had never before seen quite such an assortment of brand-new fish-hooks, of many sorts and sizes, and of fish-lines which looked as if they had thus far spent their lives on dry land. "Tip-top," he remarked. "I see a lot of things we can use one of these days, but there isn't time to go over 'em now. Let's go for the crabs. What made you bring your box along?" "Oh!" replied Ford, "I left my rods at home, both of 'em. You don't s'pose I'd go for crabs with a rod, do you? But you can take your pick of hooks and lines." "Crabs? Hooks and lines?" "Why, yes. You don't mean to scoop 'em up in that landing-net, do you?" Dab looked at his friend for a moment in blank amazement, and then the truth broke upon him for the first time. "Oh, I see! You never caught any crabs. Well, just you lock up your jewellery-box, and I'll show you." It was not easy for Dab to keep from laughing in Ford Foster's face; but his mother had not given him so many lessons in good-breeding for nothing, and Ford was permitted to close his ambitious "casket" without any worse annoyance than his own wounded pride gave him. But now came out the secret of the basket. The cover was jerked off; and nothing was revealed but a varied assortment of clams, large and small, but mostly of good size,--tough old customers, that no amount of roasting or boiling would ever have prepared for human eating. "What are they for,--bait?" "Yes, bait, weight, and all." "How's that?" Dabney's reply was to draw from his pocket a couple of long, strong cords, bits of old fishing-lines. He cracked a couple of clams one against the other; tied the fleshy part of one to each of the cords; tied bits of shell on, a foot or so from the ends, for sinkers; handed one cord to Ford, took the other himself, and laid the long-handled scoop-net he had brought with him down between them, saying,-- "Now we're ready. Drop your clam down to the bottom, and it won't be half a minute before you feel something pull on it. Then you draw it up gently,--steady as you know how. You mustn't jerk the crab loose. You'll get the knack of it in five minutes. It's all knack. There isn't any thing else so stupid as a crab." Ford watched carefully, and obeyed in silence the directions he had received. In a minute or so more the operation of the scoop-net was called for, and the fun began. "You got him!" exclaimed Ford in a loud whisper, as he saw Dab quickly plunge the net into the water, and then shake out of it into the bottom of the boat a great sprawling "blue-legged" crab. "He's a whopper!" "He'll do for one." "There's one on mine! I declare, he's let go!" "You jerked the clam away from him. Sink it again. He's mad about it. He'll take right hold again." "He's pulling now, or it's another one." "Let him pull. Lift him easy. Long as he thinks he's stealing something, he'll hold on. There he comes,--see him?" Ford saw the white flesh of the clam coming slowly up through the water, and he held his breath; for just behind and below it was a sprawling shadowy something that was tugging with all its might at that tough shell-fish. "It's an awful big one!" "Shall I scoop him?" "No, indeed: I want to scoop him myself. I saw how you did it." Splash went the net, as the prize came nearer the surface; and Ford began, somewhat excitedly, to shake it all over the bottom of the boat. "Why, where's that crab? You don't mean to say he was quick enough to dodge away?" "Quick? well, no, that isn't just the trouble. I forgot to tell you to scoop way under him. You hit him, square, and knocked him ever so far. The water deceives your eyes. Drive the net under him quick, and then lift. I've got one--now just you see how I scoop." Ford felt dreadfully disappointed over the loss of his first crab, but the rapidity with which he caught the "knack of it" after that was a great credit to him. He did not miss the next one he pulled up. It was great fun; but it had its slack moments, and in one of these Dab suddenly exclaimed,-- "The young black rascal! If he hasn't gone and got a sheep's-head!" "A sheep's-head?" They were both staring at the old punt, where Dick Lee was apparently enjoying the most extraordinary good fortune. "Yes, that's it. That's why he beats us so badly. They're a sight better'n clams, only you can't always get one. I wonder where he picked up that one." "But how he does pull 'em in!" "We're doing well enough," began Dabney, when suddenly there came a shrill cry of pain from the black boy's punt. "He's barefooted," shouted Dab, with, it must be confessed, something like a grin; "and one of the little pirates has pinned him with his nippers." That was the difficulty exactly, and there need not have been any very serious result of such an expression of a crab's bad temper. But Dick Lee was more than ordinarily averse to any thing like physical pain, and the crab which now had him by the toe was a very muscular and vicious specimen of his quarrelsome race. The first consequence of that vigorous nip was a momentary dance up and down in the punt, accompanied by exclamatory howls from Dick, but not by a word of any sort from the crab. The next consequence was, that the crab let go; but so at the same instant, did the rotten board in the boat-bottom, upon which Dick Lee had so rashly danced. It let go of the rest of the boat so suddenly that poor Dick had only time for one tremendous yell, as it let him right down through to his armpits. The water was perfectly smooth; but the boat was full in an instant, and nearly a bushel of freshly-caught and ill-tempered crabs were manoeuvring in all directions around the woolly head, which was all their late captor could now keep in sight. "Up with the grapnel, Ford," shouted Dab. "Take an oar: we'll both row. He can swim like a duck, but he might split his throat." "Or get scared to death." "Or those crabs might go for him, and eat him up." "How he does yell!" CHAPTER VII. A VERY ACCIDENTAL CALL. At the very moment when the angry crab closed his nippers on the bare big toe of Dick Lee, and his shrill note of discomfort rang across the inlet, the shriller whistle of the engine announced the arrival of the morning train from the city, at the little station in the village. A moment or so later, a very pretty young lady was standing beside a trunk on the platform, trying to get some information from the flagman. "Can you tell me where Mr. Foster lives?" "That's the gimlet-eyed lawyer from New Yark?" "Yes, he's from New York," said the young lady, smiling in his face. "Where does he live?" "He's got the sassiest boy, thin. Is it him as took the Kinzer house?" "I think likely it is. Can you tell me how to get there?" "Thim Kinzers is foine people. The widdy married one of the gurrels to Misther Morris." "But how can I get to the house?" "Is it there ye're afther goin'?--Hey, Michael, me boy, bring up yer owld rattlethrap, and take the leddy's thrunk. She'll be goin' to the Kinzer place. Sharp, now." "I should say it was," muttered the young lady, as the remains of what had been a carryall were pulled up beside the platform by the skinny skeleton of what might once have been a horse. "It's a rattletrap." There was no choice, however; for that was the only public conveyance at the station, and the trunk was already whisked in behind the dashboard, and the driver was waiting for her. He could afford to wait, as it would be some hours before another train would be in. There was no door to open in that "carriage." It was all door except the top and bottom, and the pretty passenger was neither helped nor hindered in finding her place on the back seat. If the flagman was more disposed to ask questions than to answer them, Michael said few words of any kind except to his horse. To him, indeed, he kept up a constant stream of encouraging remarks, the greatest part of which would have been difficult for an ordinary hearer to understand. Very likely the horse knew what they meant; for he came very near breaking from a limp into a trot several times, under the stimulus of all that clucking and "G'lang, now!" The distance was by no means great, and Michael seemed to know the way perfectly. At least he answered, "Yes'm, indade," to several inquiries from his passenger, and she was compelled to be satisfied with that. "What a big house it is! And painters at work on it too," she exclaimed, just as Michael added a vigorous jerk of the reins to the "Whoa!" with which he stopped his nag in front of an open gate. "Are you sure this is the place?" "Yes'm; fifty cints, mum." By the time the trunk was out of the carriage and swung inside of the gate, the young lady had followed; but for some reason Michael at once sprang back to his place, and whipped up his limping steed. It may have been from the fear of being asked to take that trunk into the house, for it was not a small one. The young lady stood for a moment irresolute, and then left it where it was, and walked on up to the house. No bell; no knocker. The workmen had not reached that part of their improvements yet. But the door was open; and a very neatly furnished parlor at the left of the hall seemed to say, "Come right in, please;" and in she went. Such an arrival could not possibly have escaped the notice of the inmates of the house; and, as the young lady from the railway came in at the front, another and a very different-looking lady marched through to the parlor from the rear. Each one would have been a puzzle to the other, if the elder of the two had not been Mrs. Kinzer, and the widow had never been very much puzzled in all her life. At all events, she put out her hand, with a cordial smile, saying,-- "Miss Foster, is it not? I am Mrs. Kinzer. How could he have made such a mistake?" "Yes, Miss Annie Foster. But do please explain Where am I? and how do you know me?" The widow laughed cheerily. "How do I know you, my dear? Why, you resemble your mother almost as much as your brother Ford resembles his father. You are only one door from home here, and I'll have your trunk taken right over to the house. Please sit down a moment. Ah! my daughter Samantha, Miss Foster. Excuse me a moment, while I call one of the men." By the time their mother was fairly out of the room, however, Keziah and Pamela were also in it; and Annie thought she had rarely seen three girls whose appearance testified so strongly to the healthiness of the place they lived in. The flagman's questions and Annie's answers were related quickly enough, and the cause of Michael's blunder was plain at once. The parlor rang again with peals of laughter; for Dab Kinzer's sisters were ready at any time to look at the funny side of things, and their accidental guest saw no reason for not joining them. "Your brother Ford is on the bay, crabbing with our Dabney," remarked Samantha, as the widow returned. But Annie's eyes had been furtively watching her baggage through the window, and saw it swinging upon a broad, red-shirted pair of shoulders, just then; and, before she could bring her mind to bear upon the crab question, Keziah Kinzer exclaimed,-- "If there isn't Mrs. Foster, coming through the garden gate!" "My mother!" and Annie was up and out of the parlor in a twinkling, followed by all the ladies of the Kinzer family. It was really quite a procession. Now, if Mrs. Foster was in any degree surprised by her daughter's sudden appearance, or by her getting to the Kinzer house first instead of to her own, it was a curious fact that she did not say so by a word or a look. Not a breath of it. But, for all the thorough-bred self-control of the city lady, Mrs. Kinzer knew perfectly well there was something odd and unexpected about it all. If Samantha had noticed this fact, there might have been some questions asked possibly; but one of the widow's most rigid rules in life was to "mind her own business." The girls, indeed, were quite jubilant over an occurrence which made them at once so well acquainted with their very attractive new neighbor; and they might have followed her even beyond the gate in the north fence, if it had not been for their mother. All they were allowed to do was to go back to their own parlor, and hold "a council of war," in the course of which Annie Foster was discussed, from her bonnet to her shoes. Mrs. Foster had been abundantly affectionate in greeting her daughter; but, when once they were alone in the wee sitting-room of the old Kinzer homestead, she put her arms around her, saying,-- "Now, my darling, tell me what it all means." "Why, mother, it was partly my mistake, and partly the flagman's and the driver's; and I'm sure Mrs. Kinzer was kind. She knew me before I said a word, by my resemblance to you." "Oh, I don't mean that! How is it you are here so soon? I thought you meant to make a long visit at your uncle Hart's." "So I would, mother, if it had not been for those boys." "Your cousins, Annie?" "Cousins, mother! You never saw such young bears in all your life. They tormented me from morning till night." "But, Annie, I hope you have not offended"-- "Offended, mother? Aunt Maria thinks they're perfect, and so does uncle Joe. They'd let them pull the house down over their heads, you'd think." "But, Annie, what did they do? and what did you say?" "Do, mother? I couldn't tell you in all day; but when they poured ink over my cuffs and collars, I said I would come home. I had just one pair left white to wear home, and I travelled all night." Poor Mrs. Foster! A cold shudder went over her at the idea of that ink among the spotless contents of her own collar-box. "What boys they must be! but, Annie, what did your aunt say?" "Uncle Joe laughed till he cried; and Aunt Maria said, 'Boys will be boys;' and I half believe they were sorry; but that was only a sort of a winding-up, I wouldn't stay there another day." Annie had other things to tell; and, long before she had finished her story, there was no further fault to be found with her for losing her temper. Still her mother said mildly,-- "I must write to Maria at once, for it won't do to let those boys make trouble between us." Annie looked at her with an expression of face which very plainly said,-- "Nobody in the wide world could have the heart to quarrel with you." CHAPTER VIII. A RESCUE, AND A GRAND GOOD TIME. Dab Kinzer and his friend were prompt enough coming to the rescue of their unfortunate fellow-lubber; but to get him out of the queer wreck he had made of that punt looked like a tough task to both of them, and they said as much. "I isn't drownin'," exclaimed Dick heroically, as the other boat was pulled alongside of him. "Jest you take your scoop-net, and save dem crabs." "They won't drown," said Ford. "But they'll get away," said Dab, as he snatched up the scoop. "Dick's head is perfectly level on that point." The side-boards of the old punt were under water half the time, but the crabs were pretty well penned in. Even a couple of them, that had mistaken Dick's wool for another sheep's-head, were secured without difficulty, in spite of the firmness with which they clung to their prize. "What luck he'd been having!" said Ford. "He always does," said Dab. "I say, Dick, how'll I scoop you in?" "Has you done got all de crabs?" "Every pinner of 'em." "Den you jest wait a minute." Waiting was all that was left them to do, for the shining black face and woolly head disappeared almost instantly. "He's sunk," exclaimed Ford. "There he comes," replied Dab: "he'd swum ashore from here, and not half try. Why, I could swim twice as far as that myself, and he can beat me." "Could you? I couldn't." That was the first time Dab had heard his city acquaintance make a confession of inability, and he could see a more than usually thoughtful expression on his face. The coolness and skill of Dick Lee, in his hour of disaster, had not been thrown away upon him. "If I had my clothes off," said Ford, "I believe I'd try that on." "Dab Kinzer, you's de bes' feller dar is. But wot'll we do wid de old boat?" burst out Dick, on coming to the surface. "Let the tide carry her in while we're crabbing. She isn't worth mending, but we'll tow her home." "All right," said Dick, as he grasped the gunwale of Dab's boat, and began to climb over. "Hold on, Dick." "I is a-holdin' on." "I mean, wait a bit. Ain't you wet?" "Of course I's wet." "Well, then, you stay in there till you get dry It's well you didn't have your new clothes on." "Ain't I glad 'bout dem!" enthusiastically ex-claimed the young African. "Nebber mind dese clo'es. De water on 'em's all good, dry water, like de res' ob de bay." And, so saying, Dick tumbled over in, with a spatter which made Ford Foster tread on two of three crabs in getting away from it. It was not the first time, by many, that Dick Lee had found himself bathing in that bay without any time given him to undress. And now it was discovered that the shipwrecked crabber had never for one instant lost his hold of the line, to the other end of which was fastened his precious sheep's-head. They made a regular crabbing crew now,--two to pull up, and one to scoop in; and never had the sprawling game been more plentiful on that pasture, or more apparently in a greedy hurry to be captured. "What on earth shall we do with them all?" asked Ford. "Soon's we've got enough for a mess for both our folks," said Dab, "we'll quit this, and go for some fish. The clams are good bait, and we can try some of your tackle." Ford's face brightened a good deal at that suggestion, for he had more than once cast a crest fallen look at his pretentious box. But he replied,-- "A mess! How many crabs can one man eat?" "I don't know," said Dab. "It depends a good deal on who he is. Then, if he eats the shells, he can't take in so many." "Eat de shells? Yah, yah, yah! Dat beats my mudder! She's allers a-sayin' wot a waste de shells make," laughed Dick. "I jest wish we might ketch some fish. I dasn't kerry home no crabs." "It does look as if we'd got as many as we'll know what to do with," remarked Dab, as he looked down on the sprawling multitude in the bottom of the boat. "We'll turn the clams out of the basket, and fill that; but we mustn't put any crabs in the fish-car. We'll stow 'em all forward." The basket held more than half a bushel, but there was still a "heap" of what Ford Foster called "the crusties" to pen up in the bow of the boat. That duty attended to, the grapnel was pulled up, and Dick was set at the oars, while Dab selected from Ford's box just the hooks and lines their owner had made least account of. "What'll we catch, Dab?" "'Most anything. Nobody knows till he's done it. Perch, porgies, cunners, black-fish, weak-fish, maybe a bass or a sheep's-head, but more cunners than any thing else, unless we strike some flounders at the turn of the tide." "That's a big enough assortment to set up a fish-market on." "If we catch 'em. We've got a good enough day, anyhow, and the tide'll be about right by the time we get to work." "Why not try here?" "'Cause there's no fish to speak of, and because the crabs'll clean your hook for you as fast as you can put the bait on. We must go out to deeper water and better bottom. Dick knows just where to go. You might hang your line out all day and not get a bite, if you didn't strike the right spot." Ford made no answer, but looked on very seriously while Dab skilfully slit up a tough old Dutch clam into bait. It was beginning to dawn upon him that he could teach the "'long-shore boys," whether black or white, very little about fishing. He even allowed Dab to pick out a line for him, and to put on the hook and sinker; and Dick Lee showed him how to fix his bait, "so de fust cunner dat rubs agin it won't knock it off. Dem's awful mean fish. Good for nuffin but 'teal bait." A merry party they were; and the salt water was rapidly drying from the garments of the colored oars-man, as he pulled strongly and skilfully out into the bay, and around toward a deep cove at the north of the inlet mouth. Then, indeed, for the first time in his life, Ford Foster learned what it was to catch fish. Not but what he had spent many an hour, and even day, on and about other waters, with a rod or a line in his hand; but he had never before had two such born fishermen at his elbow to take him to the right place precisely, and at the right time, and then to show him what to do when he got there. It was fun enough; for the fish bit remarkably well, and some of those which came into the boat were of a very encouraging size and weight. There was one curious thing about those heavier fish. Ford would have given half the hooks and lines in his box, if he could have caught from Dick or Dab the mysterious "knack" they seemed to have of coaxing the biggest of the finny folk to their bait, and then over the side of the boat. "There's some kind of favoritism about it," he remarked. "Never mind, Ford," replied Dab. "Dick and I are better acquainted with them. They're always a little shy with strangers, at first. They don't really mean to be impolite." Favoritism it was, nevertheless; and there was now no danger but what Dick would be able to appease the mind of his mother without making any mention of the crabs. At last, almost suddenly, and as if by common consent, the fish stopped biting, and the two "'long shore boys" began to put away their lines. "Going to quit?" asked Ford. "Time's up, and the tide's turned," replied Dab. "Not another bite, most likely, till late this evening. We might as well pull up, and start for home." "That's a curious kind of a habit for fish to have." "They've all got it though, 'round this bay." "Mus' look out for wot's lef' ob de ole scow, on de way home," remarked Dick a little solemnly. "I's boun' to ketch it for dat good-for-noting ole board." "We'll find it, and tow it in," said Dab; "and perhaps we can get it mended. Anyhow, you can go with us next week. We're going to make a cruise in Ham Morris's yacht. Will you go?" "Will I go? Yoop!" almost yelled the excited boy. "Dat's jest de one t'ing I'd like to jine. Won't we hab fun! She's jest de bes' boat on dis hull bay. You ain't foolin' me, is yer?" He was strongly assured that his young white associates were in sober earnest about both their purpose and their promise; and, after that, he insisted on rowing all the distance home. On the way the old punt was taken in tow; but the tide had already swept it so far inside the mouth of the inlet, that there was less trouble in pulling it the rest of the way. It was hardly worth the labor, but Dab knew what a tempest the loss of it might bring around the ears of poor Dick. When they reached the landing, and began to over-haul their very brilliant "catch," Dabney said,-- "Now, Dick, take your string home, leave that basket of crabs at Mr. Foster's, and then come back with the basket, and carry the rest of 'em to our house. Ford and I'll see to the rest of the fish." "I haven't caught half as many as you have, either of you," said Ford, when he saw with what even-handed justice the fish were divided in three piles, as they were scooped out of the fish-car. "What of that?" replied Dab. "We follow fishermen's rules, down this way. Share and share alike, you know. All the luck is outside the boat, they say. Once the fish are landed, your luck's as good as mine." "Do they always follow that rule?" "The man that broke it wouldn't find company very easily, hereabouts, next time he wanted to go a-fishing. No, nor for any thing else. Nobody'd boat with him." "Well, if it's the regular thing," said Ford hesitatingly. "But I'll tell who really caught 'em." "Oh, some of yours are right good ones! Your string'd look big enough, some days, just as you caught 'em." "Would it?" "Yes, it would. Don't you imagine we can pull 'em in every time like we did this morning,--crabs nor fish." "No, I s'pose not. Anyhow, I've learned some things." "I guess likely. We'll go for some more next week. Now for a tug." "Ain't they heavy, though!" The boat had already been made fast; and the two boys picked up their strings of fish, two for each, after Dick Lee had started for home; and heavy things they were to carry under that hot sun. "Come and show the whole lot to my mother," said Ford, "before you take yours into the house. I'd like to have her see them all." "All right," replied Dab, but he little dreamed what was coming; for, when he and Ford marched proudly into the sitting-room with their finny prizes, Dabney found himself face to face with, not good, sweet-voiced Mrs. Foster, but, as he thought, the most beautiful young lady he had ever seen. Ford Foster shouted, "Annie! You here? Well, I never!" But Dab Kinzer wished all those fish safely back again swimming in the bay. CHAPTER IX. THERE ARE DIFFERENT KINDS OF BOYS. Ham Morris was a thoughtful and kind-hearted fellow, beyond a doubt; and he was likely to be a valuable friend for a growing boy like Dab Kinzer. It is not everybody's brother-in-law who would find time during his wedding-trip to hunt up even so pretty a New-England village as Grantley, and inquire into questions of board and lodging and schooling. That was precisely what Ham did, however; and Miranda went with him of course. Mrs. Myers, to the hospitalities of whose cool and roomy-looking house he had been commended by Mr. Hart, was so "crowded full with summer boarders," liberally advertised for in the great city, that she had hardly a corner left in which to stow away Ham and his bride, for even one night. She was glad enough, however, that she had made the effort, and found one, after she discovered the nature of the stranger's errand in Grantley, and that it included "winter board" for a whole boy. There was a look of undisguised astonishment on the faces of the regular guests when they gathered for the next meal. It happened to be supper, but they all looked at the table and then at one another. It was a pity Ham and Miranda did not understand the meaning of those glances, or else that they did not make a longer stay with Mrs. Myers. They might have learned more about her and her boarding-house, if not about the academy. As it was, they only gathered a very high opinion of her cookery and hospitality, as well as an increase of respect for the "institution of learning," and for that excellent gentleman Mr. Hart; with a dim hope that Dabney Kinzer might be permitted to enjoy the inestimable advantages offered by Grantley and Mrs. Myers, and the society of Mr. Hart's two wonderful boys. Miranda was inclined to stand up for her brother somewhat, but finally agreed with Ham, that,-- "What Dabney needs is schooling and polish, my dear. It'll be good for him to board in the same house with two such complete young gentlemen as the Hart boys." "Of course, Ham. And then, too, we'll feel sure of his having plenty to eat. There was almost too much on the table." "Not if the boarders had all been boys of Dab's age, and with his appetite. Mrs. Myers is evidently accustomed to provide for them, I should say." So she was; and Ham and Miranda left Grantley next morning, after a very early breakfast; and, when the regular boarders came to theirs, they might have guessed at once that the "transient guests" had gone. They even guessed it out loud at dinner and at supper. Mrs. Myers had given Ham and his bride a world of interesting information about Grantley, and the things and people in it; but there was one thing she had forgotten or neglected to mention. She had failed to tell them that the house she lived in, and the outlying farm belonging to it, and nearly all the house-hold effects it contained, were the property of Mr. Joseph Hart, having cost that gentleman very little more than a sharp lawsuit. Neither did she say a word about how long a time he had given her to pay him his price for it. All that was her own private affair, and none of Ham's business, or Miranda's. Still, it might have had its importance in their minds, if they had been informed of it. Perhaps, too, some of their rosy impressions might have been a little modified if they could have been at the breakfast-table of the Hart homestead the morning after Annie Foster's sudden departure. The table, truly, was there, as usual, with the breakfast-things on it, and there were husband and wife at either end; but the two side seats were vacant. "Where are Joe and Foster, Maria?" asked Mr. Hart. "I'm sure they're up, father. I heard them come down stairs an hour ago." "I can't wait for them"-- "You came home late last night, and they haven't seen you since Annie went away." There had been a suppressed sound of whispers in the entry, and the door had been held open about half an inch by some hand on the other side. It is possible, therefore, that Mr. Hart's reply was heard outside. "Oh, I see! it's about Annie. Look here, Maria: they may have gone a little too far, but if Annie can't take a joke"-- "So I tried to say to her," began his wife; but at that instant the whispers in the entry swelled suddenly to loud voices, and two boys came noisily in, and filled the side chairs at the table. "Sit down, my dears," said Mrs. Hart, with an admiring glance from one to the other. "I have told your father about the sad trick you played upon your cousin." "Yes, you young rogues," added Mr. Hart, with affected sternness: "you have driven her out of the house." "Joe," said the boy on the left, to his brother across the table, "ain't you glad she's gone?" "You bet I am. She's too stiff and steep for me. Spoiled all the fun we had." "And so you spoiled her cuffs and collars for her. It was too bad altogether. I'm afraid there won't be much comfort for anybody in this house till you two get back to Grantley." "Fuz," said Joe, "do you hear that? They're going to give us another term at Grantley." "I don't care how soon we go, so we haven't got to board at old mother Myers's." "I can't say about that," said Mr. Hart. "I half made her a promise"-- "That we'd board there?" exclaimed Fuz rebelliously. "Now, boys," said their mother, in a gentle voice, that sounded a little like good Mrs. Foster's; but Joe sustained his brother with,-- "Prison-fare, and not half enough of it. I just won't stand it another winter!" "I'm not so sure it will be necessary, after all," said their father, who seemed to have dismissed Annie's grievance from his mind for the present. "Your cousin Ford is sure to go; and I'm almost certain of another boy, besides the missionary's son. If she gets a few others herself, her house'll be full enough, and you can board somewhere else." "Hurrah for that!" shouted Fuz. "And, if the new house doesn't feed us well, we'll tear it down." "If you don't tear ours down before you go, I'll be satisfied. Maria, you must write to your sister, and smooth the matter over. Boys will be boys, and I wouldn't like to have any coolness spring up. Mr. Foster'll understand it." That was very nearly all that was said about it, and the two boys evidently had had no need for any hesitation in coming in to breakfast. They were not so bad-looking a pair, as boys go; although it may be few other people would have seen so much to admire in them as their mother did. Joe, the elder, was a loud, hoarse-voiced, black-eyed boy, of seventeen or thereabouts, with a perpetual grin on his face, as if he had discovered in this world nothing but a long procession of things to be laughed at. Foster, so named after his lawyer relative, was a year and a half younger, but nearly as tall as Joe. He was paler, but with hair and eyes as dark, and he wore a sort of habitual side-look, as if his mind were all the while inquiring if anybody within sight happened to have any thing he wanted. They both bore a strong likeness to their father, only they missed something bluff and hearty in his accustomed manner; and they each had also a little suggestion of their mother, that did not, however go so far as to put anybody in mind of their aunt Foster. Nobody need have failed to see, at all events, after watching one or two of their glances at each other, that they were the very boys to play the meanest kind of practical jokes when they could do it safely. There is really no accounting for boys; and Joe and Fuz, therefore, might fairly be set down among the "unaccountables." There was no sort of wonder that their easy-going mother and their joke-admiring father should be quite willing to have them spend three-quarters of the year at boarding-school, and as much as possible of the remainder somewhere else than "at home." After Mr. Hart went out to his business that morning, and Mrs. Hart set herself about her usual duties, Joe and Fuz took with them into the street the whole Grantley question. "We'll have to go, Fuz." "Of course. But we must have more to eat, and more fun, than we had last time." "Ford's coming, is he? The little prig! We'll roast him." "So we will that young missionary." "Look out about him, Joe, while he's at our house. He's coming right here, you know." "Don't you be afraid. His folks are old friends of mother's. We'll let up on him till we get him safe to Grantley." "Then we'll fix him." They had plots and plans enough to talk about; but neither they, nor any of the boys they named, nor any of the other boys they did not name, had the least idea of what the future really had in store for them. Dab Kinzer and Ford Foster, in particular, had no idea that the world contained such a place as Grantley, or such a landlady as Mrs. Myers. They had as little suspicion of them as they had had of finding Annie Foster in the sitting-room that day, when they walked in with their famous strings of fish. Ford kissed his sister, but that operation hardly checked him for an instant in his voluble narrative of the stirring events of his first morning on the bay. There was really little for anybody else to do but to listen, and it was worth hearing. There was no sort of interruption on the part of the audience; but the moment Ford paused for breath his mother said,-- "Are you sure the black boy was not hurt, Ford?" "Hurt, mother? Why, he seems to be a kind of black-fish. The rest all know him, and they went right past my hook to his, all the while." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Foster: "I forgot. Annie, this is Ford's friend Dabney Kinzer, our neighbor." "Won't you shake hands with me, Mr. Kinzer?" said Annie, with a malicious twinkle of fun in her merry blue eyes. Poor Dabney! He had been in quite a "state of mind" for at least three minutes; but he would hardly have been his own mother's son if he had let himself be entirely "posed." Up rose his long right arm, with the heavy string of fish at the end of it; and Annie's fun broke out into a musical laugh, just as her brother exclaimed,-- "There now, I'd like to see the other boy of your size can do that. Look here, Dab, where'd you get your training?" "I mustn't drop the fish, you see," began Dab; but Ford interrupted him with,-- 'No, indeed! You've given me half I've got, as it is. Annie, have you looked at the crabs? You ought to have seen Dick Lee, with a lot of 'em gripping in his hair." "In his hair?" "When he was down through the bottom of his boat. They'd have eaten him up if they'd had a chance. You see, he's no shell on him." "Exactly," said Annie, as Dab lowered his fish. "Well, Dabney, I wish you would thank your mother for me, for sending my trunk over. Your sisters too. I've no doubt we shall be very neighborly." It was wonderfully pleasant to be called by his first name by so very pretty a young lady, and yet it seemed to bring up something curious into Dabney Kinzer's throat. "She considers me a mere boy, and she means I'd better take my fish right home," was the next thought that came to him; and he was right, to a fraction. So the great lump in his throat took a very wayward and boyish form, and came out as a reply, accompanied by a low bow,-- "I will, thank you. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Foster. I'll see you to-night, Ford, about Monday and the yacht. Good-afternoon, Annie." And then he marched out with his fish. "Mother, did you hear him call me 'Annie'?" "Yes; and I heard you call him 'Dabney.'" "But he's only a boy "-- "I don't care," exclaimed Ford. "He's an odd fellow, but he's a good one. Did you see how wonderfully strong he is in his arms? I couldn't lift these fish at arm's-length, to save my life." He knew, for he had been trying his best with his own. It was quite likely that Dab Kinzer's rowing, and all that sort of thing, had developed in him greater strength of muscle than even he himself was aware of; but for all that he went home with his very ears tingling. "Could she have thought me ill-bred or impertinent?" he muttered to himself. Thought? About him? Poor Dab Kinzer! Annie Foster had so much else to think of just then; for she was compelled to go over, for Ford's benefit, the whole story of her tribulations at her uncle's, and the many rudenesses of Joe Hart and his brother Fuz. "They ought to be drowned," said Ford indignantly. "In ink," added Annie. "Just as they drowned my poor cuffs and collars." CHAPTER X A CRUISE IN "THE SWALLOW." "Look at Dabney Kinzer," said Jenny Walters to her mother, in church, the next morning. "Did you ever see anybody's hair as smooth as that?" Smooth it was, certainly; and he looked, all over, as if he had given all the care in the world to his personal appearance. How was Annie Foster to guess that he had gotten himself up so unusually on her account? She did not guess it; but when she met him at the church-door, after service, she was careful to address him as "Mr. Kinzer," and that made poor Dabney blush to his very eyes. "There!" he exclaimed: "I know it." "Know what?" asked Annie. "Know what you're thinking." "Do you, indeed?" "Yes: you think I'm like the crabs." "What _do_ you mean?" "You think I was green enough till you spoke to me, and now I'm boiled red in the face." Annie could not help laughing,--a little, quiet, Sunday-morning sort of a laugh; but she was beginning to think her brother's friend was not a bad specimen of a Long Island "country boy." She briskly turned away the small remains of that conversation from crabs and their color; but she told her mother, on their way home, she was sure Dabney would be a capital associate for Ford. That young gentleman was tremendously of the same opinion. He had come home, the previous evening, from a long conference with Dab, brimful of the proposed yachting cruise; and his father had freely given his consent, much against the inclinations of Mrs. Foster. "My dear," said the lawyer, "I feel sure a woman of Mrs. Kinzer's unusual good sense would not permit her son to go out in that way if she did not feel safe about him. He has been brought up to it, you know; and so has the colored boy who is to go with them." "Yes, mother," argued Ford: "there isn't half the danger there is in driving around New York in a carriage." "There might be a storm," she timidly suggested. "The horses might run away." "Or you might get upset." "So might a carriage." The end of it all was, however, that Ford was to go, and Annie was more than half sorry she could not go with them. In fact, she said so to Dabney himself, as soon as her little laugh was ended, that Sunday morning. "Some time or other I'd be glad to have you," replied Dab very politely, "but not this trip." "Why not?" "We mean to go right across the bay, and try some fishing." "Couldn't I fish?" "Well, no, I don't think you could." "Why couldn't I?" "Because,--well, because, most likely, you'd be too sea-sick by the time we got there." Just then a low, clear voice, behind Dabney, quietly remarked, "How smooth his hair is!" Dab's face turned red again. Annie Foster had heard it as distinctly as he had; and she walked right away with her mother, for fear she should laugh again. "It's my own hair, Jenny Walters," said Dab almost savagely, as he turned around. "I should hope it was." "I should like to know what you go to church for, anyhow." "To hear people talk about sailing and fishing. How much do you s'pose a young lady like Miss Foster cares about small boys?" "Or little girls, either? Not much; but Annie and I mean to have a good sail before long." "Annie and I!" Jenny's pert little nose seemed to turn up more than ever, as she walked away, for she had not beaten her old playfellow quite as badly as usual. There were several sharp things on the very tip or her tongue, but she was too much put out and vexed to try to say them just then. Dab made the rest of his way home without any further haps or mishaps. A sail on the bay was nothing so new or wonderful for him to look forward to, and so that Sunday went by a good deal like all his other Sundays. As for Ford Foster, on the contrary, his mind was in a stew and turmoil all day. In fact, just after tea that evening, his father asked him,-- "What book is that you are reading, Ford?" "Captain Cook's Voyages." "And the other, in your lap?" "Robinson Crusoe." "Well, you might have worse books than they are, that's a fact, even for Sunday, though you ought to have better; but which of them do you and Dabney Kinzer mean to imitate to-morrow?" "Crusoe!" promptly responded Ford. "I see. And so you've got Dick Lee to go along as your man Friday." "He's Dab's man, not mine." "Oh! and you mean to be Crusoe number two? Well, don't get cast away on any desolate island, that's all." Ford slipped into the library, and put the books away. It had been Samantha Kinzer's room, and had plenty of book-shelves, in addition to the elegant "cases" Mr. Foster had brought from the city with him; for Samantha was inclined to be of a literary turn of mind. All the cases and shelves were full too; but not on any one of them was Ford Foster able to discover a volume he cared to take out with him in place of "Cook" or "Crusoe." The next morning, within half an hour after breakfast, every member of the two families was down at the landing, to see their young sailors make their start; and they were all compelled to admit that Dab and Dick seemed to know precisely what they were about. As for Ford, that young gentleman was wise enough, with all those eyes watching him, not to try any thing that he was not sure of; though he carefully explained to Annie, "Dab is captain, you know. I'm under his orders to-day." Dick Lee was hardly the wisest fellow in the world, for he added encouragingly,-- "And you's doin' tip-top, for a green hand, you is." The wind was blowing right off shore, and did not seem to promise any thing more than a smart breeze. It was easy enough to handle the little craft in the inlet; and in a marvellously short time she was dancing out upon the blue waves of the spreading "bay." It was a good deal more like a land-locked "sound" than any sort of a bay, with that long, low, narrow sand-island cutting it off from the ocean. "I don't wonder Ham Morris called her the 'Swallow,'" said Ford. "How she skims! Can you get in under the deck, there, forward? That's the cabin." "Yes, that's the cabin," replied Dab. "But Ham had the door put in with a slide, water-tight. It's fitted with rubber. We can put our things in there, but it's too small for any thing else." "What's it made so tight for?" "Oh! Ham says he's made his yacht a life-boat. Those places at the sides and under the seats are all water-tight. She might capsize, but she'd never sink. Don't you see?" "I see. How it blows!" "It's a little fresh, now we are getting away from under the land. How'd you like to be wrecked?" "Good fun," said Ford. "I got wrecked on the cars the first time I came over here." "On the cars?" "Why, yes. I forgot to tell you about that." Then followed a very vivid and graphic account of the sad fate of the pig and the locomotive. The wonder was, how Ford should have failed to give Dab that story before. No such failure would have been possible if his head and tongue had not been so wonderfully busy about so many other things, ever since his arrival. "I'm glad it was I instead of Annie," he said at length. "Of course. Didn't you tell me she came through all alone?" "Yes; and she didn't like it much, either. Travelled all night. She ran away from those cousins of mine. Oh, but won't I pay them off when I get to Grantley!" "Where's that? What did they do?" "The Swallow" was flying along nicely now, with Dab at the tiller, and Dick Lee tending sail; and Dab could listen with all his ears to Ford's account of his sister's tribulations, and the merciless "practical jokes" of the Hart boys. "Ain't they older and bigger than you?" asked Dabney, as Ford closed his recital. "What can you do with two of them?" "They can't box worth a cent, and I can. Anyhow, I mean to teach them better manners." "You can box?" "Had a splendid teacher. Put me up to all sorts of things." "Will you show me how, when we get back?" "We can practise all we choose. I've two pair of gloves." "Hurrah for that! Ease her, Dick. It's blowing pretty fresh. We'll have a tough time tacking home against such a breeze as this. Maybe it'll change before night." "Capt'in Dab," calmly remarked Dick, "we's on'y a mile to run." "Well, what of it?" "Is you goin' fo' de inlet?" "Of course. What else can we do? That's what we started for." "Looks kind o' dirty, dat's all." So far as Ford could see, both the sky and the water looked clean enough; but Dick was entirely right about the weather. In fact, if Captain Dabney Kinzer had been a more experienced and prudent seaman, he would have kept "The Swallow" inside the bar that day, at any risk of Ford Foster's good opinion. As it was, even Dick Lee's keen eyes hardly comprehended how threatening was the foggy haze that was lying low on the water, miles and miles away to seaward. It was magnificently exciting fun, at all events; and "The Swallow" fully merited all that had been said in her favor. The "mile to run" was a very short one, and it seemed to Ford Foster that the end of it would bring them up high and dry on the sandy beach of the island. The narrow "strait" of the inlet between the bay and the ocean was hardly visible at any considerable distance. It opened to view, however, as they drew near; and Dab Kinzer rose higher than ever in his friend's good opinion, as the swift little vessel he was steering shot unerringly into the contracted channel. "Ain't we pretty near where you said we were to try for some fish?" he asked. "Just outside there. Get the grapnel ready, Dick. Sharp, now!" Sharp it was, and Ford himself lent a hand; and, in another moment, the white sails went down, jib and main; "The Swallow" was drifting along under bare poles, and Dick Lee and Ford were waiting the captain's orders to let go the neat little anchor. "Heave!" Over went the iron, the hawser followed briskly. "That'll do, Dick: hold her!" Dick gave the rope a skilful turn around its "pin," and Dab shouted,-- "Now for some weak-fish! It's about three fathoms, and the tide's near the turn." Alas for the uncertainty of human calculations! The grapnel caught on the bottom, surely and firmly; but, the moment there came any strain on the seemingly stout hawser that held it, the latter parted like a thread, and "The Swallow" was all adrift! "Somebody's done gone cut dat rope!" shouted Dick, as he frantically pulled in the treacherous bit of hemp. There was an anxious look on Dab Kinzer's face for a moment. Then he shouted,-- "Sharp, now, boys, or we'll be rolling in the surf in three minutes! Haul away, Dick! Haul with him, Ford! Up with her! There, that'll give us headway." Ford Foster looked out to seaward, even while he was hauling his best upon the sail halyards. All along the line of the coast, at distances varying from a hundred yards or so to nearly a mile, there was an irregular line of foaming breakers--an awful thing for a boat like "The Swallow" to run into! Perhaps; but ten times worse for a larger craft, for the latter would be shattered on the shoals, where the bit of a yacht would find plenty of water under her; that is, if she did not, at the same time, find too much water _over_ her. "Can't we go back through the inlet in the bar?" asked Ford. "Not with this wind in our teeth, and it's getting worse every minute. No more will it do to try to keep inside the surf." "What can we do, then?" "Take the smoothest places we can find, and run 'em. The sea isn't very rough outside. It's our only chance." Poor Ford Foster's heart sank within him, as he listened, and as he gazed ahead upon the long white line of foaming surf and tossing breakers. He saw, however, a look of heroic resolution rising in "Captain Kinzer's" face, and it gave him courage to turn his eyes again towards the surf. "The Swallow" was now once more moving in a way to justify her name; and, although Ford was no sailor, he could see that her only chance to penetrate that perilous barrier of broken water was to "take it nose on," as Dick Lee expressed it. That was clearly the thing Dab Kinzer intended to do. There were places of comparative smoothness, here and there, in the tossing and plunging line; but they were bad enough, at the best, and they would have been a good deal worse but for that stiff breeze blowing off shore. "Now for it!" shouted Dab, as "The Swallow" bounded on. "Dar dey come!" said Dick. Ford thought of his mother, and sister, and father; but he had not a word to say, and hardly felt like breathing. Bows foremost, full sail, rising like a cork on the long, strong billows, which would have rolled her over and over if she had not been handled so skilfully as she really was; once or twice pitching dangerously in short, chopping seas, and shipping water enough to wet her brave young mariners to the skin, and call for vigorous baling afterwards,--"The Swallow" battled gallantly with her danger for a few moments; and then Dab Kinzer swung his hat, and shouted,-- "Hurrah, boys! We're out at sea!" "Dat's so," said Dick. "So it is," remarked Ford, a little gloomily; "but how on earth will we ever get ashore again? We can't go back through that surf." "Well," replied Dab, "if it doesn't come on to blow too hard, we'll run right on down the coast. If the wind lulled, or whopped around a little, we'd find our way in, easy enough, long before night. We might have a tough time beating home across the bay, even if we were inside the bar, now. Anyhow, we're safe enough out here." Ford could hardly feel that very strongly, but he was determined not to let Dab see it; and he made an effort at the calmness of a Mohawk, as he said, "How about fishing?" "Guess we won't bother 'em much, but you might go for a bluefish. Sometimes they have great luck with them, right along here." CHAPTER XI. SPLENDID FISHING, AND A BIG FOG. There is no telling how many anxious people there may have been in that region that night, a little after supper; but there was no doubt of the state of mind in at least three family circles. Good Mrs. Foster could not endure to stay at home and talk about the matter; and her husband and Annie were very willing to go over to the Kinzers' with her, and listen to the encouraging views of Dabney's stout-hearted and sensible mother. They were welcomed heartily; and the conversation began, so to speak, right in the middle. "Oh, Mrs. Kinzer! do you think they are in any danger?" "I hope not. I don't see why there need be, unless they try to return across the bay against this wind." "But don't you think they'll try? Do you mean they won't be home to-night?" exclaimed Mr. Foster himself. "I sincerely hope not," said the widow calmly. "I should hardly feel like trusting Dabney out in the boat again, if he should do so foolish a thing." "But where can he stay?" "At anchor somewhere, or on the island; almost anywhere but tacking all night on the bay. He'd be really safer out at sea than trying to get home." "Out at sea!" There was something really dreadful in the very idea of it; and Annie Foster turned pale enough when she thought of the gay little yacht, and her brother out on the broad Atlantic in it, with no better crew than Dab Kinzer and Dick Lee. Samantha and her sisters were hardly as steady about it as their mother; but they were careful to conceal their misgivings from their neighbors, which was very kindly indeed in the circumstances. There was little use in trying to think or talk of any thing else beside the boys, however, with the sound of the "high wind" in the trees out by the roadside; and a very anxious circle was that, up to the late hour at which the members of it separated for the night. But there were other troubled hearts in that vicinity. Old Bill Lee himself had been out fishing all day, with very poor luck; but he forgot all about that, when he learned, on reaching the shore, that Dick and his white friends had not returned. He even pulled back to the mouth of the inlet, to see if the gathering darkness would give him any signs of his boy. He did not know it; but while he was gone Dick's mother, after discussing her anxieties with some of her dark-skinned neighbors, half weepingly unlocked her one "clothes-press," and took out the suit which had been the pride of her absent son. She had never admired them half so much before, but they seemed now to need a red necktie to set them off; and so the gorgeous result of Dick's fishing and trading came out of its hiding-place, and was arranged on the white coverlet of her own bed, with the rest of his best garments. "Jus' de t'ing for a handsome young feller like Dick," she muttered to herself. "Wot for'd an ole woman like me want to put on any sech fool finery? He's de bestest boy in de worl', he is. Dat is, onless dar ain't not'in' happened to 'im." Her husband brought her home no news when he came, and Dick's good qualities were likely to be seen in a strong light for a while longer. But if the folk on shore were uneasy about "The Swallow" and her crew, how was it with the latter themselves, as the darkness closed around them, out there upon the tossing water? Very cool and self-possessed indeed had been Captain Dab Kinzer; and he had encouraged the others to go on with their blue-fishing, even when it was pretty tough work to keep "The Swallow" from "scudding" at once before the wind. He was anxious, also, not to get too far from shore; for there was no telling what sort of weather might be coming. It was curious, moreover, what very remarkable luck they had; or rather, Ford and Dick, for Dab would not leave the tiller for a moment. Splendid fellows were those blue-fish, and hard work it was to pull in the heaviest of them. That was just the sort of weather they bite best in; but it is not often that such young fishermen venture to take advantage of it. No, nor the old ones either; for only the stanchest old "salts" of Montauk or New London would have felt altogether at home in "The Swallow" that afternoon. "I guess I wouldn't fish any more," said Dab at last. "You've caught ten times as many now as we ever thought of catching. Some of them are whoppers too." "Biggest fishing ever I did," said Ford, as if that meant a great deal. "Or mos' anybody else, out dis yer way," added Dick. "I isn't 'shamed to show dem fish anywhar." "No more I ain't," said Dab; "but you're getting too tired, and so am I. We must have a good hearty lunch, and put 'The Swallow' before the wind for a while. I daren't risk any more of these cross seas. We might get pitched over any minute. They're rising." "Dat's so," said Dick. "And I's awful hungry, I is." "The Swallow" was well enough provisioned for a short cruise, not to mention the bluefish, and there was water enough on board for several days if they should happen to need it; but there was little danger of that, unless the wind should continue to be altogether against them. It was blowing hard when the boys finished their dinner, but no harder than it had already blown several times that day; and "The Swallow" seemed to be putting forth her very best qualities as a "sea-boat." There was no immediate danger apparently; but there was one "symptom" which Dab discerned, as he glanced around the horizon, which gave him more anxiety than either the stiff breeze or the rough sea. The coming darkness? No; for stars and lighthouses can be seen at night, and steering by them is easy enough. Nights are pretty dark things, sometimes, as most people know; but the darkest thing to be met with at sea, whether by night or by day, is a _fog_, and Dabney saw signs of one coming. Rain, too, might come with it, but that would be of small account. "Boys," he said, "do you know we're out of sight of land?" "Oh, no, we're not!" replied Ford confidently. "Look yonder." "That isn't land, Ford. That's only a fog-bank, and we shall be all in the dark in ten minutes. The wind is changing, too, and I hardly know where we are." "Look at your compass." "That tells me the wind is changing a little, and it's going down; but I wouldn't dare to run towards the shore in a fog, and at night." "Why not?" "Why? Don't you remember those breakers? Would you like to be blown through them, and not see where you were going?" "Well, no," said Ford: "I rather guess I wouldn't." "Jes' you let Capt'in Kinzer handle dis yer boat," almost crustily interposed Dick Lee. "He's de on'y feller on board dat un'erstands nagivation." "Shouldn't wonder if you're right," said Ford good-humoredly. "At all events, I sha'n't interfere. But, Dab, what do you mean to do about it?" "Swing a lantern at the mast-head, and sail right along. You and Dick get a nap, by and by, if you can. I won't try to sleep till daylight." "Sleep? Catch me sleeping!" "You must; and so must Dick, when the time comes. It won't do for us to all get worn out together. If we did, who'd handle the boat?" Ford's respect for Dabney Kinzer was growing hourly. Here was this overgrown gawk of a green country boy, just out of his roundabouts, who had never spent more than a day at a time in the great city, and never lived in any kind of a boarding-house; in fact, here was a fellow who had had no advantages whatever,--coming out as a sort of hero. Ford looked at him hard, as he stood there with the tiller in his hand, but he could not quite understand it, Dab was so quiet and matter-of-course about it all; and, as for that youngster himself, he had no idea that he was behaving any better than any other boy could, should, and would have behaved in those very peculiar circumstances. However that might be, the gay and buoyant little "Swallow," with her signal lantern swinging at her mast-head, was soon dancing away through the deepening darkness and the fog; and her steady-nerved young commander was congratulating himself that there seemed to be a good deal less of wind and sea, even if there was more of mist. "I couldn't expect to have every thing to suit me," he said to himself. "And now I hope we sha'n't run down anybody. Hullo! Isn't that a red light, through the fog, yonder?" CHAPTER XII. HOW THE GAME OF "FOLLOW MY LEADER" CAN BE PLAYED AT SEA. There was yet another gathering of human beings on the wind-swept surface of the Atlantic that evening, to whose minds the minutes and hours were going by with no small burden of anxiety to carry. Not an anxiety, perhaps, as great as that of the three families over there on the shore of the bay, or even of the three boys tossing along through the fog in their bubble of a yacht; but the officers, and not a few of the passengers and crew, of the great iron-builded ocean-steamer were any thing but easy about the way their affairs were looking. It would have been so much more agreeable if they could have looked at them at all. Had they no pilot on board? To be sure they had, for he had come on board in the usual way, as they drew near their intended port; but they had somehow seemed to bring that fog along with them, and the captain had a half-defined suspicion that neither the pilot nor he himself knew exactly where they now were. That is a bad condition for a great ship to be in at any time, and especially when it was drawing so near a coast which calls for good seamanship and skilful pilotage in the best of weather. The captain would not for any thing have confessed his doubt to the pilot, nor the pilot his to the captain; and that was where the real danger lay, after all. If they could only have choked down their pride, and permitted themselves to talk of their possible peril, it would very likely have disappeared. That is, they could at least have decided to stop the vessel till they were rid of their doubt. The steamer was French, and her captain a French naval officer; and it is possible he and the pilot did not understand each other any too well. It was a matter of course that the speed of the ship should be somewhat lessened, under such circumstances; but it would have been a good deal wiser not to have gone on at all. Not to speak of the shore they were nearing, they might be sure they were not the only craft steaming or sailing over those busy waters; and vessels have sometimes been known to run against one another in a fog as thick as that. Something could be done by way of precaution in that direction, and lanterns with bright colors were freely swung out; but the fog was likely to diminish their usefulness somewhat. They took away a little of the gloom; but none of the passengers were in a mood to go to bed, with the end of their voyage so near, and they all seemed disposed to discuss the fog, if not the general question of mists and their discomforts. All of them but one, and he a boy. A boy of about Dab Kinzer's age, slender and delicate-looking, with curly light-brown hair, blue eyes, and a complexion which would have been fair, but for the traces it bore of a hotter climate than that of either France or America. He seemed to be all alone, and to be feeling very lonely that night; and he was leaning over the rail, peering out into the mist, humming to himself a sweet, wild air in a strange but exceedingly musical tongue. Very strange. Very musical. Perhaps no such words had ever before gone out over that part of the Atlantic; for Frank Harley was a missionary's son, "going home to be educated;" and the sweet, low-voiced song was a Hindustanee hymn which his mother had taught him in far-away India. Suddenly the hymn was cut short by the hoarse voice of the "lookout," as it announced,-- "A white light, close aboard, on the windward bow." That was rapidly followed by even hoarser hails, replied to by a voice which was clear and strong enough, but not hoarse at all. The next moment something, which was either a white sail or a ghost, came slipping along through the fog, and then the conversation did not require to be shouted any longer. Frank could even hear one person say to another out there in the mist, "Ain't it a big thing, Ford, that you know French? I mean to study it when we get home." "It's as easy as eating. Dab, shall I tell 'em we've got some fish?" "Of course. We'll sell 'em the whole cargo." "Sell them? Why not make them a present?" "We may need the money to get home with. They're a splendid lot. Enough for the whole cabin-full." "Dat's a fack. Cap'in Dab Kinzer's de sort ob capt'in fo' me, he is!" "How much, then?" "Twenty-five dollars for the lot. They're worth it,--specially if we lose Ham's boat." Dab's philosophy was a little out of gear; but a perfect rattle of questions and answers followed in French, and, somewhat to Frank Harley's astonishment, the bargain was promptly concluded. Fresh fish, just out of the water, were a particularly pleasant arrival to people who had been ten days out at sea. How were they to get them on board? Nothing easier, since the little "Swallow" could run along so nicely under the stern of the great steamer, after a line was thrown her; and a large basket was swung out at the end of a long, slender spar, with a pulley to lower and raise it. There was fun in the loading of that basket: but even the boys from Long Island were astonished at the number and size of the fine, freshly-caught blue-fish, to which they were treating the hungry passengers of the "Prudhomme;" and the basket had to go and come again and again. The steamer's steward, on his part, avowed that he had never before met so honest a lot of Yankee fishermen. Perhaps not; for high prices and short weight are apt to go together, where "luxuries" are selling. The pay itself was handed out in the same basket which went for the fish, and then "The Swallow" was again cast loose. The wind was not nearly so high as it had been, and the sea had for some time been going down. Twenty minutes later Frank Harley heard,--for he understood French very well,-- "Hullo, the boat! What are you following us for?" "Oh! we won't run you down. Don't be alarmed. We've lost our way out here, and we're going to follow you in. Hope you know where you are." There was a cackle of surprise and laughter among the steamer's officers, in which Frank and some of the passengers joined; and the saucy little "fishing-boat" came steadily on in the wake of her gigantic tide. "This is grand for us," remarked Dab Kinzer to Ford, as he kept his eyes on the after-lantern of the "Prudhomme." "They pay all our pilot-fees." "But they're going to New York." "So are we, if to-morrow doesn't come out clear, and with a good wind to go home by." "It's better than crossing the Atlantic in the dark, anyhow. But what a steep price we got for those fish!" "They're always ready to pay well for such things at the end of a voyage," said Dab. "I expected, though, they'd try and beat us down a peg. They generally do. We didn't get much more than the fair market price, after all, only we got rid of our whole catch at one sale." That was a good deal better than fishermen are apt to do. Hour followed hour; and "The Swallow" followed the steamer, and the fog followed them both so closely, that sometimes even Dick Lee's keen eyes could with difficulty make out the "Prudhomme's" light. And now Ford Foster ventured to take a bit of a nap, so sure did he feel that all the danger was over, and that Captain Kinzer was equal to what Dick Lee called the "nagivation" of that yacht How long he had slept, he could not have guessed but he was awakened by a great cry from out the mist beyond them, and by the loud exclamation of Captain Kinzer, still at the tiller,-- "I believe she's run ashore!" It was a loud cry, indeed, and there was good reason for it. Well was it for all on board the great steamer, that she was running no faster at the time and that there was no hurricane of a gale to make things worse for her. Pilot and captain had both together missed their reckoning,--neither of them could ever afterward tell how,--and there they were, stuck fast in the sand, with the noise of breakers ahead of them, and the dense fog all around. Frank Harley peered anxiously over the rail again but he could not have complained that he was "wrecked in sight of shore," for the steamer was any thing but a wreck as yet, and there was no shore in sight. "It's an hour to sunrise," said Dab to Ford, after the latter had managed to comprehend the situation. "We may as well run farther in, and see what we can see." It must have been aggravating to the people on board the steamer, to see that little cockle-shell of a yacht dancing safely along over the shoal on which their "leviathan" had struck, and to hear Ford Foster sing out, "If we'd known you meant to run in here, we'd have followed some other pilot." "They're in no danger at all," said Dab, "If their own boats don't take 'em all ashore, the coast-wreckers will." "The government life-savers, I s'pose you mean." "Yes: they're all alongshore, here, everywhere. Hark! there goes the distress-gun. Bang away! It sounds a good deal more mad than scared." So it did; and so they were,--captain, pilot, passengers, and all. "Captain Kinzer" found that he could safely run in for a couple of hundred yards or so; but there were signs of surf beyond, and he had no anchor to hold on by. His only course was to tack back and forth as carefully as possible, and wait for daylight,--as the French sailors were doing, with what patience they could command. In less than half an hour, however, a pair of long, graceful, buoyant-looking life-boats, manned each with an officer and eight rowers, came shooting through the mist, in response to the repeated summons of the steamer's cannon. "It's all right, now," said Dab. "I knew they wouldn't be long in coming. Let's find out where we are." That was easy enough. The steamer had gone ashore on a sand-bar, a quarter of a mile from the beach, and a short distance from Seabright on the New Jersey coast; and there was no probability of any worse harm coming to her than the delay in her voyage, and the cost of pulling her out from the sandy bed into which she had so blindly thrust herself. The passengers would, most likely, be taken ashore with their baggage, and sent on to the city overland. "In fact," said Ford Foster, "a sand-bar isn't as bad for a steamer as a pig is for a locomotive." "The train you were wrecked in," said Dab, "was running fast. Perhaps the pig was. Now, the sandbar was standing still, and the steamer was going slow. My! What a crash there'd have been if she'd been running ten or twelve knots an hour, with a heavy sea on!" By daylight there were plenty of other craft around, including yachts and sail-boats from Long Branch, and "all along shore;" and the Long Island boys treated the occupants of these as if they had sent for them, and were glad to see them. "Seems to me you're inclined to be a little inquisitive, Dab," said Ford, as his friend peered sharply into and around one craft after another; but just then Dabney sang out,-- "Hullo, Jersey, what are you doing with two grapnels? Is that boat of yours balky?" "Mind yer eye, youngster. They're both mine, I reckon." "You might sell me one cheap," continued Dab, "considering how you got 'em. Give you ten cents for the big one." Ford thought he understood the matter now, and he said nothing; but the "Jersey wrecker" had "picked up" both of those anchors, one time and another, and had no sort of objection to "talking trade." "Ten cents! Let you have it for fifty dollars." "Is it gold, or only silver gilt?" "Pure gold, my boy; but, seem' it's you, I'll let you have it for ten dollars." "Take your pay in clams?" "Oh, hush! I hain't no time to gabble. Mebbe I'll git a job here, 'round this yer wreck. If you reelly want that there grapn'I, wot'll you gimme?" "Five dollars, gold, take it or leave it," said Dab, pulling out a coin from the money he had received for his bluefish. In three minutes more "The Swallow" was furnished with a much larger and better anchor than the one she had lost the day before; and Dick Lee exclaimed, "It jes' takes Cap'n Kinzer!" For some minutes before this, as the light grew clearer and the fog lifted a little, Frank Harley had been watching them from the rail of the "Prudhomme," and wondering if all the fisher-boys in America dressed as well as these two. "Hullo, you!" was the greeting which now came to his ears. "Go ashore in my boat?" "Not till I've eaten some of your fish for breakfast," said Frank. "What's your name?" "Captain Dabney Kinzer, of 'most anywhere on Long Island. What's yours?" "Frank Harley of Rangoon." "I declare," almost shouted Ford Foster, "if you're not the chap my sister Annie told me of! You're going to Albany, to my uncle Joe Hart's, ain't you?" "Yes, to Mr. Hart's, and then to Grantley to school." "That's it. Well, then, you can just come along with us. Get your kit out of your state-room. We can send over to the city after the rest of your baggage, after it gets in." "Along with you! Where?" "To my father's house, instead of ashore among those hotel people, and other wreckers. The captain'll tell you it's all right." Frank had further questions to ask before he was satisfied as to whose hands he was about to fall into; and the whole arrangement was, no doubt, a little irregular. So was the present position of the "Prudhomme" herself, however; and all landing rules were a trifle out of joint by reason of that circumstance. So the steamer authorities listened to Frank's request when he made it, and gruffly granted it. "The Swallow" lay quietly at her new anchor while her passenger to be was completing his preparations to board her. Part of them consisted of a hearty breakfast,--fresh bluefish, broiled; and while he was eating it the crew of the yacht made a deep hole in what remained of their own supplies. Nobody who had seen them eat would have suspected that their long night at sea had interfered with their appetites. In fact, each of them remarked to the others that it had not, so far as he was concerned. "We'll make a good run," said Dab. "It'll be great!" "What?" said Ford, in some astonishment; "ain't you going to New York at all?" "What for?" "I thought that was what you meant to do. Shall you sail right straight home?" "Why not? If we could do that distance at night, and in a storm, I guess we can in a day of such splendid weather as this, with the wind just right too." CHAPTER XIII "HOME AGAIN! HERE WE ARE!" The wind was indeed "just right;" but even Dab forgot, for the moment, that "The Swallow" would go faster and farther before a gale than she was likely to with the comparatively mild southerly breeze now blowing. He was by no means likely to get home by dinner-time. As for danger, there would be absolutely none, unless the weather should again become stormy; and there was no probability of any such thing at that season. And so, after he had eaten his breakfast, and, with a genuine boy's confidence in boys, Frank Harley came on board "The Swallow" as a passenger, the anchor was lifted, and the gay little craft spread her white sails, and slipped lightly away from the neighborhood of the forlorn-looking, stranded steamer. "They'll have her out of that in less'n a week," said Ford to Frank. "My father'll know just what to do about your baggage, and so forth." There were endless questions to be asked and answered on both sides; but at last Dab yawned a very sleepy yawn, and said, "Ford, you've had your nap. Wake up Dick, there, and let him take his turn at the tiller. The sea's as smooth as a lake, and I believe I'll go to sleep for an hour or so. You and Frank can keep watch while Dick steers: he's a good steerer." Whatever Dab said was "orders" now on board "The Swallow;" and Ford's only reply was,-- "If you haven't earned a good nap, then nobody has." Dick, too, responded promptly and cheerfully; and in five minutes more the patient and skilful young "captain" was sleeping like a top. "Look at him," said Ford Foster to Frank Harley. "I don't know what he's made of. He's been at that tiller for twenty-three hours by the watch, in all sorts of weather, and never budged." "They don't make that kind of boy in India," replied Frank. "He's de bes' feller you ebber seen," added Dick Lee. "I's jes' proud ob him, I is!" Smoothly and swiftly and safely "The Swallow" was bearing her precious cargo across the summer sea; but the morning had brought no comfort to the two homes at the head of the inlet, or the humble cabin in the village. Old Bill Lee was out in the best boat he could borrow, by early daylight; and more than one of his sympathizing neighbors followed him a little later. There was no doubt at all that a thorough search would be made of the bay and the island, and so Mr. Foster wisely remained at home to comfort his wife and daughter. "That sort of boy," mourned Annie, "is always getting into some kind of mischief." "Annie!" exclaimed her mother indignantly, "Ford is a good boy, and he does not run into mischief." "I didn't mean Ford: I meant that Dabney Kinzer. I wish we'd never seen him, or his sailboat either." "Annie," remarked her father a little reprovingly, "if we live by the water, Ford _will_ go out on it, and he had better do so in good company. Wait a while." Annie was silenced, but it was only too clear that she was not entirely convinced. Her brother's absence and all their anxiety were positively due to Dab Kinzer, and his wicked, dangerous little yacht; and he must be to blame somehow. She could not help "waiting a while," as her father bade her; but her eyes already told that she had been doing more than wait. Summer days are long; but some of them are a good deal longer than others, and that was one of the longest any of those people had ever known. For once, even dinner was more than half neglected in the Kinzer family circle. At the Fosters' it was forgotten almost altogether. Long as the day was, and so dreary, in spite of all the bright, warm sunshine, there was no help for it: the hours would not hurry, and the wanderers would not return. Tea-time came at last; and with it the Fosters all came over to Mrs. Kinzer's again, to take tea, and tell her of several fishermen who had returned from the bay without having discovered a sign of "The Swallow" or its crew. Stout-hearted Mrs. Kinzer talked bravely and encouragingly, nevertheless, and did not seem to abate an ounce of her confidence in her son. It seemed as if, in leaving off his roundabouts, particularly considering the way in which he had left them off, Dabney must have suddenly grown a great many "sizes" in his mother's estimation. Perhaps, too, that was because he had not left them off any too soon. There they sat around the tea-table, the two mothers and all the rest of them, looking gloomy enough; while over there in her bit of a brown house, in the village, sat Mrs. Lee in very much the same frame of mind, trying to relieve her feelings by smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her boy's best clothes, and planning for him any number of bright red neckties, if he would only come back to wear them. The neighbors were becoming more than a little interested, and even excited about the matter; but what was there to be done? Telegrams had been sent to other points on the coast, and all the fishermen notified. It was really one of those puzzling cases, where even the most neighborly can do no better than "wait a while." Still, there were more than a dozen people, of all sorts, including Bill Lee, lingering around the "landing" as late as eight o'clock that evening. Suddenly one of them exclaimed,-- "There's a light coming in!" Others followed with,-- "There's a boat under it!" "Ham's boat carried a light." "I'll bet it's her!" "No, it isn't"-- "Hold on and see." There was not long to "hold on;" for in three minutes more "The Swallow" swept gracefully in with the tide, and the voice of Dab Kinzer shouted merrily,-- "Home again! Here we are!" Such a ringing volley of cheers answered him! It was heard and understood away there in the parlor of the Morris house, and brought every soul of that anxious circle right up standing. "Must be it's Dab!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer. "O mother!" said Annie, "is Ford safe?" "They wouldn't cheer like that, my dear, if any thing had happened," remarked Mr. Foster; but, in spite of his coolness, the city lawyer forgot to put his hat on, as he dashed out of the front gate and down the road towards the landing. Then came one of those times that it takes a whole orchestra and a gallery of paintings to tell any thing about: for Mrs. Lee as well as her husband was on the beach; and within a minute after "Captain Kinzer" and his crew had landed, poor Dick was being hugged and scolded within an inch of his life, and the two other boys found themselves in the midst of a perfect tumult of embraces and cheers. Frank Harley's turn came soon, moreover; for Ford Foster found his balance, and introduced the "passenger from India" to his father. "Frank Harley!" exclaimed Mr. Foster. "I've heard of you, certainly; but how did you--boys, I don't understand"-- "Oh! father, it's all right. We took Frank off the French steamer, after she ran ashore." "Ran ashore?" "Yes. Down the Jersey coast. We got in company with her in the fog, after the storm. That was yesterday evening." "Down the Jersey coast? Do you mean you've been out at sea?" "Yes, father; and I'd go again, with Dab Kinzer for captain. Do you know, father, he never left the rudder of 'The Swallow' from the moment we started until seven o'clock this morning." "You owe him your lives!" almost shouted Mr. Foster; and Ford added emphatically, "Indeed we do!" It was Dab's own mother's arms that had been around him from the instant he had stepped ashore, and Samantha and Keziah and Pamela had had to content themselves with a kiss or so apiece; but dear, good Mrs. Foster stopped smoothing Ford's hair and forehead just then, and came and gave Dab a right motherly hug, as if she could not express her feelings in any other way. As for Annie Foster, her face was suspiciously red at the moment; but she walked right up to Dab after her mother released him, and said,-- "Captain Kinzer, I've been saying dreadful things about you, but I beg pardon." "I'll be entirely satisfied, Miss Foster," said Dabney, "if you'll only ask somebody to get us something to eat." "Eat!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer. "Why, the poor fellows! Of course they're hungry." "Cap'n Kinzer allers does know jes' de right t'ing to do," mumbled Dick in a half-smothered voice; and his mother let go of him, with-- "Law, suz! So dey be!" Hungry enough they all were, indeed; and the supper-table, moreover, was the best place in the world for the further particulars of their wonderful cruise to be told and heard. Dick Lee was led home in triumph to a capital supper of his own; and as soon as that was over he was rigged out in his Sunday clothes,--red silk necktie and all,--and invited to tell the story of his adventures to a roomful of admiring neighbors. He told it well, modestly ascribing every thing to Dab Kinzer; but there was no good reason, in any thing he said, for one of his father's friends to inquire next morning,-- "Bill Lee, does you mean for to say as dem boys run down de French steamah in dat ar' boat?" "Not dat. Not zackly." "'Cause, ef you does, I jes' want to say I's been down a-lookin' at her, and she ain't even snubbed her bowsprit." CHAPTER XIV. A GREAT MANY THINGS GETTING READY TO COME! The newspapers from the city brought full accounts of the stranding of the "Prudhomme," and of the safety of her passengers and cargo. The several editors seemed to differ widely in their opinions relating to the whole affair; but there must have been some twist in the mind of the one who excused everybody on the ground that "no pilot, however skilful, could work his compass correctly in so dense a fog as that." None of them had any thing whatever to say of the performances of "The Swallow." The yacht had been every bit as well handled as the great steamship; but then, she had reached her port in safety, and she was such a little thing, after all. Whatever excitement there had been in the village died out as soon as it was known that the boys were safe; and a good many people began to wonder why they had been so much upset about it, anyhow. Mrs. Lee herself, the very next morning, so far recovered her peace of mind as to "wonder wot Dab Kinzer's goin' to do wid all de money he got for dem bluefish." "I isn't goin' to ask him," said Dick. "He's capt'in." As for Dab himself, he did an immense amount of useful sleeping, that first night; but when he awoke in the morning he shortly made a discovery, and the other boys soon made another. Dab's was, that all the long hours of daylight and darkness, while he held the tiller of "The Swallow," he had been thinking as well as steering. He had therefore been growing very fast, and would be sure to show it, sooner or later. Ford and Frank found that Dab had forgotten nothing he had said about learning how to box, and how to talk French; but he did not say a word to them about another important thing. He talked enough, to be sure; but a great, original idea was beginning to take form in his mind, and he was not quite ready yet to mention it to any one. "I guess," he muttered more than once, "I'd better wait till Ham comes home, and talk to him about it." As for Frank Harley, Mr. Foster had readily volunteered to visit the steamship-office in the city, with him, that next day, and see that every thing necessary was done with reference to the safe delivery of his baggage. At the same time, of course, Mrs. Foster wrote to her sister Mrs. Hart, giving a full account of all that had happened, but saying that she meant to keep Frank as her own guest for a while, if Mrs. Hart did not seriously object. That letter made something of a sensation in the Hart family. Neither Mrs. Hart nor her husband thought of making any objection; for, to tell the truth, it came to them as a welcome relief. "It's just the best arrangement that could have been made, Maria, all around," said he. "Write at once, and tell her she may keep him as long as she pleases." That was very well for them, but the boys hardly felt the same way about it. They had been planning to have "all sorts of fun with that young missionary," in their own house. He was, as Fuz expressed it, to be "put through a regular course of sprouts, and take the Hindu all out of him." "Never mind, though," said Joe, after the letter came, and the decision of their parents was declared: "we'll serve him out after we get to Grantley. There won't be anybody to interfere with the fun." "Well, yes," replied Fuz, "and I'd just as lief not see too much of him before that. He won't have any special claim on us, neither, if he doesn't go there from our house." That was a queer sort of calculation, but it was only a beginning. They had other talks on the same subject, and the tone of them all had in it a promise of lively times at Grantley for the friendless young stranger from India. Others, however, were thinking of the future, as well as themselves; and Joe and Fuz furnished the subject for more than one animated discussion among the boys down there by the Long Island shore. Ford Foster gave his two friends the full benefit of all he knew concerning his cousins. "It's a good thing for you," he said to Frank, "that the steamer didn't go ashore anywhere near their house. They're a pair of born young wreckers. Just think of the tricks they played on my sister Annie!" They were all related in Ford's most graphic style, with comments to suit from his audience. After that conversation, however, it was remarkable what good attention Dab Kinzer and Frank Harley paid to their sparring-lessons. It even exceeded the pluck and perseverance with which Dab worked at his French; and Ford was compelled to admit, to him in particular, "You ought to have a grown-up teacher,--somebody you won't kill if you make out to get in a hit on him. You're too long in the reach for me, and your arms are too hard." What between the boxing-gloves and the boat, there could be no question but what Frank Harley had landed at the right place to get strong in. There was plenty of fishing, bathing, riding, boating, boxing: if they had worked day and night, they could not have used it all up. Three boys together can find so much more to do than one can, all alone; and they made it four as often as they could, for Dick Lee had proved himself the best kind of company. Frank Harley's East-Indian experience had made him indifferent to the mere question of color, and Ford Foster was too much of a "man" to forget that long night of gale and fog and danger on board "The Swallow." It was only a day or two after that perilous "cruise," that Dab Kinzer met his old playmate, Jenny Walters, just in the edge of the village. "How well you look, Dabney!" remarked the sharp-tongued little lady. "Drowning must agree with you." "Yes," said Dab, "I like it." "Do you know what a fuss they made over you, when you were gone? I s'pose they'd nothing else to do." "Jenny," said Dab suddenly, holding out his hand, "you mustn't quarrel with me any more. Bill Lee told me about your coming down to the landing. You may say any thing to me you want to." Jenny colored, and bit her lip; and she would have given her bonnet to know if Bill Lee had told Dab how very red her eyes were, as she looked down the inlet for some sign of "The Swallow." Something had to be said, however; and she said it almost spitefully. "I don't care, Dabney Kinzer: it did seem dreadful to think of you three boys being drowned, and you, too, with your new clothes on. Good-morning, Dab." "She's a right good-hearted girl, if she'd only show it," muttered Dab, as Jenny tripped away; "but she isn't a bit like Annie Foster." His thoughts must have been on something else than his young-lady acquaintances, nevertheless; for his next words were, "How I do wish Ham Morris would come home!" There was time enough for that, and Ham was hardly likely to be in a hurry. The days were well employed in his absence; and, as they went by, the Morris homestead went steadily on looking less and less like its old self, and more and more like a house made for people to live and be happy in. Mrs. Kinzer and her daughters had now settled down in their new quarters as completely as if they had never known any others; and it seemed to Dab, now and then, as if they had taken almost too complete possession. His mother had her room, of course; and a big one it was. There could be no objection to that. Then another big one, of the very best, had to be set apart and fitted up for Ham and Miranda on their return home; and Dab had taken great delight in doing all in his power to make that room all it could be made. But then Samantha had insisted upon having a separate domain, and Keziah and Pamela had imitated their elder sister to a fraction. The "guest-chamber" had to be provided as well, or what would become of the good old Long Island notions of hospitality? Dab said nothing while the partition was under discussion, nor for a while afterwards; but one day at dinner, just after the coming of a letter from Miranda, announcing the speedy arrival of herself and her husband, he quietly remarked,-- "Now I can't sleep in Ham's room any longer, I suppose I'll have to go out on the roof. I won't sleep in the garret or in the cellar." "That will be a good deal as Mrs. Morris says, when she comes," calmly responded his mother. "As Miranda says!" said Dab, with a long breath. "Miranda?" gasped Samantha and her sisters in chorus. "Yes, my dears, certainly," said their mother. "This is Mrs. Morris's house,--or her husband's,--not mine. All the arrangements I have made are only temporary. She and Ham both have ideas and wills of their own. I've only done the best I could for the time being." The girls looked at one another in blank amazement, over the idea of Mrs. Kinzer being any thing less than the mistress of any house she might happen to be in; but Dabney laid down his knife and fork, with-- "It's all right, then. If Ham and Miranda are to settle it, I think I'll take the room Sam has now. You needn't take away your books, Sam: I may want to read some of them, or lend them to Annie. You and Kezi and Mele had better take that upper room back. The smell of the paint's all gone now, and there's three kinds of carpet on the floor." "Dabney!" exclaimed Samantha, reproachfully, and with an appealing look at her mother, who, however, said nothing on either side, and was a woman of too much good sense to take any other view of the matter than that she had announced. Things were again all running on smoothly and pleasantly, before dinner was over; but Dab's ideas of how the house should be divided were likely to result in some changes,--perhaps not precisely the ones he indicated, but such as would give him something better than a choice between the garret, the cellar, and the roof. At all events, only three days would now intervene before the arrival of the two travellers, and any thing in the way of further discussion of the room question was manifestly out of order. Every thing required for the coming reception was pushed forward by Mrs. Kinzer with all the energy she could bring to bear; and Dab felt called upon to remark to Pamela,-- "Isn't it wonderful, Mele, how many things she finds to do after every thing's done?" The widow had promised her son-in-law that his house should be "ready" for him, and it was likely to be a good deal more ready than either he or his wife had expected. CHAPTER XV. DABNEY KINZER TO THE RESCUE. One of the most troublesome of the annoyances which come nowadays to dwellers in the country, within easy reach of any great city, is the bad kind of strolling beggar known as "the tramp." He is of all sorts and sizes; and he goes everywhere, asking for any thing he wants, very much as if it belonged to him and he had come for his own--so long as he can do his asking of a woman or a sickly-looking man. There had been very few of these gentry seen in that vicinity, that summer, for a wonder; and those who had made their appearance had been reasonably well behaved. Probably because there had been so many healthy-looking men around, as a general thing. But it come to pass, on the very day in which Ham and Miranda were expected to arrive by the last of the evening trains, just as Dab Kinzer was turning away from the landing, where he had been for a look at "The Swallow" and to make sure she was all right for her owner's eyes, that a very disreputable specimen of a worthless man stopped at Mrs. Kinzer's to beg something to eat, and then sauntered away down the road. It was a little past the middle of the afternoon; and even so mean-looking, dirty a tramp as that had a perfect right to be walking along then and there. The sunshine, and the fresh salt air from the bay, were as much his as anybody's, and so was the water in the bay; and no one in all that region of country stood more in need of plenty of water than he. The vagabond took his right to the road, as he had taken his other right to beg his dinner, until, half-way down to the landing, he was met by an opportunity to do a little more begging. "Give a poor feller suthin'?" he impudently drawled, as he stared straight into the sweet fresh face of Annie Foster. Annie had been out for only a short walk; but she happened to have her pocket-book with her, and she thoughtlessly drew it out, meaning to give the scamp a trifle, if only to get rid of him. "Only a dime, miss?" whined the tramp, as he shut his dirty hand over Annie's gift. "Come, now, make it a dollar, my beauty. I'll call it all square for a dollar." The whine grew louder as he spoke; and the wheedling grin on his disgusting face changed into an expression so menacing that Annie drew back with a shudder, and was about returning her little portemonnaie to her pocket. "No, you don't, honey!" The words were uttered in a hoarse and husky voice, and were accompanied by a sudden grip of poor Annie's arm with one hand, while with the other he snatched greedily at the morocco case. Did she scream? How could she help it? Or what else could she have done, under the circumstances? She screamed vigorously, whether she would or no, and at the same moment dropped her pocket-book in the grass beside the path, so that it momentarily escaped the vagabond's clutches. "Shut up, will you!" Other angry and evil words, accompanied by more than one vicious threat, followed thick and fast, as Annie struggled to free herself, while her assailant peered hungrily around after the missing prize. It is not at all likely he would have attempted any thing so bold as that, in broad daylight, if he had not been drinking too freely; and the very evil "spirit" which had prompted him to his rash rascality unfitted him for its immediate consequences. These latter, in the shape of Dab Kinzer and the lower joint of a stout fishing-rod, had been bounding along up the road from the landing, at a tremendous rate, for nearly half a minute. A boy of fifteen assailing a full-grown ruffian? Why not? Age hardly counts in such a matter; and then it is not every boy of even his growth that could have brought muscles like those of Dab Kinzer to the swing he gave that four-foot length of seasoned ironwood. Annie saw him coming; but her assailant did not until it was too late for him to do any thing but turn, and receive that first hit in front instead of behind. It would have knocked over almost anybody; and the tramp measured his length on the ground, while Dabney plied the rod on him with all the energy he was master of. "Oh, don't, Dabney, don't!" pleaded Annie: "you'll kill him!" "I wouldn't want to do that," said Dab, as he suspended his pounding; but he added, to the tramp,-- "Now you'd better get up and run for it If you're caught around here again, it'll be the worse for you." The vagabond staggered to his feet, and he looked savagely enough at Dab; but the latter looked so very ready to put in another hit with that terrible cudgel, and the whole situation was so unpleasantly suggestive of further difficulty, that the youngster's advice was taken without a word. That is, if a shambling kind of double limp can be described as a "run for it." "Here it is: I've found my pocket-book," said Annie, as her enemy made the best of his way off. "He did not hurt you?" "No: he only scared me, except that I suppose my arm will be black-and-blue where he caught hold of it. Thank you ever so much, Dabney: you're a brave boy. Why, he's almost twice your size." "Yes; but the butt of my rod is twice as hard as his head," said Dabney. "I was almost afraid to strike him with it. I might have broken his skull." "You didn't even break your rod." "No; and now I must run back for the other pieces and the tip. I dropped them in the road." "Please, Dabney, see me home first," said Annie. "I know it's foolish, and there isn't a bit of danger; but I must confess to being a good deal frightened." Dab Kinzer was a little the proudest boy on Long Island, as he walked along at Annie's side, in compliance with her request. He went no farther than the gate, to be sure, and then he returned for the rest of his rod: but before he got back with it, Keziah Kinzer hurried home from a call on Mrs. Foster, bringing a tremendous account of Dab's heroism; and then his own pride over what he had done was only a mere drop in the bucket, compared to that of his mother. "Dabney is growing wonderfully," she remarked to Samantha, "He'll be a man before any of us know it." If Dab had been a man, however, or if Ham Morris or Mr. Foster had been at home, the matter would not have been permitted to drop there. That tramp ought to have been followed, arrested, and shut up where his vicious propensities would have been under wholesome restraint for a while. As it was, after hurrying on for a short distance, and making sure he was not pursued, he clambered over the fence, and sneaked into the nearest clump of bushes. From this safe covert he watched Dab Kinzer's return after the lighter pieces of his rod; and then he even dared to crouch along the fence, and see which house his young conqueror went into. "That's where he lives, is it?" he muttered, with a scowl of the most ferocious vengeance. "Well, they'll have some fun there before they git to bed to-night, or I'll know the reason why." It could not have occurred to such a man that he had been given his dinner at the door of that very house. What had the collection of his rights as a "tramp" to do with questions of gratitude and revenge? The bushes were a good enough hiding-place for the time, and he crawled back to them with the air and manner of a man whose mind was made up to something. Ford and Frank were absent in the city that day with Mr. Foster, who was kindly attending to some affairs of Frank's; but when the three came home, and learned what had happened, it was hard to tell which of them failed most completely in trying to express his boiling indignation. They were all on the point of running over to the Morris house to thank Dab, but Mrs. Foster interposed. "I don't think I would. To-morrow will do as well, and you know they're expecting Mr. and Mrs. Morris this evening." It was harder for the boys to give it up than for Mr. Foster, and the waiting till to-morrow looked a little dreary. They were lingering near the north fence two hours later, with a faint idea of catching Dab, even though they knew that the whole Kinzer family were down at the railway-station, waiting for Ham and Miranda. There was a good deal of patience to be exercised by them also; for that railway-train was provokingly behind time, and there was "waiting" to be done accordingly. The darkness of a moonless and somewhat cloudy night had settled over the village and its surrounding farms, long before the belated engine puffed its way in front of the station-platform. Just at that moment, back there by the north fence, Ford Foster exclaimed,-- "What's that smell?" "It's like burning hay, more than any thing else," replied Frank. "Where can it come from, I'd like to know? We haven't had a light out at our barn." "Light?" exclaimed Frank. "Just look yonder!" "Why, it's that old barn, 'way beyond the Morris and Kinzer house. Somebody must have set it on fire. Hullo! I thought I saw a man running. Come on, Frank!" There was indeed a man running just then; but they did not see him, for he was already very nearly across the field, and hidden by the darkness. He had known how to light a fire that would smoulder long enough for him to get away. He was not running as well, nevertheless, as he might have done before he came under the operation of Dab Kinzer's "lower joint." Mrs. Kinzer did her best to prevent any thing like a "scene" at the railway-station when Ham and Miranda came out upon the platform; but there was an immense amount of "welcome" expressed in words and hugs and kisses, in the shortest possible space of time. There was no lingering on the platform, however; for Ham and his wife were as anxious to get at the "surprise" they were told was waiting for them, as their friends were to have them come to it. Before they were half way home, the growing light ahead of them attracted their attention; and then they began to hear the vigorous shouts of "Fire!" from the throats of the two boys, re-enforced now by Mr. Foster himself, and the lawyer's voice was an uncommonly good one. Dabney was driving the ponies, and they had to go pretty fast for the rest of that short run. "Surprise?" exclaimed Ham. "I should say it was! Did you light it before you started, Dabney?" "Don't joke, Hamilton," remarked Mrs. Kinzer. "It may be a very serious affair for all of us. But I can't understand how in all the world that barn should have caught fire." "Guess it was set a-going," said Dab. CHAPTER XVI. DAB KINZER AND HAM MORRIS TURN INTO A FIRE-DEPARTMENT. The Morris farm, as has been said, was a pretty large one; and the same tendency on the part of its owners which led them to put up so extensive and barn-like a house, had stimulated them from time to time to make the most liberal provisions for the storage of their crops. Barns were a family weakness with them, as furniture had been with the Kinzers. The first barn they had put up, now the oldest and the farthest from the house, had been a large one. It was now in a somewhat dilapidated condition, to be sure, and was bowed a little northerly by the weight of years that rested on it; but it had still some hope of future usefulness if it had not been for that tramp and his box of matches. "There isn't a bit of use in trying to save it!" exclaimed Ham, as they were whirled in through the wide-open gate. "It's gone!" "But, Ham," said Mrs. Kinzer, "we can save the other barns perhaps. Look at the cinders falling on the long stable. If we could keep them off somehow!" "We can do it, Ham," exclaimed Dab, very earnestly. "Mother, will you send me out a broom and a rope, while Ham and I set up the ladder?" "You're the boy for me," said Ham. "I guess I know what you're up to." The ladder was one the house-painters had been using, and was a pretty heavy one; but it was quickly set up against the largest and most valuable of the barns, and the one, too, which was nearest and most exposed to the burning building and its flying cinders. The rope was on hand, and the broom, by the time the ladder was in position. "Ford," said Dab, "you and Frank help the girls bring water, till the men from the village get here. There's plenty of pails, but every one of our hands is away.--Now, Ham, I'm ready." Up they went, and were quickly astride of the ridge of the roof. It would have been perilous work for any man to have ventured farther unassisted; but Dab tied one end of the rope firmly around his waist, Ham tied himself to the other, and then Dab could slip down the steep roof, in any direction, without danger of slipping off to the ground below. But the broom? It was as useful as a small fire-engine. The flying cinders of burning hay or wood, as they alighted upon the sun-dried shingles of the roof, needed to be swept off as fast as they fell, before they had time to fulfil their errand of mischief. Here and there they had been at work for some minutes, and the fresh little blazes they had kindled had so good a start, that the broom alone would have been insufficient; and there the rapidly-arriving pails of water came into capital play. Ford Foster had never shone out to so good an advantage in all his life before, as he did when he took his station on the upper rounds of that ladder, and risked his neck to hand water-pails to Ham. It was hard work, all around, but hardest of all for the two "firemen" on the roof. Now and then the strength and agility of Ham Morris were put to pretty severe tests, as Dab danced around under the scorching heat, or slipped flat upon the sloping roof. It was well for Ham that he was a man of weight and substance. There were scores and scores of people streaming up from the village now, arriving in panting squads, every moment; and Mrs. Kinzer had all she could do to keep them from "rescuing" every atom of her furniture out of the house, and piling it up in the road. "Wait, please," she said to them very calmly. "If Ham and Dab save the long barn, the fire won't spread any farther. The old barn won't be any loss to speak of, anyhow." Fiercely as the dry old barn burned, it used itself up all the quicker on that account; and it was less than thirty minutes from the time Ham and Dabney got at work before roof and rafters fell in, and the worst of the danger was over. The men and boys from the village were eager enough to do any thing that now remained to be done; but a large share of this was confined to standing around and watching the "bonfire" burn down to a harmless heap of badly smelling ashes. As soon, however, as they were no more wanted on the roof, the two "volunteer firemen" came down; and Ham Morris's first word on reaching the ground was,-- "Dab, my boy, how you've grown!" Not a tenth of an inch in mere stature, and yet Ham was entirely correct about it. He stared at Dabney for a moment; and then he turned, and stared at every thing else. There was plenty of light just then, moon or no moon; and Ham's eyes were very busy for a full minute. He noted rapidly the improvements in the fences, sheds, barns, the blinds on the house, the paint, a host of small things that had changed for the better; and then he simply said, "Come on, Dab," and led the way into the house. Her mother and sisters had already given Miranda a hurried look at what they had done, but Ham was not the man to do any thing in haste. Deliberately and silently he walked from room to room, and from cellar to garret, hardly seeming to hear the frequent comments of his enthusiastic young wife. That he did hear all that had been said around him as he went, however, was at last made manifest, for he said,-- "Dab, I've seen all the other rooms. Where's yours?" "I'm going to let you and Miranda have my room," said Dab. "I don't think I shall board here long." "I don't think you will either," said Ham emphatically. "You're going away to boarding-school. Miranda, is there any reason why Dab can't have the south-west room, up stairs, with the bay-window?" That room had been Samantha's choice, and she looked at Dab reproachfully; but Miranda replied,-- "No, indeed. Not if you wish him to have it." "Now, Ham," said Dabney, "I'm not big enough to fit that room. Give me one nearer my size. That's a little loose for even Sam, and she can't take any tucks in it." Samantha's look changed to one of gratitude, and she did not notice the detested nickname. "Well, then," said Ham, "we'll see about it. You can sleep in the spare chamber to-night.--Mother Kinzer, I couldn't say enough about this house business if I talked all night. It must have cost you a deal of money. I couldn't have dared to ask it. I guess you must kiss me again." A curious thing it was that came next,--one that nobody could have reckoned on. Mrs. Kinzer--good soul--had set her heart on having Ham and Miranda's house "ready for them" on their return; and now Ham seemed to be so pleased about it, she actually began to cry. She said, too,-- "I'm so sorry about the barn!" Ham only laughed, in his quiet way, as he kissed his portly mother-in-law, and said,-- "Come, come, mother Kinzer, you didn't set it afire. Can't Miranda and I have some supper? Dab must be hungry, too, after all that roof-sweeping." There had been a sharp strain on the nerves of all of them that day and evening; and they were glad enough to gather around the tea-table, while all that was now left of the old barn smouldered peaceably away with half the boys in the village on guard. Once or twice Ham or Dab went out to see that all was dying out rightly; but it was plain that all the danger was over, unless a high wind should come to scatter the cinders. By this time the whole village had heard of Dab's adventure with the tramp, and had at once connected the latter with the fire. There were those, indeed, who expressed a savage wish to connect him with it bodily; and it was well for him that he had done his running away promptly, and had hidden himself with care, for men were out after him in all directions, on foot and on horseback. Who would have dreamed of so dirty a vagabond "taking to the water"? "He's a splendid fellow, anyway!" Odd, was it not? but Annie Foster and Jenny Walters were half a mile apart when they both said that very thing, just before the clock in the village church hammered out the news that it was ten, and bedtime. They were not either of them speaking of the tramp. It was long after that, however, before the lights were out in all the rooms of the Morris mansion. CHAPTER XVII. DAB HAS A WAKING DREAM, AND HAM GETS A SNIFF OF SEA-AIR. Sleep? One of the most excellent things in all the world, and very few people get too much of it nowadays. As for Dabney Kinzer, he had done his sleeping as regularly and faithfully as even his eating, up to the very night after Ham Morris came home to find the old barn afire. There had been a few, a very few, exceptions. There were the nights when he was expecting to go duck-shooting before daylight, and waked up at midnight with a strong conviction that he was late about starting. There were, perhaps, a dozen of "eeling" expeditions, that had kept him out late enough for a full basket and a proper scolding. There, too, was the night when he had stood so steadily by the tiller of "The Swallow," while she danced, through the dark, across the rough billows of the Atlantic. But, on the whole, Dab Kinzer had been a good sleeper all his life till then. Once in bed, and there had been for him an end of all wakefulness. On that particular night, for the first time, sleep refused to come, late as was the hour when the family circle broke up. It could not have been the excitement of Ham and Miranda's return. He would have gotten over that by this time. No more could it have been the fire, though the smell of smouldering hay came in pretty strongly at times through the wide-open windows. If any one patch of that great roomy bed was better made up for sleeping than the rest of it, Dab would surely have found the spot; for he tumbled and rolled all over it in his restlessness. Some fields on a farm will "grow" wheat better than others, but no part of the bed seemed to grow any sleep. At last Dab got wearily up, and took a chair by the window. The night was dark, but the stars were shining; and every now and then the wind would make a shovel of itself, and toss up the hot ashes the fire had left, sending a dull red glare around on the house and barns for a moment, and flooding all the neighborhood with a stronger smell of burnt hay. "If you're going to burn hay," soliloquized Dabney, "it won't do to take a barn for a stove. Not that kind of a barn. But what did Ham Morris mean by saying that I was to go to boarding-school? That's what I'd like to know" The secret was out. He had kept remarkably still, for him, all the evening, and had not asked a question; but, if his brains were ever to work over his books as they had over Ham's remark, his future chances for sound sleep were all gone. It had come upon him so suddenly, the very thing he thought about that night in "The Swallow," and wished for and dreamed about during all those walks and talks and lessons of all sorts with Ford Foster and Frank Harley, ever since they came in from that memorable cruise. It was a wonderful idea, and Dab had his doubts as to the way his mother would take to it when it should be brought seriously before her. Little he guessed the truth. Ham's remark had gone deep into other ears as well as Dabney's; and there were reasons, therefore, why good Mrs. Kinzer was sitting by the window of her own room, at that very moment, as little inclined to sleep as was the boy she was thinking of. So proud of him too, she was, and so full of bright, motherly thoughts of the man he would make, "one of these days, when he gets his growth." There must have been a good deal of sympathy between Dab and his mother; for by and by, just as she began to feel drowsy, and muttered, "Well, well, we'll have a talk about it to-morrow," Dab found himself nodding against the window-frame, and slowly rose from his chair, remarking,-- "Guess I might as well finish that dream in bed. If I'd tumbled out o' the window I'd have lit among Miranda's rose-bushes. They've got their thorns all out at this time o' night." It was necessary for them both to sleep hard, after that; for more than half the night was gone, and they were to be up early. So indeed they were; but what surprised Mrs. Kinzer when she went into the kitchen was to find Miranda there before her. "You here, my dear? That's right. I'll take a look at the milk-room. Where's Ham?" "Out among the stock. Dab's just gone to him." Curious things people will do at times. Miranda had put down the coffee-pot on the range. There was not a single one of the farm "help" around, male or female; and there stood the blooming young bride, with her back toward her mother, and staring out through the open door. And then Mrs. Kinzer slipped forward, and put her arms around her daughter's neck. Well, it was very early in the morning for those two women to stand there and cry; but it seemed to do them good, and Miranda remarked at last, as she kissed her mother,-- "O mother, it is all so good and beautiful, and I'm so happy!" And then they both laughed, in a subdued and quiet way; and Miranda picked up the coffee-pot while Mrs. Kinzer walked away into the milk-room. Such cream as there seemed to be on all the pans that morning! As for Ham Morris, his first visit on leaving the house had been to the relics of the old barn, as a matter of course. "Not much of a loss," he said to himself; "but it might have been, but for Dab. There's the making of a man in him. Wonder if he'd get enough to eat, if we sent him up yonder? On the whole, I think he would. If he didn't, I don't believe it would be his fault. He's got to go; and his mother'll agree to it, I know. Talk about mothers-in-law! If one of 'em's worth as much as she is, I'd like to have a dozen. Don't know 'bout that, though. I'm afraid the rest would have to take back seats as long as Mrs. Kinzer was in the house." Very likely Ham was right; but just then he heard the voice of Dab, behind him,-- "I say, Ham, when you've looked at the other things, I want to show you 'The Swallow.' I haven't hurt her a bit, and her new grapnel's worth three of the old one." "All right, Dab. I think I'd like a sniff of the water. Come on. There's nothing else I know of like that smell of the shore with the tide half out." No more there is; and there have been sea-shore men, many of them, who had wandered away into the interior of the country, hundreds and hundreds of long miles, and settled there, and even got rich and old there, and yet who have come all the way back again, just to get another smell of the salt marshes and the sea-air and the out-going tide. Ham actually took a little boat, and went on board "The Swallow," when they reached the landing, and Dab kept close to him. "She's all right, Ham. But what are you casting loose for?" "Dab, they won't all be ready for breakfast in two hours. The stock and things can go: the men'll tend to 'em. Just haul on that sheet a bit. Now the jib. Look out for the boom. There! The wind's a little ahead, but it isn't bad. Ah!" The last word came out in a great sigh of relief, and was followed by a chuckle which seemed to gurgle all the way up from Ham's boots. "This is better than railroading," he said to Dabney, as they tacked into the long stretch where the inlet widened toward the bay. "No pounding or jarring here. Talk of your fashionable watering-places! Why, Dab, there ain't any thing else in the world prettier than that reach of water and the sand-island, with the ocean beyond it. There's some ducks and some gulls. Why, Dab, do you see that? There's a porpoise, inside the bar!" It was as clear as daylight that Ham Morris felt himself "at home" again, and that his brief experience of the outside world had by no means lessened his affection for the place he was born in. If the entire truth could have been known, it would have been found that he felt his heart warm toward the whole coast and all its inhabitants, including the clams. And yet it was remarkable how many of the latter were mere empty shells when Ham finished his breakfast that morning. He preferred them roasted, and his mother-in-law had not forgotten that trait in his character. Once or twice in the course of the sail, Dabney found himself on the point of saying something about boarding-schools; but each time his friend broke away to the discussion of other topics, such as blue-fish, porpoises, crabs, or the sailing qualities of "The Swallow," and Dab dimly felt that it would be better to wait until another time. So he waited. It was a grand good time, however, to be had before breakfast; and as they again sailed up the inlet, very happy and very hungry, Dab suddenly exclaimed,-- "Ham, do you see that? How could they have guessed where we'd gone? There's the whole Kinzer tribe, and the boys are with them, and Annie." "What boys and Annie?" "Oh! Ford Foster and Frank Harley. Annie is Ford's sister. They live in our old house, you know." "What's become of Jenny?" "You mean my boat? There she is, hitched a little out, just beyond the landing." There was nothing on Dab's face to lead any one to suppose that he guessed the meaning of the quizzical grin on Ham's. It is barely possible, however, that there would have been fewer people at the landing, if Ham and Dab had not been keeping a whole house-full of hungry mortals, including a bride, waiting breakfast for them. CHAPTER XVIII. HOW DAB WORKED OUT ANOTHER OF HIS GREAT PLANS. There was a sort of council at the breakfast-table of the Foster family that morning; and Ford and Annie found their side of it "voted down." That was not at all because they did not debate vigorously, and even "protest;" but the odds were too much against them. "Annie, my dear," said Mrs. Foster at last, in a gentle but decided way, "I'm sure your aunt Maria, if not your uncle, must feel hurt at your coming away so suddenly. If we invite Joe and Foster to visit us, it will make it all right." "Yes," sharply exclaimed Mr. Foster: "we must have them come. They'll behave themselves here. I'll write to their father: you write to Maria." "They're her own boys, you know," added Mrs. Foster soothingly. "Well, mother," said Annie, "if it must be. But I'm sure they'll make us all very uncomfortable if they come." "I can stand 'em for a week or so," said Ford, with the air of a man who can do or bear more than most people. "I'll get Dab Kinzer to help me entertain them." "Excellent," said Mr. Foster; "and I hope they will be civil to him." "To Dabney?" asked Annie. "Fuz and Joe civil to Dab Kinzer?" exclaimed Ford. "Certainly: I hope so." "Father," said Ford, "may I say just what I was thinking?" "Speak it right out." "Well, I was thinking what a good time Fuz and Joe would be likely to have, trying to get ahead of Dab Kinzer." Annie looked at her brother, and nodded; and there was a bit of a twinkle in the eyes of the lawyer himself, but he only remarked,-- "Well, you must be neighborly. I don't believe the Hart boys know much about the seashore." "Dab and Frank and I will try and educate them." Annie thought of the ink, and her box of spoiled cuffs and collars, while her brother was speaking. Could it be that Ford meant a good deal more than he was saying? At all events, she fully agreed with him on the Dab Kinzer question. That was one "council;" and it was one of peace or war, probably a good deal as the Hart boys themselves might thereafter determine. At the same hour, however, matters of even greater importance were coming to a decision around the well-filled breakfast-table in the Morris mansion. Ham had given a pretty full account of his visit to Grantley, including his dinner at Mrs. Myers's, and all he had learned relating to the academy. "It seems like spending a great deal of money," began Mrs. Kinzer, when Ham at last paused for breath; but lid caught her up at once, with-- "I know you've been paying out a good deal, mother Kinzer, but Dab must go, if I pay"-- "You pay, indeed? For my boy? I'd like to see myself! Now I've found out what he is, I mean he shall have every advantage. If this Grantley's the right place"-- "Mother," exclaimed Samantha, "it's the very place Mr. Foster is going to send Ford to, and Frank Harley." "Exactly," said Ham; "Mr. Hart spoke of a Mr. Foster,--his brother-in-law,--a lawyer." "Why," said Keziah, "he's living in our old house now. Ford Foster is Dab's greatest crony. They're the very people you met at the landing." "Yes, I've heard all that," said Ham, "but somehow I hadn't put the two things together. Now, mother Kinzer, do you really mean Dab is to go?" "Of course I do," said she. "Well, if that isn't doing it easy! Do you know, it's about the nicest thing I've heard since I got here?" "Except the barn," said Dabney, unable to hold in any longer. "Mother, may I stand on my head a while?" "You'll need all the head you've got," said Ham. "You won't have much time to get ready." "He'll have books enough after he gets there," said Mrs. Kinzer decidedly. "I'll risk Dabney." "And they'll make him give up all his slang," added Samantha. "Yes, Sam; when I come back I'll talk nothing but Greek and Latin. I'm getting French now from Ford, and Hindu from Frank Harley. Then I know English, and slang, and Long-Islandish. Think of one man with seven first-rate languages!" But Dabney soon found himself unable to sit still, even at the breakfast-table. Not that he got up hungry, for he had done his duty by Miranda's cookery; but the house itself, big as it was, seemed too small to hold him, with all his new prospects swelling within him. Perhaps, moreover, the rest of the family felt that they would be better able to discuss the important subject before them, after Dab had taken himself out into the open air; for none of them tried to stay his going. "This beats dreaming, all hollow," he said to himself, as he stood, with his hands in his pockets, half way down to the gate between the two gardens. "Now I'll see what can be done about that other matter." Two plans in one head, and so young a head as that? Yes; and it spoke well for Dab's heart, as well as his brains, that his plan number two was not a selfish one. The substance of it came out in the first five minutes of the talk he had, a trifle later, with Ford and Frank, on the other side of the gate. "Ford, you know there's twenty dollars left of the money the Frenchman paid us for the bluefish." "Well, what of it? Isn't it yours?" "One share of it's mine. The rest is yours and Dick's." "He needs it more'n I do." "Ford, did you know Dick Lee was real bright?" "'Cute little chap as ever I saw. Why?" "Well, he ought to go to school." "Why don't he go?" "He does, except in summer. He might go to the academy, if they'd take him, and if he had money enough to go with." "Academy? What academy?" "Why, Grantley, of course. I'm going, and so are you and Frank. Why shouldn't Dick go?" "You're going? Hurrah for that! Why didn't you say so before?" "Wasn't sure till this morning. You fellows 'll be a long way ahead of me, though. But I mean to catch up." For a few minutes poor Dick was lost sight of in a perfect storm of talk; but Dab came back to him, with,-- "Dick's folks are dreadful poor, but we might raise it. Twenty dollars to begin with." "I've ten dollars saved up, and I know mother'll say 'Pass it right in,'" exclaimed Ford. It was hardly likely Mrs. Foster would express her assent in precisely that way; but Frank Harley promptly added,-- "I think I can promise five." "I mean to speak to Ham Morris and mother about it," said Dab. "All I wanted was to fix it about the twenty dollars to start on." "Frank," shouted Ford, "let's go right in, and see our crowd!" Ford was evidently getting a little excited; and it was hardly five minutes later that he wound up his story, in the house, with,-- "Father, may I contribute my ten dollars to the Richard Lee Education Fund?" "Of course; but he will need a good deal more money than you boys can raise." "Why, father, the advertisement says half a year for a hundred and fifty. He can board for less than we can. Perhaps Mrs. Myers would let him work out a part of it." "I can spare as much as Ford can," here put in Annie. "Do you leave me out entirely?" said her mother, with a smile that was even sweeter than usual. As for sharp-eyed lawyer Foster himself, he had been hemming and coughing in an odd sort of way for a moment, and he had said, "I declare," several times; but he now remarked, somewhat more to the purpose,-- "I don't believe in giving any man a better education than he will ever know what to do with; but then, this Dick Lee and you boys,--well, see what you can do; but no one must be allowed to contribute outside of the Foster and Kinzer families, and Frank. As for the rest, hem!--ah--I think I'll say that there won't be any difficulty." "You, father?" "Why not, Annie? Do you s'pose I'm going to let myself be beaten in such a matter by a mere country-boy like Dabney Kinzer?" "Father," said Ford, "if you'd seen how Dick behaved, that night, out there on the ocean, in 'The Swallow'!" "Just as well, just as well, my son." "Hurrah!" shouted Ford. "Then it's all right, and Dick Lee'll have a fair shake in the world!" "A what, my son?" exclaimed his mother. "I didn't mean to talk slang, mother: I only meant--well, you know how dreadfully black he is; but then, he can steer a boat tiptop, and he's splendid for crabs and bluefish; and Dab says he's a good scholar too." "Dab's a very good boy," said Mrs. Foster; "but your friend Dick will need an outfit, I imagine,--clothing, and almost every thing. I must see Mrs. Kinzer about it." Meantime Dick Lee's part in the matter, and that of his family, had been taken for granted, all around. An hour later, however, Mrs. Kinzer's first reply to her son, after listening to a calculation of his, which almost made it seem as if Dick would make money by going to Grantley, was,-- "What if Mrs. Lee should say she can't spare him?" Dab's countenance fell. He knew Mrs. Lee, but he had not thought so far as that. He said something not very intelligible, but to that effect. "Well, Dabney, if we can make the other arrangements, I'll see her about it." Ham Morris had been exchanging remarkable winks with Miranda and Samantha, and now gravely suggested,-- "Maybe the academy authorities will refuse to take him." "Ford says they had a blacker boy than he is, there, last year." "Now, Dab!" exclaimed Ham. "Well, I know he's pretty black; but it don't come off." "Mother," said Samantha, "Mrs. Foster and Annie are coming through the gate." Dab waited just long enough after that to learn the news concerning the "Richard Lee Education Fund" and Mr. Foster's offer, and then he was off towards the shore. He knew very well in which direction it was best to go; and, half way to the landing, he met Dick coming up the road with a basket of eels on his arm. "Dick," shouted Dabney, "I'm going away to boarding-school, at an academy." "'Cad'my? Whar?" "Up in New England. They call it Grantley Academy,--where Frank and Ford are going." "Dat spiles it all," said Dick ruefully. "Now I's got to fish wid fellers 'at don't know nuffin." "No, you won't. You're going with us. It's all fixed,--money and all." Dick would never have thought, ordinarily, of questioning a statement made by "Captain Kinzer;" but the rueful expression deepened on his face, the basket of eels dropped heavily on the grass, the tough black fingers of his hands twisted nervously together for a moment, and then he sat mournfully down beside the basket. "It ain't no use, Dab." "No use? Why not?" "I ain't a w'ite boy." "What of it? Don't you learn well enough, over at the school?" "More dar like me. Wot'd I do in a place whar all de res' was w'ite?" "Well as anybody." "Wot'll my mudder say, w'en she gits de news? You isn't a-jokin', is you, Dab Kinzer?" "Joking? I guess not." "You's lit onto me powerful sudden 'bout dis. Yonder's Ford an' Frank a-comin'. Don't tell 'em. Not jes' yit." "They know all about it. They helped raise the money." "Did dey? I's obleeged to 'em. Well, 'tain't no use. All I's good for is eels and crabs and clams and sech. Har dey come. Oh, my!" Ford and Frank brought a fresh gust of enthusiasm with them, and they had Dick and his eels up from the grass in short order. "We must see Mrs. Lee right away," said Ford. "It would never do to let Dick tell her." "Guess dat's so," said Dick. Quite an embassy they made, those four boys, with Dab Kinzer for spokesman, and Dick Lee almost crouching behind them. Mrs. Lee listened with open mouth while Dab unfolded his plan, but when he had finished she shut her lips firmly together. They were not very thin, and not at all used to being shut, and in another instant they opened again. "Sho! De boy! Is dat you, Dick? Dat's wot comes ob dressin' on 'im up. How's he goin' to git clo'es? Wot's he got to do wid de 'Cad'my, anyhow? Wot am I to do, yer all alone, arter he's gone? Who's goin' to run err'nds an' do de choahs? Wot's de use ob bringin' up a boy an' den hab him go trapesin' off to de 'Cad'my? Wot good'll it do 'im?" "I tole yer so, Dab," groaned poor Dick. "It ain't no use. I 'most wish I was a eel!" Dabney was on the point of opening a whole broadside of eloquence, when Ford Foster pinched his arm, and whispered,-- "Your mother's coming, and our Annie's with her." "Then let's clear out. She's worth a ten-acre lot full of us. Come on, boys!" If Mrs. Lee was surprised by their very sudden and somewhat unceremonious retreat, she need not have been, after she learned the cause of it. She stood in wholesome awe of Mrs. Kinzer; and a "brush" with the portly widow, re-enforced by the sweet face of Annie Foster, was a pretty serious matter. She did not hesitate about beginning the skirmish, however; for her tongue was already a bit loosened, and in fine working-order. "Wot's dis yer, Mrs. Kinzer, 'bout sendin' away my Dick to a furrin 'Cad'my? Isn't he 'most nigh nuff spiled a'ready?" "Oh! it's all arranged nicely. Miss Foster and I only came over to see what we could do about getting his clothes ready. He must have things warm and nice, for the winters are cold up there." "I hasn't said he might go--Dick, put down dem eels; an' he hasn't said he'd go--Dick, take off yer hat; an' his father"-- "Now, Glorianna," interrupted Mrs. Kinzer, calling Dick's mother by her first name, "I've known you these forty years, and do you suppose I'm going to argue about it? Just tell us what Dick'll need, and don't let's have any nonsense. The money's all provided. How do you know what'll become of him? He may be governor yet." "He mought preach!" That idea had suddenly dawned upon the perplexed mind of Mrs. Lee, and Dick's fate was settled. She was prouder than ever of her boy; and, truth to tell, her opposition was only what Mrs. Kinzer had considered it, a piece of unaccountable "nonsense," to be brushed away by just such a hand as the widow's own. CHAPTER XIX. A GRAND SAILING-PARTY, AND AN EXPERIMENT BY RICHARD LEE. That was a great day for the boys; but, before the close of it, Ford Foster had told his friends the news that Joe Hart and his brother Fuz had been invited to visit with him. "Will they come?" asked Dab. "Certainly. That kind of boy always comes. Nobody wants to keep him from coming." "When do you look for them?" "Right away. Vacation's almost gone, you know." "Won't they be ashamed to meet your sister?" "Not a bit. They'll try their tricks, even after they get here." "All right. We'll help 'em all we know how. But, boys, I'll tell you what we must try for." "What's that?" "One grand good sailing-party in 'The Swallow,' before they get here." "Hurrah for that! Annie was wishing for one, only yesterday." "We'll have all of your folks and all of ours. 'The Swallow' is plenty big enough." "Mother wouldn't go, and father can't just now. He's trying a case. But there's Annie and Frank and me"-- "And my mother, and Ham and Miranda, and our girls. Ham'll go, sure. Then we must take Dick Lee along. It'd make him sick if we didn't." "Of course. Ain't I glad about him! Could we get ready and go to-morrow?" "Guess not so quick as that. We might by the day after, if the weather's all right." Exactly. There is always a large-sized "if" to be put in, where any thing depends on the weather, Mrs. Kinzer took the matter up with enthusiasm, and so did the girls, Miranda included; and Ford Foster was quite right about his part of the company. But the weather! It looked well enough, to unpractised eyes; but Ham Morris shook his head, and went to consult his fishermen friends. There was a good deal of head-shaking done thereupon; for every human barometer among them advised him to wait a day or so, and hardly any two of them gave him the same reason for doing it. Ford Foster was at the house when Ham made his report, and was a little surprised to see how promptly Dab Kinzer yielded his assent to the verdict. "Such warm, nice weather as this is," he remonstrated; "and there isn't any wind to speak of." "There's too much of it coming," was Ham's response; and there was no help for it after that, not even when the mail brought word from "Aunt Maria" that both of her dear boys would arrive in a day or two. "Our last chance is gone, Annie," said Ford, when the news came. "O mother!" she said despondingly, "what shall we do?" "Have your sail, just the same, and invite your cousins." "But the Kinzers"-- "Why, Annie! Mrs. Kinzer will not think of neglecting them. She's as kind as kind can be." "And we are to pay her with Joe and Fuz," said Ford. "Well, I wish Ham Morris's storm would come along." He only had to wait until the next day for it, and he felt quite contented to be safe on shore while it lasted. There was no call for any laughter at the prophecies of the fishermen after it began to blow. Still the blow was not a long one, and Ham Morris remarked,-- "This is only an outside edge of it. It's a good deal worse than this out at sea. I'm glad we're not out in it." Ford Foster thought that about the worst of that weather was when the afternoon train came in, and he had to show a pair of tired, moist, and altogether unpleasant cousins to the room set apart for them. The clouds in his mind did not clear away perceptibly even when, just after supper, a note came in from Mrs. Kinzer, inviting the Hart boys to join the yachting-party next morning. "The storm may not be over," growled Ford a little sulkily. "Oh!" said Annie, "Mrs. Kinzer adds that the weather will surely be fine after such a blow, and the bay will be quite safe and smooth." "Does she know the clerk of the weather?" asked Joe Hart. "Got one of her own," said Ford. Joe and Ford both found something to laugh at in that, but they said nothing. They were both feeling a little "strange," as yet, and were almost inclined to try and behave themselves; the main difficulty in the way of it being a queer idea they had that their ordinary way of doing things made up a fair article of "good behavior." Nobody had taken the pains to bounce them out of the notion. When the morning really came, sea and earth and sky seemed to be all the better for the trial they had been through, and the weather was all that Mrs. Kinzer had prophesied of it. The grass and trees were greener, and the bay seemed bluer; while the few clouds visible were very white and clean, as if all the storms had been recently washed out of them. There was no question now to be raised concerning the yachting-party, or any part of it. Not a single thing went wrong in Mrs. Kinzer's management of the "setting out," and that was half the day won to begin with. Ford had some difficulty in getting Joe and Fuz out of bed so early as was necessary; but he gave them an intimation which proved quite sufficient:-- "You'd better hop, boys. Ham Morris wouldn't wait five minutes for the Queen of England, or even for me." "Joe," whispered Fuz, a little while after they got on board the yacht, "are we to be gone a week?" "Why? What's up?" "Such piles of provisions as they've stowed away in that kennel!" The bit of a water-tight cabin under the half-deck, at which Fuz pointed, was pretty well filled, beyond a doubt; but Mrs. Kinzer knew what she was about. She had provided luncheon for most of that party before, and the effect on them of the sea-air was also to be taken into account. "Dab," said Ford Foster, "you've forgotten to unhitch the 'Jenny,' Here she is, towing astern." "That's all right. We may need her. She's too heavy to be taken on board." A careful fellow was Mr. Hamilton Morris, and he well knew the value of a rowboat to a sea-going picnic-party. As for Joe and Fuz, they were compelled to overcome a strong inward inclination to cast the boat loose. Such a good joke it would have been! But Ham Morris was in the way of it, so long as he stood at the tiller. "The Swallow" was steady enough to inspire even Annie Foster with a feeling of confidence; but Ford carefully explained to her the difference between slipping over the little waves of the landlocked bay, and plunging into the gigantic billows of the stormy Atlantic. "I prefer this," said Annie. "But I wouldn't have missed the other for any thing," replied Ford. "Would you, Dick?" Mr. Richard Lee had taken his full share in the work of starting, and had made himself singularly useful; but, if all the rest had not been so busy, they would surely have noticed his remarkable silence. Hardly a word had he uttered that anybody could remember; and, now he was forced to say something, his mouth opened slowly, as if he had never tried to speak before, and was not quite sure he knew how. "No--Mr.--Foster,--I--would--not--have--missed--that--trip--for--a--good --deal." Every word came out by itself, "afoot and alone," and as different from Dick's ordinary speech as a cut stone is from a rough one. Ham Morris opened his eyes wide, and Ford puckered his lips into the shape of a still whistle; but Annie caught the meaning of it quicker than they did. "Dick," she said at once, "are we to fish to-day?" "May--be,--but--that--depends--on--Mr. Morris." Every word was slowly and carefully uttered, a good deal in the manner of a man counting over a lot of money, and looking out sharp for counterfeits. "Look here, Dick," suddenly exclaimed Dab Kinzer, "I give it up: you can do it. But don't you try to keep it up all day. Kill you, sure as any thing, if you do." "Did I say 'em all right, Cap'n Dab?" anxiously inquired Dick, with a happy look on his merry black face. "Every word," said Dab; "but it's well for you they were all short. Keep on practising." "I'll jes' do dat, shuah!" Practising? Dick? Yes, that was it; and he joined heartily in the peal of laughter with which the success of his first attempt at "w'ite folks' English" was received by that party. Dab explained, that, as soon as Dick found he was really to go to the academy, he determined to teach his tongue new habits; and the whole company heartily approved, even while they joined Dab in advising him not to attempt too much at a time. "You might sprain your tongue over a big word," said Ford. There was an abundance of talk and fun all around, as "The Swallow" skimmed onward; and the outlines of the long, low sand-island were rapidly becoming more distinct. Nearer they drew, and nearer. "Is that a light-house, away over there?" asked Annie of Dab. "Yes, that's a light-house; and there's a wrecking-station, close down by it." "A wrecking-station?" "I say," said Ford, "are there men there all the while? Are there many wrecks on this coast?" "Ever so many wrecks," said Dab, "and they keep a sharp lookout. There used to be more before there were so many light-houses. It was a bad place to go ashore in, too,--almost as bad as Jersey." "Why?" "Well, the coast itself is mean enough, for shoals and surf; and then there were the wreckers." "Oh! I understand," said Ford. "Not the Government men." "No, the old sort. It was a bad enough piece of luck to be driven in on that bar, or another like it; but the wreckers made it as much worse as they knew how to." They were all listening now, even his sisters; and Dabney launched out into a somewhat highly-colored description of the terrors of the Long-Island "south shore," in old times and new, and of the character and deeds of the men who were formerly the first to find out if any thing or anybody had been driven ashore. "What a prize to them that French steamer would have been!" said Annie; "the one you and Ford took Frank from." "No, she wouldn't. Why, she wasn't wrecked at all. She only stuck her nose in the sand, and lay still till the tugs came and pulled her off. That isn't a wreck. A wreck is where the ship is knocked to pieces, and people are drowned, and all that sort of thing. The crew can't help themselves, after that. Then, you see, the wreckers have a notion that every thing that comes ashore belongs to them. Why, I've heard some of our old fishermen--best kind of men too--talk of how Government has robbed them of their rights." "By the new system?" said Annie. "Well, first by having wrecks prevented, and then by having all property kept for the owners." "Isn't that strange! Did you say they were good men?" "Some of 'em. Honest as the day is long about every thing else. But they weren't all so. There was old Peter, now, and he lives on the island yet. There's his cabin. You can just see it sticking out of the edge of that big sand-hill." "What a queer thing it is!" "Queer? I guess you'd say so, if you could have a look at the things he's picked up along shore, and stowed inside of it. There isn't but just room for him to cook and sleep in." "Is he a fisherman too?" "Why, that's his trade. Sometimes the storms drift the sand high all over that cabin, and old Pete has to dig it out again. He gets snowed under two or three times every winter." Annie Foster, and probably some of the others, were getting new ideas concerning the sea-coast and its inhabitants, every minute; and she felt a good deal like Dick Lee,--she "wouldn't have missed that trip for any thing." They were now coasting along the island, at no great distance; and, although it was not nearly noon, Dabney heard Joe Hart say to his brother,-- "Never was so hungry in all my life. Glad they did lay in a good stock of provisions." "So am I," returned Fuz; and he added in a whisper, "Isn't there any way for us to get into that cabin?" Joe shook his head. There was not the slightest chance for any small piracy to be worked on that craft, so long as Mrs. Kinzer remained the "stewardess" of it; and the two hungry boys were compelled to wait her motions. CHAPTER XX. A WRECK AND SOME WRECKERS. Dismally barren and lonesome was that desolate bar between the bay and the ocean. Here and there it swelled up into great drifts and mounds of sand, which were almost large enough to be called hills; but nowhere did it show a tree, or a bush, or even a patch of grass. Annie Foster found herself getting melancholy, as she gazed upon it, and thought of how the winds must sometimes sweep across it, laden with sea-spray and rain and hail, or with the bitter sleet and blinding snow of winter. "Dabney," she said, "was the storm very severe here last night and yesterday?" "Worse than it was over on our side of the bay, ten times." "Were there any vessels wrecked?" "Most likely, but it's too soon to know just where." At that moment "The Swallow" was running around a sandy point, jutting out into the bay from the foot of the highest mound on the bar, not half a mile from the light-house, and only twice as far from the low wooden roof of the "wrecking-station," where, as Dab had explained to his guests, the lifeboats and other apparatus of all sorts were kept safely housed. The piles of drifted sand had for some time prevented the brightest eyes on board "The Swallow" from seeing any thing to seaward; but now, as they came around the point and a broad level lay before them, Ham Morris sprang to his feet in sudden excitement, as he exclaimed,-- "In the breakers! Why, she must have been a three-master! It's all up with her now." "Look along the shore!" shouted Dab. "Some of 'em saved, anyhow. The coast-men are there, too, life-boats and all." So they were; and Ham was right about the vessel, though not a mast was left standing in her now. If there had been, indeed, she might have been kept off the breakers, as they afterwards learned. She had been dismasted in the storm, but had not struck until after daylight that morning, and help had been close at hand and promptly given. There was no such thing as saving that unfortunate hull. She would beat to pieces just where she lay, sooner or later, according to the kind of weather that might take the job in hand, and the size and force of the waves it should bring with it. The work done already by the life-boat men had been a good one; and it had not been very easy, either, for they had brought the crew and passengers safely through the boiling surf, and landed them all upon the sandy beach. They had even saved for them some items of baggage. In a few hours the coast "wrecking-tugs" would be on hand to look out for the cargo. There was therefore no chance for the 'long-shore men to turn an honest penny without working hard for it. Work and wages enough there would be, to be sure, helping to unload, whenever the sea, now so heavy, should go down a little; but "work" and "wages" were not the precise things some of them were most hungry for. Two of them, at all events,--one a tall, grizzled, weather-beaten, stoop-shouldered old man, in tattered raiment, and the other more battered still, but with no "look of the sea" about him,--stood on a sand-drift, gloomily gazing at the group of shipwrecked people on the shore, and the helpless mass of timber and spars out there among the beatings of the surf. "Not more'n three hunder' yards out She'd break up soon, 'f there was no one to hender. Wot a show we'd hev!" "I reckon," growled the shorter man. "'S your name Peter?" "Ay. I belong yer. Allers lived 'bout high-water mark. Whar'd ye come from?" The only answer was a sharp and excited exclamation. Neither of them had been paying any attention to the bay side of the bar; and, while they were gazing at the wreck, a very pretty little yacht had cast anchor, close in shore; and then, with the help of a rowboat, quite a party of ladies and gentlemen--the latter somewhat young-looking for the greater part--had made their way to the land, and were now hurrying forward. They did not pay the slightest attention to Peter and his companion, but in a few minutes more they were trying to talk to those poor people on the seaward beach. Trying, but not succeeding very well; for the wreck had been a Bremen bark, with an assorted cargo and some fifty passengers, all emigrants. German seemed to be their only tongue, and none of Mrs. Kinzer's pleasure-party spoke German. "Too bad," Ford Foster was saying about it, when there came a sort of wail from a group at a little distance, and it seemed to close with,-- "_Pauvre enfant!_" "French!" exclaimed Ford. "Why, they look as Dutch as any of the rest. Come on, Annie, let's try and speak to them." The rest followed, a good deal like a flock of sheep; and it was a sad enough scene that lay before them. No lives had been lost in the wreck; but there had been a good deal of suffering among the poor passengers, cooped up between decks, with the hatches closed, while the storm lasted. Nobody drowned, indeed; but all had been dreadfully soaked in the surf in getting ashore, and among the rest had been the fair-haired child, now lying there on his mother's lap, so pinched and blue, and seemingly so nearly lifeless. French, were they? Yes and no; for the father, a tall, stout young man, who looked like a farmer, told Ford they were from Alsace, and spoke both languages. "The child, was it sick?" Not so much "sick" as dying of starvation and exposure. Oh, such a sad, pleading look as the poor mother lifted to the moist eyes of Mrs. Kinzer, when the portly widow pushed forward and bent over the silent boy! Such a pretty child he must have been, and not over two years old; but the salt water was in his tangled curls now, and his poor lips were parted in a weak, sick way, that told of utter exhaustion. "Can any thing be done, mother?" "Yes, Dabney, there can. You and Ham and Ford and Frank go to the yacht, quick as you can, and bring the spirit-heater, lamp and all, and bread and milk, and every dry napkin and towel you can find. Bring Keziah's shawl." Such quick time they made across that sand-bar! They were none too soon, either; for, as they came running down to their boat a mean-looking, slouching sort of fellow walked rapidly away from it. "He was going to steal it!" "Can't go for him now, Dab; but you'll have to mount guard here, while we go back with the things." There was a good deal of the "guard mounted" look in Dab's face, when they left him, a few minutes later, standing there by the boat, and he had one of the oars in his hand. An oar is almost as good a club as the lower joint of a fishing-rod, and that was exactly the thought in Dab's mind. Ham and Frank and Ford hurried back to the other beach, to find that Mrs. Kinzer had taken complete possession of that baby. Every rag of his damp things was already stripped off; and now, while Miranda lighted the "heater," and made some milk hot in a minute, the good lady began to rub the little sufferer as only an experienced mother knows how. Then there was a warm wrapping-up in cloths and shawls, and better success than anybody had dreamed of in making the seemingly half-dead child eat something. "That was about all the matter with him," said Mrs. Kinzer. "Now, if we can get him and his mother over to the house, we can save both of them. Ford, how long did you say it was since they'd eaten any thing?" "About three days, they say." "Mercy on me! And that cabin of ours holds so little! Glad it's full, anyhow. Let's get every thing out and over here, right away." "The cabin?" "No, Hamilton, the provisions." Not a soul among them all thought of their own lunch, any more than Mrs. Kinzer herself did; but Joe and Fuz were not among them just then. On the contrary, they were over there by the shore, where the "Jenny" had been pulled up, trying to get Dab Kinzer to put them on board "The Swallow." "Somebody ought to be on board of her," said Fuz, in as anxious a tone as he could assume, "with so many strange people around." "It isn't safe," added Joe. "Fact," replied Dab; "but then, I kind o' like to feel a little unsafe." The Hart boys had a feeling, at that moment, that somehow or other Dab knew why they were so anxious to go on board; and they were right enough, for he was saying to himself, "They can wait. They do look hungry, but they'll live through it. There ain't any cuffs or collars in Ham's locker." All there was then in the locker was soon out of it, after Mrs. Kinzer and the rest came, for they brought with them the officers of the wrecked bark; and neither Joe nor Fuz had an opportunity to so much as "help distribute" that supply of provisions. Ham went over to see that the distribution should be properly made; while Mrs. Kinzer saw her little patient, with his father and mother, safely stowed on board "The Swallow." "I'll save that baby, anyhow," she said to Miranda; "and Ford says his father's a farmer. We can find plenty for 'em to do. They'll never see a thing of their baggage, and I guess they hadn't a great deal." She was just the woman to guess correctly about such a matter. At that moment Dabney was saying to Annie Foster,-- "Whom do you guess I've seen to-day?" "I can't guess. Who was it?" "The tramp!" "The same one?" "The very same. There he goes, over the sandhill yonder, with old Peter the wrecker. We've got to hurry home now, but I'm going to set Ham Morris on his track before we get through." "You'll never find him again." "Do you s'pose old Peter'd befriend a man that did what he did? Right on the shore of the bay? No, indeed! There isn't a fisherman from here to Montauk, that wouldn't join to hunt him out. He's safe to be found whenever Ham wants him, if we don't scare him away now." "Don't scare him, then," almost whispered Annie. The wind was fair; and the home sail of "The Swallow" was really a swift and short one, but it did seem dreadfully long to her passengers. Mrs. Kinzer was anxious to see that poor baby and his mother safely in bed. Ham wanted to send a whole load of refreshments back to the shipwrecked people. Dab Kinzer could not keep his thoughts from following that "tramp." And then, if the truth must come out, every soul on board the beautiful little yacht was getting more and more painfully aware with every minute that passed, that they had had a good deal of sea-air and excitement, and a splendid sail across the bay, but no dinner,--not so much as a red herring and a cracker. CHAPTER XXI. DAB AND HIS FRIENDS TURN THEMSELVES INTO COOKS AND WAITERS. As for the Kinzers, that was by no means their first experience in such matters; but none of their friends had ever before been so near an out-and-out shipwreck. It is quite possible, moreover, that they had never before been so nearly starved as they were that day. At least, something to that effect was remarked by Joe Hart and Fuz, more than a dozen times apiece, while "The Swallow" was threading the crooked inlet, and making her way to the landing. "Ham," said Dab, "are you going right back again?" "Course I am,--soon as I can get a load of eatables together, from the house and the village. You'll have to stay here." "Why can't I go with you?" "Plenty for you to do at the house and around while I'm gone. No, you can't go." Dab seemed to have expected as much; for he turned to Ford with,-- "Then, Ford, I'll tell you what we must do." "What's that?" "We must see about the famine. Can you cook?" "No." "I can, then. Ham'll have one half of our house at work getting his cargo ready, and that baby'll fill up the other half." "Mother won't be expecting us so soon, and our cook's gone out for the day. Annie knows something." "She can help me, then. Those Hart boys'll die if they're not fed pretty soon. Look at Fuz. Why, he can't keep his mouth shut." Joe and his brother seemed to know as if by instinct that the dinner question was under discussion, and they were soon taking at least their share of the talk. Oh, how they did wish it had been a share of something to eat, instead! "The Swallow" was carefully moored, after discharging her passengers; but Dab did not start for the house with his mother and the rest. He even managed to detain some of the empty lunch-baskets, large ones too. "Come on, Mr. Kinzer," shouted Joe Hart. "Let's put for the village. We'll starve here." "A fellow that'll starve here, just deserves to, that's all," said Dabney. "Ford, there's Bill Lee's boat and three others coming in. We're all right. One of 'em's a dredger." Ford and Frank could only guess what their friend was up to, but Dab was not doing any sort of guessing. "Bill," he shouted, as Dick Lee's father came within hearing,--"Bill! put a lot of your best panfish in this basket, and then go and fetch us some lobsters. There's half a dozen in your pot. Did those others have any luck?" "More clams'n 'ysters," responded Bill. "Then we'll take both lots." The respect of the city boys for the resources of the Long-Island shore in a time of famine began to rise rapidly a few moments later; for, not only was one of Dab's baskets promptly laden with "panfish," such as porgies, blackfish, and perch, but two others received all the clams and oysters they were at all anxious to carry to the house. At the same time Bill Lee offered, as an amendment on the lobster question,-- "Yer wrong 'bout de pot, Dab." "Wrong? Why"-- "Yes, you's wrong. Glorianny's been an' biled ebery one on 'em, an' dey're all nice an' cold by dis time." "All right. I never did eat my lobsters raw. Just you go and get them, Dick. Bring 'em right over to Ford's house." Bill Lee would have sent his house and all, on a suggestion that the Kinzers or the Fosters were in need of it; and Dick would have carried it over for him. As for "Glorianna," when her son came running in with his errand, she exclaimed,-- "Dem lobsters? Sho! Dem ain't good nuff. Dey sha'n't have 'em. I'll jes' send de ole man all roun' de bay to git some good ones. On'y dey isn't no kine ob lobsters good nuff for some folks, dey isn't." Dick insisted, however; and by the time he reached the back door of the old Kinzer homestead with his load, the kitchen beyond that door had become almost as busy a place as was that of Mrs. Miranda Morris, a few rods away. "Ford," suddenly exclaimed Dab, as he finished scaling a large porgy, "what if mother should make a mistake!" "Make a mistake! How?" "Cook that baby. It's awful!" "Why, its mother's there." "Yes, but they've put her to bed, and its father too. Hey, here come the lobsters. Now, Ford"-- The rest of what he had to say was given in a whisper, and was not even heard by Annie Foster, who was just then looking prettier than ever, as she busied herself around the kitchen-fire. The bloom that was coming up into her face was a sight worth seeing. As for the Hart boys, Mrs. Foster had invited them to come into the parlor and talk with her until dinner should be ready. She added, with her usual smile, that there were cooks enough in the kitchen. Such a frying and broiling! Before Ham Morris was ready with his cargo for his trip back to the wreck, and right in the midst of his greatest hurry, word came over from Mrs. Foster that "the table was waiting for them all." Even Mrs. Kinzer drew a long breath of relief and satisfaction. There was nothing more in the wide world that she could do, just then, for either "that baby" or its unfortunate parents; and she was beginning to worry about her son-in-law, and how she should manage to get him to eat something. For Ham Morris had worked himself into a high state of excitement, in his benevolent haste, and did not seem to know that he was hungry. Miranda had entirely sympathized with her husband until the arrival of that message from Mrs. Foster. "O Hamilton! And good Mrs. Foster must have cooked it all herself!" "No, Miranda," said Ham thoughtfully. "Our Dabney went home with Ford and Annie. I can't stay more than a minute, but I think we'd better go right over. There's a good many things to come yet, from the village." Go they did; while the charitable neighbors whom Ham had stirred up concerning the wreck, attended to the completion of the cargo of "The Swallow." More than that was true; for at least one other good and kind-hearted boat would be ready to accompany her on her return trip across the bay, laden with creature comforts of all sorts. Even old Jock, the village tavern-keeper, not by any means the best man in the world, had come waddling down to the landing with a demijohn of old "apple-brandy;" and his gift had been kindly accepted, by the special advice of the village physician. "That sort of thing has made plenty of shipwrecks around here," said the man of medicine; "and the people on the bar have swallowed so much salt water, the apple-jack can't hurt 'em." Maybe the doctor was wrong about it; but the demijohn went over to the wreck in "The Swallow," very much to the gratification of old Jock. Mrs. Foster's dining-room was not a large one: there were no large rooms in that house. Nevertheless, the entire party managed to gather around the table,--all except Dab and Ford. "Dab is head cook, and I'm head waiter," had been Ford's explanation. "Frank and the boys are company." Certainly the cook had no cause to be ashamed of his work. The coffee was excellent. The fish was done to a turn. The oysters, roasted, broiled, or stewed, and likewise the clams, were all that could have been asked of them. Bread there was in abundance; and all things were going finely, till Mrs. Kinzer asked her son, as his fire-red face showed itself at the kitchen-door,-- "Dabney, you've not sent in your vegetables. We're waiting for them." Dab's face grew redder, and he came near dropping a plate he held in his hand. "Vegetables? Oh, yes! Well, Ford, we might as well send them in now. I've got them all ready." Annie opened her eyes, and looked hard at her brother; for she knew very well that not so much as a potato had been thought of in their preparations. Ford himself looked a little queer; but he marched right out, white apron and all. A minute or so later the two boys came in again, each bearing aloft a huge platter. One of these was solemnly deposited at each end of the table. "Vegetables?" "Why--they're lobsters!" "O Ford! how could you?" The last exclamation came from Annie Foster, as she clapped her hands over her face. Bright-red were those lobsters, and fine-looking fellows, every one of them, in spite of Mrs. Lee's poor opinion; but they were a little too well dressed, even for a dinner-party. Their thick shoulders were adorned with collars of the daintiest material and finish, while every ungainly "flipper" wore a "cuff" which had been manufactured for a different kind of wrist. There were plenty of cuffs and collars, and queer enough the lobsters looked in them. All the queerer because every item of lace and linen was variegated with huge black spots and blotches, as if some one had begun to wash it in ink. Joe and Fuz were almost as red as the lobsters; and Mrs. Foster's face looked as severe as it could, but that is not saying a great deal. The Kinzer family knew all about those cuffs and collars, and Ham Morris and the younger ladies were trying hard not to laugh. "Joe," said Fuz snappishly, "can't you take a joke? Annie's got the laugh on us this time." "I?" exclaimed Annie indignantly: "no, indeed! That's some of Ford's work, and Dabney's.--Mr. Kinzer, I'm ashamed of you." Poor Dab! He muttered something about those being all the vegetables he had, and retreated to the kitchen. Joe and Fuz, however, were not of the sort that take offence easily; and they were shortly helping themselves quite liberally to lobster, cuffs or no cuffs. That was all that was necessary to restore harmony at the table, but Dab's plan for "punishing the Hart boys" was a complete failure. As Ford told him afterwards: "Feel it? Not they. You might as well try to hurt a clam with a pin." "And I hurt your sister's feelings instead of theirs," said Dab. "Well, I'll never try any thing like it again. Anyhow, Joe and Fuz ain't comfortable they ate too many roasted clams and a good deal too much lobster." There was a certain degree of consolation to be had from such a fact as that. CHAPTER XXII. THE REAL MISSION OF THE JUG. Ham Morris ate well, when he once got at it; but he did not linger long at the dinner-table, for his heart was in "The Swallow." Dab would have given more than ever for the privilege of going with him. Not that he felt so dreadfully charitable, but that he did not care to prolong his stay at Mrs. Foster's, as "cook" or otherwise. He had not by any means lost his appetite,--although he seemed disposed to neglect the lobsters; and when he had taken proper care of it he hurried away "on an errand for his mother," in the direction of the village. Nearly everybody he met had some question or other to ask him about the wreck, and it was not to have been expected that Jenny Walters would let her old acquaintance pass her without a word or so. Dab answered as well as he could, considering the disturbed state of his mind; but he wound up with,-- "Jenny, I wish you'd come over to our house by and by." "What for?" "Oh! I've got something to show you--something you never saw before." "Do you mean your new baby? the one you found on the bar?" "Yes, but that baby, Jenny!" "What's wonderful about it?" "Why, it's only two years old, and it can squall in two languages. That's a good deal more than you can do." "They say your friend, Miss. Foster, speaks French," retorted Jenny. "Was she ever shipwrecked?" "In French? May be so; but not in German." "Well, Dabney, I don't propose to squall in any thing. Are your folks going to burn any more of their barns this year?" "Not unless Samantha gets married. Jenny, do you know what's the latest fashion in lobsters?" "Changeable green, I suppose." "No: I mean after they're boiled. It's to have 'em come on the table in cuffs and collars. Lace around their necks, you know." "And gloves?" "No, not any gloves. We had lobsters to-day, at Mrs. Foster's, and you ought to have seen 'em." "Dabney Kinzer, it's time you went to school again." "I'm going, in a few days." "Going? Do you mean you're going away somewhere?" "Ever so far; and Dick Lee's going with me." "I heard about him, but I didn't know he meant to take you along. That's very kind of Dick. I s'pose you won't speak to common people when you get back." "Now, Jenny"-- "Good-afternoon, Dabney. Perhaps I'll come over before you go, if it's only to take a look at that shipwrecked baby." A good many of Mrs. Kinzer's lady friends, young and old, deemed it their duty to come and do that very thing within the next few days. Then the sewing-circle took the matter up, and both the baby and its mother were provided for as they never had been before. It would have taken more languages than two, to fairly express the gratitude of the poor Alsatians. As for the rest of them, out there on the bar, they were speedily taken off, and carried to "the city," none of them being seriously the worse for their sufferings, after all. Ham Morris declared that the family he had brought ashore "came just in time to help him out with his fall work, and he didn't see any charity in it." Good for Ham! It was the right way to feel about it, but Dab Kinzer thought he could see something in it that looked like "charity" when he met his tired-out brother-in-law on his late return from that second trip across the bay. Real charity never cares to make an exhibition of itself. They were pretty thoroughly worn out, both of them; but they carefully moored "The Swallow" in her usual berth before they left her. She had effectually "discharged her cargo," over on the sand-island; but they Had enough of a load to carry home, in the shape of empty baskets and things of that sort. "Is every thing out of the locker, Dab?" inquired Ham. "All but the jug. I say, did you know it was nearly half full? Would it do any hurt to leave it here?" "The jug? No, not if you just pour out the rest of the apple-jack over the side." "Make the fish drunk." "Well, it sha'n't do that for anybody else, if I can help it." "Well, if it's good for water-soaked people, I guess it can't hurt the fish." "Empty it, Dab. Empty it, and come along. The doctor wasn't so far wrong, and I was glad to have it with me. Seemed to do some of 'em a power of good. But medicine's medicine, and I only wish some people I know of would remember it." "Some of 'em do a good deal of that kind of doctoring." The condemned liquor was already gurgling from the mouth of the demijohn into the salt water, and neither fish nor eel came forward to get a share of it. They were probably all feeling pretty well that night. When the demijohn was empty and the cork replaced, it was set down again in the "cabin;" and that was left unlocked, for there was no more danger in it for anybody. Dab and Ham were altogether too tired to take any pains there was no call for. Dab's mind must have been tired, as well as his body; for he decided to postpone until the morrow the report he had to make about the tramp. He was strongly of the opinion that the latter had not seen him to recognize him; and, at all events, the matter could wait. So it came to pass that all the shore, and the road that led away from it, and the village the road led into, were deserted and silent, an hour or so later, when a stoutly-built "cat-boat," with her one sail lowered, was quietly sculled up the inlet. There were two men on board, a tall one and a shorter one; and they ran their boat right alongside "The Swallow," as if that were the precise thing they had come to do. "Burgin," remarked the tall man, "wot ef we don't find any thin', arter all this sailin' and rowin' and scullin'? Most likely he's kerried it to the house. In course he has." The keenly watchful eyes of Burgin had noted the arrival of that apple-jack at the island; and they had closely followed its fortunes, from first to last. He had more than half tried, indeed, to work himself in among the crowd, as one of the "sufferers," but with no manner of success. The officers of the ship knew every face that had any right to a spoonful, and Burgin's failed to pass him. He had not failed, however, to note that his coveted "medicine" was by no means exhausted, and to see Ham stow the demijohn carefully away, at last, under the half-deck of "The Swallow." That information had given all the inducement required to get old Peter and his boat across the bay; and the ancient "wrecker" was as anxious about the result as the tramp himself could be. It was hard to say, now, which of them was the first on board "The Swallow." "It ain't locked!" "Then the jug ain't thar." "Wall, it is," exclaimed Burgin triumphantly, as he pulled it out; but his under jaw dropped a little when he felt "how light it lifted." "Reckon they helped themselves on thar way hum." It was a good deal worse than that; and an angry and disappointed pair were they when the cork and the truth came out. "Thar's jest a good smell!" That was old Peter's remark; and it sounded as if words failed him to add to it, but Burgin's wrath exploded in a torrent of bitter abuse of the man or men who had emptied that demijohn. He gave old Peter a capital chance to turn upon him morosely with,-- "Look a-yer, my chap, is this 'ere your boat?" "No: I didn't say it was, did I?" "Is that there your jug? I don't know if I keer to sit and hear one of my neighbors--and he's a good feller too, he is--abused all night, jest bekase I've been and let an entire stranger make a fool of me." "Do you mean me?" "Well, ef I didn't I wouldn't say it. Don't you git mad, now. It won't pay ye. Jest let's take a turn 'round the village." "You kin go ef you want ter. I'll wait for ye. 'Pears like I didn't feel much like doin' any trampin' 'round." "Stay thar, then. But mind you don't try on any runnin' away with my boat." "If I want a boat, old man, there's plenty here that's better worth stealin' than yourn." "That's so. I didn't know you'd been makin' any kalkilation on it. I won't be gone any great while." He was gone some time, however, whatever may have been his errand. Old Peter was not the man to be at a loss for one, of some sort, even at that hour of the night; and his present business, perhaps, did not particularly require company. When he returned at last, he found his own boat safe enough, and he really could not tell if any of the others had walked away; but he looked around in vain for any signs of his late comrade. Not that he spent much time or wasted any great pains in searching for him; and he muttered to himself, as he gave it up,-- "Gone, has he? Well, then, it's a good riddance to bad rubbidge. I ain't no aingil, but that feller's a long ways wuss'n I am." Whether or not old Peter was right in his estimate of himself or of Burgin, in a few moments more he was all alone in his "cat-boat," and was sculling it rapidly out of the crooked inlet. His search for Burgin had been a careless one, for he had but glanced over the gunwale of "The Swallow." A second look might have shown him the form of the tramp, half covered by a loose flap of the sail, deeply and heavily sleeping on the bottom of the boat. It was every bit as comfortable a bed as he had been used to; and there he was still lying, long after the sun had looked in upon him, the next morning. Other eyes than the sun's were to look in upon him before he awakened from that untimely and imprudent nap. It was not so very early when Ham Morris and Dabney Kinzer were stirring again; but they had both arisen with a strong desire for a "talk," and Ham made an opportunity for one by saying,-- "Come on, Dab. Let's go down and have a look at 'The Swallow.'" Ham had meant to talk about school and kindred matters, but Dab's first words about the tramp cut off all other subjects. "You ought to have told me," he said. "I'd have had him tied up in a minute." Dab explained as well as he could; but, before he had finished, Ham suddenly exclaimed,-- "There's Dick Lee, on board 'The Swallow!' What on earth's he there for?" "Dick!" shouted Dabney. "Cap'n Dab, did yo' set this yer boat to trap somebody?" "No. Why?" "'Cause you's done gone an' cotched 'im. Jes' you come an' see." The sound of Dick's voice, so near them, reached the dull ears of the slumbering tramp; and as Ham and Dabney sprang into a yawl, and pushed along-side the yacht, his unpleasant face was slowly and sleepily lifted above the rail. "It's the very man!" excitedly shouted Dabney. "The tramp?" "Yes,--the tramp!" No one would have suspected Ham Morris of so much agility, although his broad and well-knit frame promised abundant strength; but he was on board "The Swallow" like a flash, and Burgin was "pinned" by his iron grasp before he could so much as guess what was coming. "Le' go o' me!" "I've got you!" It was too late for any such thing as resistance; and the captive settled at once into a sullen, dogged silence, after the ordinary custom of his kind when they find themselves cornered. It is a species of dull, brute instinct, more than cunning, seemingly; but not a word more did Ham and Dab obtain from their prisoner,--although they said a good many to him,--until they delivered him over to the safe-keeping of the lawful authorities at the village. That done, they went home to breakfast, feeling that they had made a good morning's work of it, but wondering what would be the end and result of it all. "Ten years, I guess," said Ham. "In State prison?" "Yes. Breaking stone. He'll get his board free, but it'll be total abstinence for him. I wonder what took him on board 'The Swallow,'" "I know,--the jug!" "That's it, sure's you live. I saw him over on the island. I declare! To think of an empty demijohn having so much good in it!" CHAPTER XXIII. ANOTHER GRAND PLAN, AND A VERY GRAND RUNAWAY. The whole community was stirred up over the news of the capture of the tramp. It made a first-class excitement for a place of that size; but none of the inhabitants took a deeper interest in the matter than did Ford and Frank and the two Hart boys. It was difficult for them to get their minds quite right about it, especially the first pair, to whom it was a matter of unasked question just how much help Ham had given Dab in capturing the marauder. Mr. Foster himself got a little excited about it, when he came home; but poor Annie was a good deal more troubled than pleased. "O mother!" she exclaimed. "Do you suppose I shall have to appear in court, and give my testimony as a witness?" "I hope not, my dear. Perhaps your father can manage to prevent it somehow." It would not have been an easy thing to do, even for so good a lawyer as Mr. Foster, if Burgin himself had not saved them all trouble on that score. Long before the slow processes of country criminal justice could bring him to actual trial, so many misdeeds were brought home to him, from here and there, that he gave the matter up, and not only confessed to the attack on Annie's pocket-book, but to the barn-burning, to which Dab's cudgelling had provoked him. He made his case so very clear, that when he finally came before a judge and jury, and pleaded "guilty," there was nothing left for them to do but to say just what he was guilty of, and how long he should "break stone" to pay for it. It was likely to be a good deal more than "ten years," if he lived out his "time." All that came to pass some months later, however; and just now the village had enough to talk about in discussing the peculiar manner of his capture. The story of the demijohn leaked out, of course; and, while it did not rob Dab and Ham of any part of their glory, it was made to do severe duty in the way of a temperance lecture. Old Jock, indeed, protested. "You see, boys," said he, "real good liquor, like that, don't do nobody no harm. That was the real stuff,--prime old apple-jack 'at I'd had in my cellar ten year last Christmas; an' it jest toled that feller across the bay, and captered him, without no manner of diffikilty." There were some among his auditors who could have testified to a decidedly different kind of "capture." One effect of Dab's work on the day of the yachting-trip, including his special performances as cook, and as milliner to the lobsters, was, that he felt himself thenceforth bound to be somewhat carefully polite to Joe and Fuz. The remaining days of their visit would have been altogether too few for the varied entertainments he laid out for them, in his own mind, by way of reparation for his unlucky "practical joke." They were to catch all there was in the bay. They were to ride everywhere. They were to be shown every thing there was to see. "They don't deserve it, Dab," said Ford; "but you're a real good fellow. Mother says so." "Does she?" said Dab; and he evidently felt a good deal relieved, after that. Mr. Richard Lee, when his friends once more found time to think of him, had almost disappeared from the public eye. Some three days after "the trip," while all the other boys were out in the "Jenny," having a good time with their hooks and lines, Dick's mother made her appearance in Mrs. Kinzer's dining-room, or Miranda's, with a face that was even darker than usual, with a cloud of motherly anxiety. "Miss Kinzer," she said, "has you seen my Dick, dis week?" "No: he hasn't been here at all. Is there any thing the matter with him?" "Dat's de berry question. I jes' doesn't know wot to make ob 'im." "Why, Glorianna, do you think he's studying too hard?" "It ain't jes' de books; I isn't so much afeard ob dem: but it's all 'long ob de 'Cad'my. I wish you'd jes' take a good look at 'im, fust chance ye git." "Does he look badly?" "No: 'tain't jes' altogedder his looks. He's de bes' lookin' boy 'long shoah. But den de way he's a-goin' on to talk. 'Tain't natural. He used to talk fust-rate." "Can't he talk now?" "Yes, Miss Kinzer, he kin talk; but den de way he gits out his words. Nebber seen sech a t'ing in all my born days. Takes him ebber so long jes' to say good-mornin'. An' he doesn't say it like he use ter. I wish you'd jes' take a good look at 'im." Mrs. Kinzer promised, and she gave her black friend what comfort she could; but Dick Lee's tongue would never again be the free-and-easy member of society it had been. Even when at home, and about his commonest "chores," he was all the while struggling with what he called his "pronounciation." If he should succeed as well with the rest of his "schooling," it was safe to say that it would not be thrown away upon him. Glorianna went her way that morning; and the next to intrude upon Mrs. Kinzer's special domain was her son-in-law himself, accompanied by his blooming bride. "We've got a plan." "You? Apian? What about?" "Dab and his friends." That was the beginning of a tolerably long consultation, and the results of it were duly reported to Dabney when he came home with his fish. "A party?" he exclaimed, when his mother finished her brief but comprehensive statement: "Ham and Miranda to give a party for us boys? Well, now, if they're not right down good! But, mother, we'll have to get it up mighty quick." "I know it, Dab; but that's easy enough, with all the help we have. I'll take care of that." "A party! but, mother, what can we do? There's only a few of 'em know how to dance. I don't, for one." "You must talk it over with Ford. Perhaps Annie and Frank can help you." They were all taken into counsel soon enough; and endless were the plans and propositions made, till even Mrs. Kinzer found her temper getting a little fretted and worried over them. At all events, it was a settled fact that the "party" was to be; and the invitations went out in due and proper form. "Miranda," said her mother, on the morning of the important day, "we must manage to get rid of Dabney and those boys for a few hours." "Send 'em for some greens to rig the parlor with," suggested Ham. "Let 'em take the ponies." "Do you think the ponies are safe for them to drive, just now?" "Oh! Dab can handle 'em. They're a trifle skittish, that's all. They need a little exercise." So they did; but it was to be doubted if the best way to secure it for them was to send them out in a light, two-seated wagon, with a load of five lively boys. "Now, don't you let one of the other boys touch the reins," said Mrs. Kinzer. Dab's promise to that effect proved a hard one to keep; for Fuz and Joe almost tried to take the reins away from him, before they had driven two miles from the house. He was firm, however, and they managed to reach the strip of woodland, some five miles inland, where they were to gather their load, without any disaster; but it was evident to Dab, all the way, that his ponies were in uncommonly "high" condition. He took them out of the wagon, while the rest began to gather their liberal harvest of evergreens; and he did not bring them near it again until all was ready for the start homeward. "Now, boys," he said, "you get in; Joe and Ford and Fuz on the back seat, to hold down the greens. Frank, get up there, forward, while I hitch in the ponies. These fellows are chuck full of mischief." Very full, certainly; nor did Dab Kinzer know exactly what the matter was for a minute or so after he seized the reins and sprang up beside Frank Harley. Then, indeed, as the ponies kicked and reared and plunged, he thought he saw something work out from under their collars, and fall to the ground. An acorn-burr is just the thing to worry a restive horse, if put in such a place; but Joe and Fuz had hardly expected their "little joke" to be so very successful as it was. The ponies were off now! "Joe," shouted Fuz, "let's jump!" "Don't let 'em, Ford," exclaimed Dab, giving his whole energies to the horses. "They'll break their necks if they do. Hold 'em in." Ford, who was in the middle, promptly seized an arm of each of his panic-stricken cousins, while Frank clambered over the seat to help him. They were all down on the bottom now, serving as a, weight to hold the evergreen branches, as the light wagon bounced and rattled along over the smooth, level road. In vain Dab pulled and pulled at the ponies. Run they would, and run they did; and all he could do was to keep them fairly in the road. Bracing strongly back, with the reins wound around his tough hands, and with a look in his face that should have given courage even to the Hart boys, Dab strained at his task as bravely as when he had stood at the tiller of "The Swallow" in the storm. There was no such thing as stopping those ponies. And now, as they whirled along, even Dabney's face paled a little. "I must reach the bridge before he does: he's just stupid enough to keep right on." It was very "stupid," indeed, for the driver of that one-horse "truck-wagon" to try and reach the little narrow unrailed bridge first. It was an old, used-up sort of a bridge, at best. Dab loosened the reins a little, but could not use his whip. "Why can't he stop!" It was a moment of breathless anxiety, but the wagoner kept stolidly on. There would be barely room to pass him on the road itself; none at all on the narrow bridge. The ponies did it. They seemed to put on an extra touch of speed on their own account, just then. There was a rattle, a faint crash; and then, as the wheels of the two vehicles almost touched each other in passing, Ford shouted,-- "The bridge is down!" Such a narrow escape! One of the rotten girders, never half strong enough, had given way under the sudden shock of the hinder wheels; and that truck-wagon would have to find its road across the brook as best it could. There were more wagons to pass, as they plunged forward, and rough places in the road for Dabney to look out for; but even Joe and Fuz were now getting confidence in their driver. Before long, too, the ponies themselves began to feel that they had had enough of it. Then it was that Dab used his whip again, and the streets of the village were traversed at a rate to call for the disapprobation of all sober-minded people. "Here we are, Ham! Greens and all." "Did they run far, Dab?" asked Ham quietly. CHAPTER XXIV. DABNEY'S GREAT PARTY. The boys returned a good deal earlier than anybody had expected, but they made no more trouble. As Ford Foster remarked, "they were all willing to go slow for a week," after being carried home at such a rate by Dab's ponies. There was a great deal to be said, too, about the runaway, and Mrs. Foster longed to see Dabney, and thank him on Ford's account; but he himself had no idea that he had done any thing remarkable, and was very busy decking Miranda's parlors with the evergreens. A nice appearance they made, too, all those woven branches and clustered sprays, when they were in place; and Samantha declared for them that,-- "They had kept Dab out of mischief all the afternoon." At an early hour, after supper, the guests began to arrive; for Mrs. Kinzer was a woman of too much good sense to have night turned into day when she could prevent it. As the stream of visitors steadily poured in, Dab remarked to Jenny Walters,-- "We shall have to enlarge the house, after all." "If it were only a dress, now!" "What then?" "Why, you could just let out the tucks. I've had to do that with mine." "Jenny, shake hands with me." "What for, Dabney?" "I'm so glad to meet somebody else that's outgrowing something." There was a tinge of color rising in Jenny's face; but, before she could think of any thing to say, Dab added,-- "There, Jenny: there's Mrs. Foster and Annie. Isn't she sweet?" "One of the nicest old ladies I ever saw." "Oh! I didn't mean her mother." "Never mind. You must introduce me to them." "So I will. Take my arm." Jenny Walters had been unusually kindly and gracious in her manner that evening, and her very voice had less than its accustomed sharpness; but her natural disposition broke out a little, some minutes later, while she was talking with Annie Foster. Said she,-- "I've wanted so much to get acquainted with you." "With me?" "Yes: I've seen you in church, and I've heard you talked about, and I wanted to find out for myself." "Find out what?" asked Annie a little soberly. "Why, you see, I don't believe it's possible for any girl to be as sweet as you look. I couldn't, I know. I've been trying these two days, and I'm nearly worn out." Annie's eyes opened wide with surprise; and she laughed merrily, as she answered,-- "What can you mean! I'm glad enough if my face doesn't tell tales of me." "But mine does," said Jenny. "And then I'm so sure to tell all the rest with my tongue. I do wish I knew what were your faults." "My faults? What for?" "I don't know. Seems to me, if I could think of your faults instead of mine, it wouldn't be so hard to look sweet." Annie could but see that there was more earnestness than fun in the queer talk of her new acquaintance. The truth was, that Jenny had been having almost as hard a struggle with her tongue as Dick Lee with his, though not for the same reason. Before many minutes she had frankly told Annie all about it, and she could not have done that if she had not somehow felt that Annie's "sweetness" was genuine. The two girls were sure friends after that, much to the surprise of Mr. Dabney Kinzer. He, indeed, had been too much occupied in caring for all his guests, to pay especial attention to any one of them. His mother had looked after him again and again, with eyes brimful of pride and of commendation of the way in which he was acquitting himself as "host." Mrs. Foster herself remarked to her husband, who had now arrived,-- "Do you see that? Who would have expected as much from a raw, green country boy?" "But, my dear, don't you see? The secret of it is, that he's not thinking of himself at all he's only anxious that his friends should have a good time." "That's it; but then, that, too, is a very rare thing in a boy of his age." "Dabney," exclaimed the lawyer in a louder tone of voice. "Good-evening, Mr. Foster. I'm glad you've found room. The house isn't half large enough." "It'll do. I understand your ponies ran away with you to-day." "They did come home in a hurry, that's a fact; but nobody was hurt." "I fear there would have been, but for you. Do you start for Grantley with the other boys, tomorrow?" "Of course. Dick Lee and I need some one to take care of us. We never have travelled so far before." "On land, you mean. Is Dick here to-night?" "Came and looked in, sir; but he got scared by the crowd, and went home." "Poor fellow! I don't wonder. Well, we will all do what we can for him." Poor Dick Lee! And yet, if Mr. Dabney Kinzer had known his whereabouts at that very moment, he would half have envied him. Dick's mother was in the kitchen, helping about the "refreshments;" but she had not left home until she had compelled her son to dress himself in his best,--white shirt, red necktie, shining shoes, and all; and she had brought him with her, almost by force. "You's goodnuff to go to de 'Cad'my and leab yer pore mother, an' I reckon you's good nuff for de party." Dick had actually ventured in from the kitchen, through the dining-room, and as far as the door of the back parlor, where few would look. How his heart did beat, as he gazed upon the merry gathering, a large part of whom he had "known all his born days"! But there was a side-door opening from that dining-room upon the long piazza which Mrs. Kinzer had added to the old Morris mansion; and Dick's hand was on the knob of that door, almost before he knew it. Then he was out on the road to the landing; and in five minutes more he was vigorously rowing the "Jenny" out through the inlet, towards the bay. His heart was not beating unpleasantly any longer; but as he shot out from the narrow passage through the flags, and saw the little waves laughing in the cool, dim starlight, he suddenly stopped rowing, leaned on his oars, gave a great sigh of relief, and exclaimed,-- "Dar, I's safe now. I ain't got to say a word to nobody out yer. Wonder 'f I'll ebber git back from de 'Cad'my, an' ketch fish in dis yer bay. Sho! Course I will. But goin' 'way's awful!" Dab Kinzer thought he had never before known Jenny Walters to appear so well as she looked that evening; and he must have been right, for good Mrs. Foster said to Annie,-- "What a pleasant, kindly face your new friend has! You must ask her to come and see us. She seems to be quite a favorite with the Kinzers." "Have you known Dabney long?" Annie had asked of Jenny a little before that. "Ever since I was a little bit of a girl, and a big boy, seven or eight years old, pushed me into the snow." "Was it Dabney?" "No; but Dabney was the boy that pushed him in for doing it, and then helped me up. Dab rubbed his face with snow for him, till he cried." "Just like him!" exclaimed Annie with emphasis. "I should think his friends here will miss him." "Indeed they will," said Jenny, and then she seemed disposed to be quiet for a while. The party could not last forever, pleasant as it was; and by the time his duties as "host" were all done and over, Dabney was tired enough to go to bed and sleep soundly. His arms were lame and sore from the strain the ponies had given them; and that may have been the reason why he dreamed, half the night, that he was driving runaway teams, and crashing over rickety old bridges. There was some reason for that; but why was it that every one of his dream-wagons, no matter who else was in it, seemed to have Jenny Walters and Annie Foster smiling at him from the back seat? He rose later than usual next morning, and the house was all in its customary order by the time he got down stairs. Breakfast was ready also; and it was hardly over before Dab's great new trunk was brought down into the front-door passage by a couple of the farmhands. "It's an hour yet to train-time," said Ham Morris; "but we might as well get ready. We must be on hand in time." What a long hour that was! And not even a chance given to Dab to run down to the landing for a good-by look at the "Jenny" and "The Swallow." His mother and Ham, and Miranda, and the girls, seemed to be all made up of "good-by" that morning. "Mother," said Dab. "What is it, my dear boy?" "That's it exactly. If you say 'dear boy' again, Ham Morris'll have to carry me to the cars. I'm all kind o' wilted now." Then they all laughed, and before they got through laughing they all cried except Ham. He put his hands in his pockets, and drew a long whistle. The ponies were at the door now. The light wagon was a roomy one; but, when Dab's trunk had been put in, there was barely room left for the ladies, and Dab and Ham had to walk to the station. "I'm kind o' glad of it," said Dab. It was a short walk, and a silent one; but when they came in sight of the platform, Dab exclaimed,-- "There they are,--all of them!" "The whole party?" "Why, the platform's as crowded as our house was last night." Mrs. Kinzer and her daughters were already the centre of a talkative crowd of young people; and Ford Foster and Frank Harley, with Joe and Fuz Hart, were asking what had become of Dab, for the train was in sight. A moment later, as the puffing locomotive pulled up in front of the water-tank, the conductor stepped out on the platform, exclaiming,-- "Look a-here, folks, this ain't right. If there was going to be a picnic you ought to have sent word, and I'd have tacked on an extra car. You'll have to pack in now, best you can." He seemed much relieved when he found how small a part of that crowd were to be his passengers. "Dab," said Ford, "this is your send-off, not ours. You'll have to make a speech." Dab did want to say something; but he had just kissed his sisters and his mother, and half a dozen of his school-girl friends had followed the example of Jenny Walters; and then Mrs. Foster had kissed him, and Ham Morris had shaken hands with him; and Dab could not have said a word to have saved his life. "Speech!" whispered Ford mischievously, as Dab stepped upon the car-platform; but Dick Lee, who had just escaped from the tremendous hug his mother had given him, and had got his breath again, came to his friend's relief in the nick of time. Dick felt, as he afterwards explained, that he "must shout, or he should go off;" and so, at the top of his shrill voice he shouted,-- "Hurrah for Cap'n Kinzer! Dar ain't no better feller lef long shoah!" And then, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, and a grand waving of white handkerchiefs, the engine gave a deep, hysterical cough, and hurried the train away. Three homesteads by the Long Island shore were lonely enough that evening, and they were all likely to be lonelier still before they got fairly accustomed to the continued absence of "those boys." It was well understood that the Fosters had determined to prolong their "summer in the country" until the arrival of cold weather, they had found all things so pleasant; and the Kinzers were well pleased with that, as Samantha remarked,-- "If it's only to compare letters. I do hope Dabney will write as soon as he gets there, and tell us all about it." "He will," said his mother; but Ham's face put on a somewhat doubtful look. "I'm not quite sure about Dab," he said slowly. "If things ain't just right, he's the sort of boy that wouldn't say a word about it. Well, I must say I liked what I saw of Mrs. Myers's notions about feeding people." CHAPTER XXV. THE BOYS ON THEIR TRAVELS. A GREAT CITY, AND A GREAT DINNER. The conductor of that train need not have been much alarmed at falling in with a "picnic" of any moderate size, for he would have had room in his train to seat a good part of it, at least. The boys had no difficulty in getting seats "all together." That is, they found four empty ones, two on each side, right opposite; and when they had turned over the front seats, there they were. Ford and Frank were facing Dabney and Dick on the right; and the two Hart boys were facing each other on the left, each with a whole seat to himself. Almost the first thing Joe did, after taking possession, was to lean over, and whisper,-- "Look out, Fuz,--keep your secret." "Catch me spoiling a good joke." The other party seemed disposed to keep pretty quiet for a while; the first break of any consequence, in the silence, coming when Ford Foster exclaimed,-- "Dab, it was right along here." "What was?" "Where the pig had his collision with my train, first time I was over here." "Did you hear him squeal?" asked Frank, as he peered through the window. "The pig? No; but you ought to have heard the engine squeal, when it saw him coming." The story had to be all told over again, of course, and did good service in getting their thoughts in order for the trip before them. Up to the mention of the pig, it had somehow seemed to Dab as if the railway-platform at the station, and all the people on it, had kept company with the train; and Frank Harley found himself calculating the distance between that car and the "mission" at Rangoon in far-away India. As for Ford Foster, he stood in less need of any "pig" than the rest, from the fact that he had a large-sized idea in his head. He kept it there, too, until that train pulled up within reaching distance of one of the Brooklyn ferries. Before them lay the swift tide of the broad East River; and beyond that, with its borders of crowded docks and bristling masts, lay the streets and squares, and swarmed the multitudes, of the great city of New York. "Ford," said Dabney, "you're captain this time. What are we to do now?" "Well, if I ain't captain, I guess I'd better do a little steering. We must give our checks to the expressman, and have our luggage carted over to the Grand Central Depot." "Will it be sure to get there in good time?" "Of course it wouldn't if we were in any hurry; but our train doesn't leave until three o'clock, and the express won't fail to have it there before that." Ford was all alive with the responsibilities of his position, as the only boy in the party who had been born in the city, and had travelled all over it, and a little out of it. "Joe and Fuz," he said, "will want to take the night boat for Albany. They've more time on their hands than we have. Joe?--Fuz?--why can't you come along with us after you've checked your trunks? We'll be getting dinner before long." The Hart boys promptly assented, after a look at each other, and a sort of chuckle. "Might as well keep together," said Joe. "We'd like to take a look at things." "Come along. I'll show you." Frank Harley had seen quite a number of great cities, and he could hardly help saying something about them while they were going over on the ferryboat. They were all as far forward as they could get. "Did you ever see any thing just like this?" asked Dab. "Well, no, not just like it"-- "In India, or in China, or in London, or in Africa?" said Ford. "It's a little different from any thing I ever saw." "Well, isn't it bigger?" That was a question Frank might have undertaken to answer if there had been proper time given him; but just then the boat was running into her "slip," away down town, and Ford exclaimed,-- "Hurrah, boys! Now for Fulton Market and some oysters." "Oysters?" said Dab. "Yes, sir! There's more oysters in that old shanty than there are in your bay." "I don't know about that," said Dab, staring at the queer, huge, rickety old mass of unsightly wood and glass that Ford was pointing at, after they got ashore. "I'm hungry, anyhow." "Hungry? So am I. But no man ought to say he's been in New York till he's tried some Fulton-Market oysters." "Let's take 'em raw," said Fuz. "Then we can go ahead." Dick Lee had been in the city before, but never in such company, nor in such very good clothes; and there was an expression on his face a good deal like awe, when he actually found himself standing at an "oyster-counter," in line with five well-dressed young white boys. The man behind the counter served him, too, in regular turn; and Dick felt it a point of honor to empty the half-shell before him as quickly as any of the rest. There was no delay about that, anywhere along that line of boys. "Dick," said Ford, "where's your lemon? There it is!" Ford had already explained to the rest that it was "against the constitution and by-laws of Fulton Market to eat a raw oyster without the lemon-juice," and Dick would have blushed if he could. "Dat's so. I forgot um!" and then he added, with great care, "Yes, Mr. Foster, the lemon improves the oyster." "I declare!" muttered Ford. "He's keeping it up!" The oysters were eaten, and then it was "Come on, boys;" and away they went up Fulton Street to Broadway. They walked two and two, as well as the streams of people would let them, but the Hart boys kept a little in the rear. "What do you think of it, Joe?" "Think of what?" "Walking over New York with Dick Lee, just as if he was one of us?" "Guess nobody'll think we're walking with him. Anybody can tell what we are, just by looking at us." "Dick's face shows just what he is too. I don't care for this once, but it's awful." If any such thought were troubling Ford Foster, he made no confession of it, and was even specially careful, now and then, to turn around and address some remark or other to "the member from Africa," as he called him. "Dick," said Dab in an undertone, as they were leaving the market, "you look out, now: you must have as good a time as any of us, or I won't feel right about it." "Jes' you sail right ahead, Cap'n Dab. I's on hand." Ford was determined to "do the honors," and he led them down Broadway to the Battery before he started "up town;" and he had something to say about a great many of the buildings. Dab felt his respect for city boys increasing rapidly, and Dick remarked,-- "Ef he don't know dis coas' mos' as well as I know de bay!" It looked like it, and he also seemed to be on terms of easy acquaintance with some of the human "fish" they fell in with. Not that he spoke to any of them; but he pointed out the several kinds,--policemen, firemen, messenger-boys, loafers, brokers, post-office carriers, a dozen more, with a degree of confidence which fairly astonished his friends. "I could learn to tell all of them that wear uniforms, myself," said Dabney; "but how do you know the others?" "How do I know 'em? Well, it's just like knowing a miller or a blacksmith, when you see him. They all have some kind of smut on them that comes from their trade." There may have been something in that, or it may be barely possible that Ford now and then mixed his men a little, and pointed out brokers as "gamblers," and busy attorneys as probable pickpockets. He may have been too confident. On they went, till the brains of all but Ford and Frank were in a sort of whirl. Even Dab Kinzer was contented to look without talking; and Dick Lee, although he had not a word to say, found unusual difficulty in keeping his mouth shut. It positively would come open, every time Ford pointed out another big building, and told him what it was. They were not travelling very fast, but they were using a good deal of time in all that sight-seeing; and walking is hungry business, and a few raw oysters could not last six hearty boys very long. "I say, Ford," sung out Joe from the rear, "isn't it getting pretty near time for us to think of getting something to eat?" "We're 'most there now. We're going to have our dinner at the Magnilophant to-day." "What's that?" said Frank. "Never heard of it? Oh! You're the member from India. Well, it's the greatest restaurant in the known world, or in Paris either. Beats any thing on Long Island. Serve you up any thing there is, and no living man can tell what he's eating." Ford was in high spirits, and seemed all one chuckle of self-confidence. It was indeed a remarkably elegant establishment in its line, into which he led them a few minutes later. There certainly was nothing like it on Long Island, whatever might be true of Paris and other places outside of the "known world." Dab Kinzer felt like walking very straight as he followed his "leader," and Dick Lee had to use all the strength he had to keep himself from taking his hat right off when he went in. There was any amount of glitter and shine, in all directions; and Dab had a confused idea that he had never before believed that the world contained so many tables. Ford seemed wonderfully at home and at ease; and Dick found voice enough to say, half aloud,-- "Ain't I glad he's got de rudder, dis time? Cap'n Dab couldn't steer t'rough dis yer." The "steering" was well done; and it brought them nearly to the farther end of the great, splendid room, and seated them at a round table that seemed as well furnished as even Mrs. Foster's own. They all imitated Ford in hanging their hats on the appointed pegs before sitting down. "Now, boys, what shall we have?" he said, as he gazed learnedly up and down the printed bill of fare. "Speak up, Joe, Fuz, what's your weakness?" Every boy of them was willing to let Ford do his best with that part of the dinner; and he was hard at work deciding what soup and fish he had better pick out, when the tall waiter who had bustled forward to receive the coming "order," bent over his shoulder, and pointed to Dick Lee, inquiring,-- "Beg pardon, sah! Is dis young colored gen'l-man of youah party? It's 'gainst de rules ob de establishment, sah." Dab Kinzer felt his face flush fiery red; and he was on the point of saying something, he hardly knew what, when Ford looked calmly up into the mahogany face of the mulatto waiter, with,-- "You refer to my friend from Africa? We'll talk about that after dinner. Gumbo soup and Spanish mackerel if you please. Sharp, now!" "But, sah"-- "Don't be afflicted, my friend. He's as white as anybody, except on Fridays: this is his black day. Hurry up the soup and fish." Joe and Fuz were looking as if they were dreadfully ashamed of something; but poor Dick was sitting up as straight as a ramrod, under the influence of a glance that he had taken at the face of Dab Kinzer. "I isn't goin' back on him and Ford," he said to himself. "I'd foller dem fellers right fru' dis yer eatin'-house." Frank Harley seemed to be getting some information. In the country he had lived in nearly all his life, "colored people" were as good as anybody if they were of the right sort; and a man's skin had little to do with the degree of respect paid him, although even there it was an excellent thing to be "white." As for the mulatto waiter, after a moment more of hesitation, he took Ford's order, and walked dignifiedly away, muttering,-- "Nebber seen de like afore. Reckon I isn't g'wine to tote soup and fish for no nigger: I'll see de boss." That meant an appeal to the lordly and pompous but quite gentlemanly "head waiter," a man as white as Ford Foster. A word or two to him, a finger pointed towards the upper end of the hall, and the keen eyes of the "man in authority" took it all in. "Six of them,--five white and one black. Well, Gus, do they look as if they could pay their bill before they go?" "Yes, sah, dey does. De young gen'lman wid de bill ob fare in his han', he's got moah cheek, an' moah tongue, an' moah lip, sah"-- "Well then, Gus, you just tramp right along. If he and the rest don't care, I don't. It'll be time enough for me to make a fool of myself when somebody offers to pay me for it. Give 'em their dinner! Sharp!" "It's jes' a mons'ous outrage," growled the offended waiter, as he stalked away; but he took good care to obey his orders, for he had a consciousness that the eyes of his "master" were on him. He could hardly have guessed how completely his errand had been understood by the six boys, or how closely Ford Foster had "hit it." Said he, in reply to an angry remark from Dab Kinzer,-- "It's all humbug. They run this concern to make money, and they want some of ours. Mr. Marigold'll be sent right back with our soup." He was right; but, before they had eaten their way to the pie and pudding, Ford was dignifiedly informed,-- "If you please, sah, my name isn't Mr. Marigold, sah, it is Mr. Bellerington, sah; an' my first name isn't Coffee, sah, it's Augustus." "You don't say," replied Ford: "well, Augustus, don't forget the little remark I made about pie and the other things." It was a capital dinner; and Ford was proud of it, for he had picked out every item of it, from the soup to the macaroons. Dick Lee had enjoyed it hugely, after he began to feel that his first social victory had been fairly won for him. Still, he had doubts in his own mind as to whether he would ever dare such another undertaking with less than five white boys along to "see him through." Joe and Fuz ate well; but their spirits were manifestly low, for they were painfully conscious of having forever lost the good opinion of that mulatto waiter. "But for Dick Lee's being with us," they thought, "he and everybody else would have known we were gentlemen. We'll never be caught in such a trap again." It is a very sad matter, no doubt, to lose the intelligent respect of such gentlemen as Mr. Augustus Bellerington, but it sometimes has to be done; that is, unless their good opinion is to be gained by some nice little stroke of sneaking cowardice. Joe and Fuz stood it out, indeed, mainly because they were in some way more afraid of Dab and Ford and Frank than they were of even Augustus. That, too, was strange; for they were older than either of the others, and taller than any but Dabney himself. The dinner was well eaten, and it was well paid for, as Dabney remarked when he paid his share and half of Dick's; and then they were all in the street again, marching along, and "sight-seeing," towards the Grand Central Railroad Depot. CHAPTER XXVI. THE FIRST MORNING IN GRANTLEY, AND ANOTHER EXCELLENT JOKE. Ford Foster was the only one of those six boys who had ever seen the great railway-building, and he confessed that it looked a little large, even to him. Frank Harley freely declared that he had seen nothing like it in India; and Dick Lee's eyes showed all the white they had to show, before he had seen the whole of it. Their first errand was to the baggage-room; and they were on their way when Dab Kinzer thoughtfully remarked,-- "Now, Joe, here we've dragged you and Fuz away up here, miles and miles out of your way." "That's so," said Ford, "but they can take a street-car down. They've got hours of time to spare." "No hurry," said Joe: "we'll see you off." But Fuz whispered to him,-- "Time's up, Joe. Joke's got to come out now." It came out at the baggage-room; for there were the trunks of the Hart boys, and they had to go with the others to the ticket-office for their tickets, before they could get their checks. "Do you mean you're to go right on now, with us?" said Ford in some astonishment. "I thought you were going home first." "No. We got a letter three days ago, telling us what to do. Our other things'll be sent on by express." The "joke" was out, and the two jokers were laughing as though it were a remarkably good one in their estimation; but Ford nodded his head approvingly. "Uncle Joseph is a wise and careful man about his children," he said slowly. "He didn't mean you should make the trip alone. I'm much obliged to him for such an expression of his confidence in me." The laugh somehow died away, as if a sudden fit of sickness had carried it off, while a broad smile widened on the faces of the other boys, notably including Dick Lee; but the baggage-checks were to be looked after, and there were seats in the sleeping-car to be secured. The lost joke could hide itself easily in all that hurry and excitement. "The sleeper'll carry us the best part of the way," said Ford, when at last they took their seats; "but we'll have a doleful little ride on a small railway, early in the morning." "But that'll take us right up north to Grantley," added Dab, with a long-drawn breath of expectation. The remaining hours of that Friday were largely spent by all six of them in looking out of the windows. When they were not doing that, it was mostly because Joe or Fuz was telling some yarn or other about Grantley and its academy. They agreed perfectly in their somewhat extravagant praise of Mrs. Myers and her daughter Almira. "She's such a good, kind-hearted, liberal, motherly woman," said Joe. "And Almira's a sweet young lady," added Fuz, "only she's a little timid about boys." "Needn't be afraid of us, I guess," said Ford Foster, with a benevolent and protecting expression on his face; while Dab drew a mental picture of the fair Almira as a sort of up-country copy of Annie Foster. After the darkness came, and the "sleeper" was turned into a great travelling-box full of little shaky bedrooms, there was no more talking to be done, and all the boys were tired enough to go to sleep. One consequence of their beginning their slumbers so early, however, was, that they felt bright and fresh when the porter aroused them before daylight next morning; and they hurriedly dressed themselves for their ride on what Ford Foster called "the switch." It was quite a respectable railway, however, and it carried them through scenery so different from any that Dabney or Dick was accustomed to, that they lost a good deal of what Joe and Fuz were saying about Dr. Abiram Brandegee, the learned principal of Grantley Academy. It was of less importance, perhaps, because they had heard it all before, and had gathered a curious collection of ideas concerning the man under whose direction they were to get their new stocks of learning. "Dab," said Dick, "if it was any fellers but them said it, I'd want to go home." "Well, yes," said Dab quietly; "but then, that's just it. You can't guess when they're telling the truth, and when they ain't." "Is dar really any fun in lyin', do you s'pose, Dab?" "Can't say, Dick. Guess there wouldn't be much for you or me." "Dar's lots ob fun in Ford; an' he tells de truth mos' all de time, stiddy. So does Frank, jes' a little bit stiddier." "Ford never lies, Dick." "No, sir, he don't. But w'en anoder feller's lyin', he kin make believe he don't know it bes' of any feller I ebber seen." "Dick," exclaimed Dabney, "what if Dr. Brandegee had heard you say that!" "I would tell him I was imitating somebody I had heard," solemnly responded Dick, with fair correctness. The ride began in the dark hour that comes before the dawn, and the train ran fast. The sun was above the horizon, but had not yet peered over the high hills around Grantley, when the excited schoolboys were landed at the little station in the outskirts of the village. It was on a hillside; and they could almost look down upon a large part of the scene of their "good time coming,"--or their "bad time," a good deal as they themselves might make it. Dab and his friends saw that valley and village often enough afterwards; but never again did it wear to them precisely the same look it put on that morning, in the growing light of that noble September day. As for Joe and Fuz, it was all an old story to them; and, what was more, they had another first-rate joke on hand. "There's the academy," said Joe: "that big white concern in the middle of the green, and with so short a steeple." "Steeple enough," said Ford. "Are the rest churches?" "Yes; and, if you don't go to church reg'lar, Old By'll be sure to hear of it." "Old By" was the irreverent nickname they had selected for Dr. Abiram Brandegee; and Fuz added,-- "Never mind him, boys. He's a raspy old fellow; but he's such a little, old, withered wisp of a chap, you'll soon get used to him." Dab was bewildered enough, just then, to wonder how such a weak-minded, malicious old dwarf as had been painted to him, could have managed to get and keep so high a position in so remarkably beautiful a place as Grantley. He said something about the village being so pretty; but Dick Lee had been staring eagerly in all directions, and replied with,-- "Jes' one little mite of a patch ob water! Is dar any fish to ketch?" "Fish? In that pond?" said Fuz. "Why, it's alive with 'em. The people of Grantley just live on fish." "Guess I knows 'bout how many dey is now," said Dick soberly; and he was not far from right, for there were no fish to speak of in that willow-bordered mill-pond. "Mrs. Myers will hardly be up so early as this," said Dab. "We can get our trunks over by and by. Let's have a look at the village. Joe, it's your turn to steer now. You and Fuz know how the land lies." They were ready enough to tell all they knew, and a good deal more; but the listeners they had that morning were not without eyes of their own, and it was not a very fatiguing task to walk all over the village of Grantley. The first house to be studied with special care was the neat white residence of Dr. Brandegee, with its shady trees and its garden; for Joe said,-- "That's where you fellows'll have to come right after breakfast, to be examined. Oh, but won't Old By put you through!" Dick Lee's mouth came open as he stared at the knob on the doctor's front door, and Dabney caught himself doubting if he knew the multiplication-table. Even Ford Foster wondered if there was really any thing he could teach Dr. Brandegee, and remarked to Frank Harley,-- "I s'pose you're about the only man among us that he can't corner." "How's that?" "Why, if he's too hard on you, you can answer him in Hindustanee. He's never been a heathen in all his life: you'd have him"-- "Shuah!" chuckled Dick. The "green" was large and well-kept, and looked like the best kind of a ball-ground; but there was nothing wonderful about the academy building, except that it evidently had in it room enough for a great many boys. "You'll see enough of it before you get through," said Fuz. "But there'll have to be lots of whittling done this fall." "Whittling? what for?" "Why, don't you see? They've gone and painted the old thing all over new. Every boy cut his name somewhere before we left last term. They're all painted over now: maybe they're puttied up level. They did that once before, and we had to cut 'em all out again." "Oh!" said Ford, "I see: you were afraid they'd forget you. I don't believe they would." "You haven't pointed out Mrs. Myers's," said Dabney. "It must be pretty near breakfast-time. Where is it?" The Hart boys broke out into a joint giggle of enjoyment as Joe responded,-- "There it is,--right across there, beyond the harness-shop, opposite the other end of the green. Handy in bad weather." "It's a pretty decent-looking house too," said Ford. "Come on: let's go over, and let her know we've arrived in port." "Well, no," said Joe: "you fellows go over, soon as you please. Fuz and I won't take our breakfast there this morning." "Going somewhere else, eh? Well, we'll have an eye to your trunks when they come." The giggle grew rapidly into a laugh, as Fuz exclaimed,-- "Trunks! why, our baggage'll go to our boarding-house. We don't put up with Mother Myers this time: got a new place. Oh, but won't you fellows just love her and Almira!" It was all out, that deep secret about their change of boarding-house; and the Hart boys had something to enjoy this time, for Dab and his friends looked at each other for a moment in blank amazement. "All right, boys," shouted Ford, at the end of it: "here's for some breakfast. Good-morning, Joe. Day-day, Fuz. See you again by and by." They all followed him, but they could see that there was something more hidden under the mirth of Joe and Fuz as they walked away; and they were hardly out of hearing before Dab Kinzer remarked,-- "Look a' here, boys, I move we don't give those two any fun at our expense." "How?" asked Ford. "If there's any thing at Mrs. Myers's that we don't like, we mustn't let them know it." "I's keep my mouf shet if I foun' de house was an ole eel-pot," said Dick emphatically; and Frank and Ford came out even more strongly. They all seemed to feel as if some kind of a trick had been played upon them, to begin with. However, it served to put them on their guard, and prevented any change of countenance among them when their knock at the front door of that house was answered, and the freckled face of Mrs. Myers beamed out upon them from under its thin, smooth, glistening thatch of carroty hair. She was not a handsome woman, and she had a thin nose, and a narrow mouth, and very pale blue eyes; but she was all one smile of welcome as she stood in that doorway. "Mrs. Myers?" said Ford, with an extraordinary bow. "We arrived on the morning train. I am Mr. Foster." And then, with a half turn to the right, he continued, "Mrs. Myers--Mr. Richard Lee, Mr. Dabney Kinzer, Mr. Francis Harley. Our baggage will come over pretty soon." "Walk in, young gentlemen, walk in. I'm happy to see you.--Almira? Here they are: put breakfast on the table right away." "That isn't a bad beginning," thought Dab. "That sounds a good deal like what Ham said of her. She knew we must be hungry." "Walk into the parlor, please. Breakfast'll be ready in one minute. I'll show you your rooms afterwards." That, too, was considerate; and, when Almira herself came to the door between the parlor and the dining-room, she, too, looked as if it were quite her habit to smile, when she said,-- "Breakfast's ready." Almira smiled, but she was too much like her mother. There was nothing at all about her to put Dabney in mind of Annie Foster, or of either of his own sisters. Samantha, or Keziah, or Pamela could have been "made over" into two Almiras, in every thing but height; and Dab made up his mind at once that either of them could beat her at smiling,--not so much, perhaps, as to mere quantity, but as to quality. That was a breakfast which would have fully justified Ham Morris's report, for it was well cooked and plentiful. The "johnnycake," in particular, was abundant; and all the boys took to it kindly. "Glad you like it," said Mrs. Myers. "Almira, that's one thing we mustn't forget. I was always proud of my johnny cake. There's very few know what to do with their corn-meal, after they've got it." She did evidently, and the boys all said so except Dick Lee. He could do full justice to his breakfast, indeed; but he was saying to himself all the while,-- "I won'er 'f I'll ebber git used to dis yer. It's jes' awful, dis goin' to de 'cad'my." CHAPTER XXVII. A NEW KIND OF EXAMINATION. Three large trunks and one small one were delivered at Mrs. Myers's front door before that first breakfast was disposed of; and Miss Almira remarked of the boys, a few minutes later,-- "How strong they are, especially Mr. Kinzer!" "Don't make a mistake, Almira," said her mother in an undertone. "I'm glad the trunks are up stairs, but we mustn't begin by saying 'mister' to them. I've got all their first names. They mustn't get it into their heads that they're any thing more'n just so many boys." She hurried up stairs, however; and it did not take long to make her new boarders "know their places," so far as their rooms were concerned. That house was largely made up of its one "wing," on the first floor of which was the dining-room and sitting-room, all in one. In the second story of it were two bedrooms, opening into each other. The first and larger one was assigned to Dab and Ford, and the inner one to Frank. "Yours is a coop," said Ford to his friend from India; "but ours is big enough. You can come in here to study, and we'll fix it up prime. The stove's a queer one. Guess they burn wood up here mostly." Of course, so long as there was a good "wood-lot" on the outlying farm that belonged to Mr. Hart's speculation. The stove was a little box of an affair, with two "griddles" on top, and was quite capable of warming that floor. "She's putting Dick away in back somewhere," said Frank. "We must look and see what she's done for him." The main building of that house was only big enough for a "hall," a good-sized parlor opening into it on the right, a bedroom and large closet back of that, and two rooms overhead; but the kitchen and milk-room back, which must have been stuck on at a later day, had only one wide, low garret of a room in the space under the roof. It was lighted by a dormer window, and it did not contain any stove. The floor was bare, except in the spot covered by an old rug before the little narrow bed; but there was a table and a chair, by standing on either of which Dick would be able to put his hand upon the unceiled rafters and boards of the roof. On the whole, it was a room well calculated to be as hot as possible in summer, and as cold as possible in winter, but that would do very well in spring and autumn. At all events, it was "as good as he had been used to at home." Mrs. Myers herself said that to Almira; and the answer was,-- "Guess it is, and better too." Dick never dreamed of making any criticisms. In fact, his young brains were in a whirl of excitement, through the dust of which every thing in and about Grantley took on a wonderfully rosy color. "Dis room?" he said to his inquiring friends when they looked in on him. "How does I like dis room? It's de bes' room in de house. I shall--study--hard--in--this--room." "Bully for you," said Ford; "but you mustn't forget there's a stove in our room, when cold weather comes. Got your books out?" "Here they are. I will pile them upon the table." "Stick to it, Dick," said Ford. "But it's about time we set out for Dr. Brandegee's.--Dab, hadn't we better kindle a fire before we go? It makes me feel chilly to think of it." "We'll all be warm enough before he gets through with us," said Dab. "But the sooner we get there, the better. Maybe there are other boys, and we must go in first." "Come on, Dick." Not one of them seemed to be in a hurry, in spite of Dab's prudent suggestion; and at the bottom of the stairs they were met by Mrs. Myers. "Going for your examination? That's right. Dinner'll be ready at half-past twelve. When, school's opened, it will be a few minutes earlier, so you'll have plenty of time to eat and get back. Dick, as soon as your examination's over, I want you to come right back here, so I can finish making my arrangement with you." "Yes, ma'am. I will return at once." "You said that tip-top," said Dab, the moment they were on the sidewalk; "but I can't guess what she means. Ham Morris made all the bargain for you when he settled for me. S'pose it's all right, though." "Course it is. I's got to work out half my board a-doin' chores. Jes' wot I's been used to all my life." Frank Harley had seen a great many people, considering how young he was; and he had done less talking than the rest, that morning, and more "studying" of his landlady and her daughter. The results of it came out now. "Tell you what, boys: if I'm not mistaken, Dick Lee'll pay more for his board than we will for ours." "I don't care," said Dick bravely. "It's wuff a good deal to feed a boy like me." His mother had told him so, many a time; and in that matter "Glorianna" had not been so far from the truth. Ham Morris had indeed made a careful and particular bargain for Dick, and that his duties about the house should not interfere with his studies. He had done more; for he had insisted on buying Dick's text-books for him, and had made him promise to write to him about the way things went at Grantley. Up the street marched the four new boys, still a little slowly, until Ford broke out into a sudden word of encouragement,-- "Look here, boys, we're a set of wooden-heads! I'd like to know if we need be afraid of any thing Joe and Fuz Hart could go through?" "Well, I guess not," replied Dab. "Let's push ahead." He found himself leading the procession when it went through Dr. Brandegee's front gate; and there was a look of admiration on Dick's face, when he saw how promptly and courageously "Captain Dab Kinzer" pulled that door-bell. "This way, please," said the servant who opened the door,--"into the library. The doctor'll see you in a minute." "And we'll see him," muttered Ford, as they walked in, and he added in a whisper to Dick,-- "That's his portrait. There, over the mantel." "Jes' so," said Dick, coming dangerously near smiling; "an' his name den was Oliver Cromwell, an' dey dressed him up in sheet iron." That was the name printed under the engraving; but the smile had barely time to fade from Dick's face, before a door opened on the opposite side of the room, and the dreaded Principal of Grantley Academy walked in. "Good-morning, my young friends. Glad to see you so early." His hand was out towards Dick Lee, as he spoke; and they all had what Ford afterwards called "a good square shake of it," by the time they recovered their tongues, and replied to that genial, hearty, encouraging welcome. Dick couldn't have helped it, if he had tried,--and he somehow forgot to try,--a broad grin of delight spread all over his face, as he looked up in that of the doctor. The latter himself was smiling a good deal as if he could not help it, but he did not know the exact reason why every one of those boys looked so cheerful just then. The thought in Ford's mind came within an inch of getting out over his tongue. "Dwarf? Why, he's more like a giant. How Joe and Fuz Hart did spin it!" The great man was certainly a good "six feet two," and all his bodily proportions were correspondingly ample. Frank Harley was the last to be shaken hands with, and so had time to think,-- "Afraid of him? Why, he's too big to be afraid of. We're all right." That was the whole truth. Dr. Brandegee was too big, in mind as well as body, for any boy of their size to feel at all uneasy after the first half-minute of looking in his calm, broad, thoughtful face. Every member of that quartet began to feel a queer sort of impatience to tell all he knew about books. The doctor mentioned the fact that he had that morning received letters from their parents and friends, announcing their arrival; but the oddity of it was that he seemed to know, at sight, the right name for each boy, and the right boy for each name. "He might have guessed at Dick," thought Ford; "but how did he know me?" Perhaps a quarter of a century spent in receiving, classifying, and managing young gentlemen of all sorts had given the man of learning special faculties for his work. "I shall have to ask you a few questions, my young friends; but I think there will be little difficulty in assigning you your places and studies. Be seated, please." That library was plainly a place where no time was to be wasted, for in less than a minute more Ford Foster was suddenly stopped in the middle of a passage of easy Latin,-- "That will do. Give me a free translation." Ford did so, glibly enough; but there followed no word of comment, favorable or otherwise. Similar brief glimpses were taken of three or four other studies; and then the doctor suddenly remarked to him, in French,-- "Your father has written me very fully concerning your previous studies. You are well prepared, but you have plenty of hard work before you." Ford fairly strained his best French in the reply he made; and the doctor observed,-- "I see. Constant practice. I wish more parents would be as wise.--Mr. Harley, I had not been informed that you spoke French. You noticed Mr. Foster's mistake. Please correct it for him." Frank blushed to his eyes, but he obeyed; and he hardly knew how it was, that, before the doctor's rapid questioning was over, his answers had included the whole range of his schooling and acquirements. "Isn't dey doin' fine!" was the proud thought in the mind of Dick Lee. "But jes' wait till he gits hol' ob Cap'n Dab!" Dick's confidence in his friend was at least ten times greater than Dabney's in himself. The very air of the room he was in seemed, to the latter, to grow oppressively heavy with learning, and he dreaded his own turn more than ever. While he was waiting for it to come, however, some casual reference to Long Island by the doctor, and a question as to the precise character of its southern coast, rapidly expanded into a wider range of geography, upon the heels of which history trod a little carelessly, and other subjects came tumbling in, until Dabney discovered that he was computing, at the doctor's request, sundry arithmetical results, which might with greater propriety have been reserved for his "examination." That, too, was the way poor Dick Lee came to make so bad a breakdown. His shining face would have told, even to eyes less practised than those of Dr. Brandegee, exactly the answer, as to kind and readiness, which he would have made to every question put to his white friends. That is, unless he had been directly called upon to "answer out aloud." There is no telling what he would have done in such a case as that. The doctor found out, for he quietly shifted his last question over Dab's left shoulder, and let it fall upon Dick in such a way as not to scare him. "You's got me, dis time! Dat's de berry place whar we stopped at de end of our school, las' year." "Then, I think I know about where it's best for you to begin. I'll have another talk with you about it, Richard. You must come up and see me again." It was not a great deal to say; but the way in which he said it plainly added,-- "I mean to be your friend, my dear boy. I'll do all I can to help you along." Dick understood it too, but he was feeling dolefully about his tongue just then. "Missed fire de fust time!" he said to himself; but he carefully replied, aloud,-- "Thank you, sir. Will you tell me when to come?" "To-night, right away after tea. Now, young gentlemen, I must bid you good-morning. Bear in mind that the first law of Grantley Academy is punctuality. I expect you to be in your places promptly at nine o'clock, Monday morning." "We will, sir," said Dabney. "But will you please tell us when we are to be examined?" "I believe, Mr. Kinzer, I have a fair idea of the use you have made of your books up to this time. No further examination will be necessary. I will see you all, with others, after school is opened, next Monday." They were politely shown out of the library, but they did not clearly comprehend the matter until they had drawn each a good long breath in the open air. "Dab," said Ford, "can't you see it?" "I'm beginning to. Seems to me we've been through the sharpest examination I ever heard of. I say, Frank, do you know any thing he didn't make you tell him?" "Nothing but Hindustanee and a little Teloogoo. Well, yes, I know a Karen hymn. He got all the rest, if I'm not mistaken." There was no doubt at all but what Dr. Brandegee had gained a correct view of the attainments of his new pupils. CHAPTER XXVIII. AN UNUSUAL AMOUNT OF INTRODUCTION. The front door of Dr. Brandegee's library had hardly closed behind that earliest flock of his autumn birds, before the door by which he had entered swung open, and a fine-looking, middle-aged matron stood in it, remarking,-- "My dear, there are more than a dozen waiting in the parlor. Have you not spent a great deal of time on those four?" "They're worth it, Mary. There's enough in every one of them to make a man of, and they've all started fairly well." "I fear that is more than you will be able to say of all these others." "Of course it will. Their fathers and mothers have had a great deal to do with that." They were all "examined," however, in due season, some in one way and some in another; and during all that time Dab Kinzer and his friends were inwardly wondering, whether they said so or not, precisely what impression they had made upon the doctor. It was just as well, every way, that they did not know. It was a curious fact, that with one accord they accompanied Dick on his return to their boarding-house; and, while he disappeared through the door at the end of the hall with Miss Almira, some invisible leading-string dragged them up stairs. Not that they really had any studying to do; but it was dinner-time before they had finished turning over the leaves of their text-books, and estimating the amount of hard work it would cost to prepare for an "examination" on them. There was no good reason for complaint of that dinner any more than of their breakfast; and it wound up with a very excellent Indian-meal pudding, concerning which Dabney went so far as to say he would like to send the recipe home to his mother. "I'm so glad you like it," said Mrs. Myers. "Almira, just remember that. They can have it as often as they please." She asked them, too, how they proposed to spend their afternoon, and smilingly explained, as to Dick Lee, that,-- "Saturday is one of my busy days, and he will have to stay at home and help. Errands to run, and I want him to learn how. He's a bright, active little fellow." That was all "according to contract;" but Dick did not come in for his dinner until the rest had eaten theirs; and then he barely had time to say to Dab Kinzer,-- "Did you ebber shell corn?" "Course I have. Why?" "'Cause dar's a bigger heap ob corn out in de barn dan you ebber see." "Bigger'n Ham's?" "Well, no, not so big as his'n, mebbe; but dar's more ob it. I's got it to shell." Dab went off with the other two, vaguely beginning to ask himself if shelling corn came fairly into the proper meaning of the word "chores." All that sort of thing was quickly forgotten, however; for there were a dozen groups of boys scattered here and there over the broad expanse of the "green," and Ford Foster at once exclaimed,-- "Boys, let's examine that crowd. It'll take all the afternoon to find what they know." Getting acquainted is apt to be a slow process in cases of that sort, unless it is taken hold of with vigor; and Ford was the very fellow to hurry it up. Before the afternoon was over, every boy on that green knew who he was, and where he came from; and a good share of them had tried their hands at "chaffing" him and his friends. Of these latter it may safely be said that not a single one could afterwards remember that he had seemed to himself to get the best of it. "First day" at school is pretty safe to be a peace-day also; and none of the wordy collisions went too far, although it was plain that the new-comers had not yet attained any high degree of popularity. After supper Dick Lee set off for Dr. Brandegee's, and his friends attended him nearly to the gate. They would have been glad to have had a report of his visit from him, on his return; but he had his "chores" to do then, and any amount of careful instruction concerning them to receive from Mrs. Myers and Almira. The other three were more thoroughly tired out than they had at all expected, and were all quite ready to agree with Frank Harley,-- "We'd better get to bed, boys. I want to see if this is a good house to sleep in." "Sleep?" said Ford. "I could go to sleep in an omnibus." Early to bed meant early to rise, necessarily; and they were all up and dressed the next morning, when Dick Lee slipped in on them. Before they had time to ask him a question, he exclaimed,-- "I say, Cap'n Dab, is you goin' to church dis mornin'?" "Of course. We're all going." "So I heerd Mrs. Myers tell Miss Almiry. She's goin' to take you along wid her when she goes." "Richard," said Ford, "are you going?" "Habn't heerd a word about dat." "Don't you go back on your friends, Richard. Be all ready in time, sure's you live, and go with us, or I'll complain to Dr. Brandegee." Dick's grin was a wide one; but he responded,-- "I'll be ready. See 'f I ain't." The voice of Almira, calling his name at the foot of the stairs, prevented any further conversation just then; and Dick found, afterwards, that he had undertaken a task of some difficulty. He hardly knew when or where he squeezed out the time for the proper polishing of his shoes, or the due arrangement of his magnificent red necktie; but both feats were accomplished most faithfully. The subject of church-going came up again, incidentally, at the breakfast-table; and the remarks of her young boarders met the emphatic approval of Mrs. Myers and her daughter. Perhaps because neither of them had been near enough, after Dick dodged out of their room at the end of his early call, to hear Dabney Kinzer remark,-- "Ford, don't you think we can find our way across the green without any help from the ladies?" "I am pondering that matter. What do you say, Frank?" "We must get out of it if we can politely. I don't just see how we'll do it." "Do it? Why, we'll all wait for Dick Lee." Mrs. Myers took a little too much for granted; and when the hour came for starting, there came a slight disturbance in the smooth current of her calculations. "Mr. Foster," she called out, in her best voice, from half way up the stairs, "the first bell is ringing. Are you and your friends ready?" "Ringing?" responded Ford. "So it is! I regret to say we are not yet ready to go." At the same moment Dab was whispering,-- "We mustn't start until it's nearly done tolling." "What's that?" asked Frank. "Don't you know? It's always so in the country. First they ring the bell, as it's ringing now. That's to set people a-going. Then they toll it. You'll hear in a few minutes. That means, the time's up." Ford Foster's city training had not taught him as much as that, but he was glad to know it. Mrs. Myers once more urged upon them the necessity of making haste. "It won't do to be late," she said. "I never allow myself to be a minute behind time." The last clause sounded a very, very little impatient; but Ford once more politely expressed his sorrow, and abstained from putting on his coat. At that moment, too, Dick Lee came tiptoeing in from his cheerless garret, and looking astonishingly spruce. The "shine" on his shoes was a brilliancy to be remembered; and so was the shine on his face, and the sunset glow of his necktie. "Sh! Dick," said Dab. "Hold still a minute. The bell's beginning to toll." "I fear Almira and I will be compelled to start," said Mrs. Myers regretfully. "Perhaps you can overtake us if you hurry." "Perhaps we could," replied Ford, "but I beg you will not let yourself be late on our account. We're coming." He began to put his coat on as she and Almira went through the gate. In such a village as that, no one was afraid to leave a house alone for an hour or two. Not only was the door-lock "on the latch" as usual, but Dick Lee had been vaguely expected to stay at home. There, again, Mrs. Myers had taken too much for granted; and she had not said a word to him about it. Just as she heard the bell give its last few rapid and warning strokes, and disappeared through the church-door, she might have seen, had she turned back and looked once more towards her own front gate, four well-dressed youngsters hurrying from it across the street as if a great deal depended on their reaching church before service could begin. "It's very kind of Mrs. Myers to invite us," remarked Ford, "but she never thought how bashful we'd be about it." They were quickly within the ample porch of the roomy and not at all overcrowded edifice, and were greeted by two or three benevolent-looking elderly gentlemen, with a degree of prompt cordiality which left little to be asked for. The deacons were awake to their duty relating to new scholars,--"students" they called them; and every attention was paid these four who had begun so well their first Sunday. So it would be at every church on that green; and it would really be about the middle of the term before stray "academy boys" would be left to find their own way to well-whittled benches in the galleries. One of the best pews in the house, well forward in the middle aisle, and they had it all to themselves. There was not another pew in church that morning which seemed to attract so large a share of the attention of the congregation. Mrs. Myers and Almira were several pews behind, and on the other side of the house; and there had been no opportunity to capture her four boarders, or any of them, while they were marching in. "Almira! If they haven't brought Dick with them." "Yes, mother; but how very well they look! Mr. Kinzer is really quite handsome." That was hardly Dab's opinion of himself, and nobody had ever taken pains to tell him so; but the four of them, standing up together, and all singing, made quite a picture. Dick Lee was between Dab Kinzer and Frank Harley, and seemed to feel in honor bound to sing his best. That was very well too. If Glorianna could but have had a look at her boy that morning, there is no such thing as telling how proud she would have felt about him. It was too bad she could not have done so, especially as Dick was most loyally thinking of her, and wishing that she could. There was no fault to be found by Mrs. Myers, or anybody else, with the strict decorum of her boarders, and their profound attention to the service and sermon; but she felt that she had a duty to perform, and she only waited the proper time for its performance. The last hymn had been duly sung, and the boys were drifting along with the tide in the aisle towards the door, when Dabney nudged Ford with his elbow. "We're nabbed, Ford." "No escape this time, that's a fact. Don't let's try. She means it all for politeness." They would have been quite willing to have been allowed to get out and go home unnoticed; but there in the porch awaiting them were Mrs. Myers and Almira, and there was no possibility of an escape. It would have been unkind to try in the face of so much smiling. Besides, they did board with her; and she had her rights of property, one of which was to show them off, and introduce them. She proceeded to exercise it at once; and it was to the credit of the three white boys that they came promptly to her assistance, and added any little matter she might happen to miss in the hurry of the moment. "Deacon Short, this is Mr. Dabney Kinzer, of Long Island; this is Mr. Frank Harley, of Rangoon, son of Rev. Dr. Harley, our well-known missionary; this is Mr. Ford Foster, son of the eminent New-York lawyer." "Delighted"--began the deacon, rapidly grasping and shaking hand after hand, with a peculiar lift of his elbow, that placed most of what might be called the "action" at the point of it; but Ford was thinking of the thing Mrs. Myers had omitted, and he promptly added,-- "Glad to meet you, Deacon Short; and this is my friend Mr. Richard Lee, of Long Island." To do the good deacon justice, his grasp of Dick's hand was every bit as cordial as any other of his grasps; and he beamed on the smiling black boy in a way that gave him back, after the manner of a reflection, a great glow of the best and broadest "beaming." Mrs. Myers did not stop a moment in the repetition of her formula, and there was sharp work before her; but Dab's tongue was also loose now, and Elder Potter had hardly time to hear who he was before Deacon Short had to let go of Dick, and hear Dab say,-- "How d'ye do, Elder Potter? and this is my near neighbor and friend, Mr. Richard Lee." "Mrs. Sunderland," began Mrs. Myers, to a lady whose face and dress declared her a social magnate, "my new boarder, Mr. Frank Harley:" and the rest of her introduction speech followed; and stately Mrs. Sunderland had just time to utter a few words of gracious inquiry about the "precious health" of Frank's father and mother, when he, too, took up the "omission," and Dick Lee's introduction stepped into the place of any other answer for a moment. It was a good thing for Dick, as Mrs. Sunderland was a member of a society for promoting emigration to Liberia, and was seized at once with a dim idea that a part of her "mission" was standing before her in very brilliant shoes and a new red necktie. She did not know how utterly she and the other good people and those three boys were demolishing a curious vision of Almira's and her mother's, of some social advantage they might derive, thenceforward, from having "a colored servant" in their employ. Dick's own chance was coming right down upon him, a little before he was quite ready for it; for the minister and his wife came out a few moments later, and Mrs. Sunderland took upon herself the duty of presenting Richard Lee to them, very much if as she would have said,-- "My dear Mr. Fallow,--my dear Mrs. Fallow,--see what I've found! Is he not remarkable?" The words she really uttered were somewhat more formal; but the good, quiet-looking little minister and very quiet-looking little wife were still shaking hands with Dick, that is, with his right hand, when he turned almost eagerly, and caught hold of Dab Kinzer with his left. "Yes, sir, an' dis is Cap'n Dab--I mean, this is my friend Mr. Dabney Kinzer, of Long Island,--de bes'--" "How do you do, Mr. Kinzer? Glad to make your acquaintance," said Mr. Fallow; and Dick's success was complete, except that he was saying to himself,-- "I jes' can't trus' my tongue wid de oder boys. Dey's got to take dar chances." "Now, Mr. Kinzer," said Miss Almira, at that moment, "it's time we were going home." "Yes, Frank," said her mother patronizingly, "I think we had better be going." If such an exercise as "introduction" could earn it, they were both entitled to good appetites; and, after all, it had been quite a nice little affair. Dabney was quite as tall as Miss Almira; but as they walked across the green, side by side, he could not avoid a side-glance that gave him a very clear idea of the difference between his present company and Annie Foster. It was at that very moment that it occurred to Frank that he had last walked home from church under the protecting wing of the portly and matronly Mrs. Kinzer; and he could but draw some kind of a comparison between her and Mrs. Myers. "They're both widows," he thought; "but there isn't any other resemblance." Ford and Dick brought up the rear; and for some reason, or there may have been more than one, they were both in capital good spirits. "Tell you wot," exclaimed Dick: "if goin' to de 'cad'my is all like dis yer--I am very glad indeed that I ever came." "Oh! you're all right," said Ford; "but there's more good people in this village than I'd any idea of. I'm glad we came to church." "Dick," said Mrs. Myers a little sharply, when they reached the gate, "I want some wood and a pail of water. You'd better hurry up stairs, and put on your every-day clothes." CHAPTER XXIX. LETTERS HOME FROM THE BOYS.--DICK LEE'S FIRST GRIEF. There was a large number of new scholars assembled in the "great room" of Grantley Academy on the first Monday morning of that "fall term." There were also many who had been there before, but the new-comers were in the majority. There were boys from the village, boys from the surrounding country, and boys from even farther away than the southern shore of Long Island; and they were of many kinds and ages. The youngest may have been "under twelve," and entitled to ride in a street-car at half-price; and several of the very older ones had already cast their first vote as grown-up men. Counting them all, and adding those who were to make their appearance during the week, they made a little army of nearly two hundred. There was also a young ladies' department, with about a hundred pupils; and there was quite as great a variety among them as among their young gentlemen fellow-students. The class-rooms assigned to the lady teachers and their several grades of learners were all on the northern side of the academy building. There was a large wing there that belonged to them, and they only met the boys face to face in the "great room" during morning exercises. Even those of them who lived or boarded in the southern half of the village found their way across the green, coming and going, under the shade of the most northerly row of trees. As to the "great room" itself, there had been much trouble about the name of it. Dr. Brandegee called it "the lecture-room," and he did a great deal towards making it so. There were those who tried to say "chapel" when they spoke of it; but so many others refused to know what place they were speaking of, that they had to give it up. "Hall" would not fit, because it was square; and the boys generally rejected the doctor's name because of unpleasant-ideas connected with the word "lecture." So it came to be "the great room," and no more; and a great thing it was for Dick Lee to find himself sitting on one of the front seats of it, with his friends all in line at his right, waiting their turn with him to be "classified," and sent about their business. Dr. Brandegee made wonderfully rapid work of it; and his several assistants seemed to know exactly what to do. "The fact is," said Ford, the first chance he had to speak to Dab, "I've been studying that man. He's taught school before." "Guess he knows how, too. And I ain't afraid about Dick Lee, now I've seen the rest. He can go right ahead of some of them." "They'll bounce him if he does. Tell you what, Dab, if you and I want to be popular here, we'd better wear our old clothes every day but Sunday." "And miss about half the questions that come to us. Dick won't be sharp enough for that." "He says he's going to write a letter home tonight. Made him turn pale too." Those first letters home! Ford's was a matter of course, and Frank Harley had had some practice already; but Dab Kinzer had never tried such a thing before, and Dick Lee would not come to anybody else for instructions. Neither would he permit anybody, not even "Captain Dab," to see his letter after it was written. "I's been mighty partikler 'bout de pronounciation," he said to himself, "specially in wot I wrote to Mr. Morris, but I'd like to see dem all read dem letters. Guess dar'll be a high time at our house." It would be a long while before Frank Harley's epistle would reach the eyes that were anxiously waiting for it, but there were indeed "high times" in those three houses on the Long-Island shore. Old Bill Lee was obliged to trust largely to the greater learning of his wife, but he chuckled over every word he managed to pick out, as if he had pulled in a twenty-pound bluefish; and the signature at the bottom affected him somewhat as if he had captured a small whale. "Sho! De boy!" said Glorianna. "He's doin' fust-rate. Dar ain't anoder young gen'lman at dat ar' 'cad'my jes' like him. Onless it's young Mr. Kinzer. I hasn't a word to say 'gin him or Mr. Foster, or dat ar' young mish'nayry." "Glorianna," said Bill doubtfully, "do you s'pose Dick did all dat writin' his own self?" "Sho! Course he did! Don't I know his hand-writin'? Ain't he my own blessed boy? Guess he did, and I's goin' ober to show it to Mrs. Kinzer. It'll do her good to hear from de 'cad'my." So it did; for Dick's letter to his mother, like the shorter one he sent to Ham Morris, was largely made up of complimentary remarks concerning Dabney Kinzer. When Glorianna knocked at the kitchen door of the Morris mansion, however, it was opened by "the help;" and she might have lost her errand if Mrs. Kinzer had not happened to hear her voice. It is just possible it was pitched somewhat higher than usual that morning. "Glorianna? Is that you? Come right in. We've some letters from the boys. Something in them about Dick that you'll be glad to hear." "Sho! De boy! Course dey all had to say somet'ing 'bout him! I's jes' like to know wot 'tis, dough." In she went, but more than the Kinzer family were gathered in the sitting-room. Mrs. Foster and Annie had brought Jenny Walters with them, and Ham was there, and all the rest; and they all sat still as mice while Glorianna listened to Dab's account, and Ford's, of the journey to Grantley, and the arrival, and the examination, and their boarding-house. There was not a word of complaint anywhere; and it did seem as if Ham Morris was right when he said,-- "We've hit it this time, Mrs. Foster. I think I ought to write to Mr. Hart, and thank him for his recommendation." "Just as you please, Hamilton," said Mrs. Kinzer; "but this is their very first week, you know." "Guess dey won't fool Dick much, anyhow," said the radiant Glorianna. "But wot's dat 'bout de corn-shellin'?" "That's all right," said Ham. "Shelling corn won't hurt him. Glad there's plenty of it. Mother Kinzer, you and Miranda must try that recipe Dab sent for the new pudding." "New pudding, indeed! Why, she doesn't put in half eggs enough. But I'm glad she's a good cook. We'll have that pudding for dinner this very day." "So will we," said Mrs. Foster. "Miss Kinzer," said Dick's mother, "jes' won't you show me how to make dat puddin'? I's like to know jes' wot dey eat at de 'cad'my." It was a great comfort to know that the boys were so well satisfied; but there was her usual good sense in Mrs. Kinzer's suggestion about its being the very first week. There are never any more such letters as "first letters," nor any other weeks like the first. The fact that there were so many boys together, all old acquaintances, shut out any such thing as loneliness, and it was not time to be homesick. All that week was really spent in "getting settled," and there did not seem to be more than a day or so of it. Saturday came around again somewhere in the place commonly taken by Wednesday, and surprised them all. They had all been busy enough, but Dick Lee had never in all his life found so little spare time on his hands. "It's no use, Cap'n Dab," he remarked on Friday: "we can't eat up all de corn I've shelled, not if we has johnnycake from now till nex' summer." Dab was looking a little thoughtful at that moment. "Ford," he said slowly, "has she missed a day yet?" "A corn day? No." "Or a meal?" "No, I said I'd cut a notch on my slate first time she did, and it's all smooth yet." He held it up as he spoke; and Frank remarked,-- "Yes, smooth enough on that side; but you've nicked it all down on the other, end to end. What's that for?" "That? Oh! that's quite another thing. I'm keeping tally of Joe and Fuz. Every time one of 'em asks a question about our boarding-house, or Mrs. Myers, or Almira, or' little Dr. Brandegee, I nick it down. Got to quit pretty soon, or buy another slate." "They've kind o' kept away from us," said Dab. "They're in only one of my classes, but they're in three of yours." "Ain't in any ob mine," said Dick; "but Dr. Brandegee says he'll promote me soon." Dick's tongue always began to work better, the moment he mentioned the academy-principal. "I don't mind their keeping away from us," said Frank. "Nor I," said Ford. At that moment they reached their own gate, and Dick darted forward in response to an imaginary call from Mrs. Myers. Ford went on,-- "They can keep away all they please, but they won't do it long. They're bound on mischief of some kind." "To us?" asked Frank. "Well, yes; but it'll light on Richard Lee first. He won't say a word to us about it, but they've bothered him." "I'll ask him," said Dab, in whose face a flush was rising. "They must let Dick alone." "They won't, then. And there's plenty of others just like 'em. They're getting together in a kind of a flock these last two or three days. Some of 'em are pretty big ones." "Boys," exclaimed Frank, "how about our boxing lessons?" "Guess we haven't forgotten 'em all in one week," said Ford. "I was thinking about to-morrow." So were they all; and they held a council-of-war about it, in their own room, before supper. The result was, that, by a unanimous vote, that Saturday was to be devoted to the catching of fish, rather than to playing ball, or any thing else that would bring them into immediate contact with Joe and Fuz. They had all brought their fishing-tackle with them, as a matter of course; plenty of worms for bait were to be dug in the garden; and Dab Kinzer had learned, by careful inquiry, that both bait and tackle could be used to good purpose in the waters of "Green Pond," and sundry other small bits of lakes, miles and miles away among the hills to the north of Grantley. "We'll have a grand time," he said, "and it'll do us all good. No crabs, though. Wonder if those fresh-water fish bite like ours down in the bay." "Some do, and some don't," said Ford. "I've caught 'em." It did not occur to him now, however, that he could probably teach Dab; and they all obeyed the supper-bell. There were three kinds of corn-cake on the table, but the boys were thinking of something more important; and Dab hardly received his first cup of tea before he remarked,-- "We're all going a-fishing to-morrow, Mrs. Myers; but we may get home in time for supper. Can you spare Dick?" "What, on Saturday? The very day I need him most? Three loads of wood'll be over from the farm to-night." Dick had been in the kitchen, and had advanced as far as the door while Dab was speaking. "Wood?" he muttered to himself. "Guess I know wot dat means. T'ree load ob wood, an' no fishin'! It's jes' awful!" "Now, Mrs. Myers," said Ford, "if you knew what a fisherman Dick is! He might bring you home a load of them." "I am sorry," said Mrs. Myers, with more of firmness and less of smile than they had ever seen on her face before. "I have no objection to the rest of you going. You may do as you please about that, but I must keep Richard at his work." "I am particularly well pleased to learn that you have no objection to our going," remarked Ford, with extreme politeness, and Dabney added,-- "It does me good too. We'll take Dick with us some other time. Mrs. Myers, if you will have breakfast pretty early I'll be much obliged to you." Even Almira had never seen Dabney look quite so tall as he did at that moment. CHAPTER XXX. DABNEY KINZER TRIES FRESH-WATER FISHING FOR THE FIRST TIME. Conversation did not flourish at the supper-table that Friday evening. There was a puzzled look on the faces of Mrs. Myers and her daughter, and their three boarders seemed to be running a kind of race with each other as to which of them should make out to be the most carefully polite. As for poor Dick Lee, out there in the kitchen, the nearest he came to breaking the silence was in a sort of smothered groan, and a half-uttered determination to "git up good and early, an' dig dem fellers de bes' worms dey is in de gardin." There was talk enough in the room up stairs in the course of the evening; but the door was closed, and there was no chance for any one in the passage outside, no matter how silently he or she might go by, to hear a distinct word of it. "You see, boys," said Ford Foster, at the end of some extended remarks, "I'm not at all mean or exacting. My father only pays Mrs. Myers three dollars a week, and all she agreed to give was board. I can't expect her to be any kind of an aunt, too, and let me go a-fishing. I'll take it all off her hands, and let myself go." "It's hard on Dick, though," said Dab, "and she's kind o' got the right of it." "I s'pose she has. But if he isn't earning all he gets, I'm mistaken. Boys, if she puts any more work on him, what'll we do?" "Eat," said Dab: "that's the only way we can make it up." "We can't do it, Dab. Not unless the price of corn-meal goes up. Think of eating another three dollars' worth of hasty-pudding every week!" Their landlady came out in all her smiles at breakfast, and hoped they would have good success with their fishing. "Only," she added, "I'm not very fond of fish, and I never take the trouble to clean them." "We will try and catch ours ready cleaned, Mrs. Myers," said Ford. "Now, boys, if you're ready, I am." They were ready, bait and all, thanks to Dick; and the breakfast had been an early one. Dab thanked Mrs. Myers for that, even while he wished he had Ford Foster's tongue to do it with. In fact, he had been noticing of late that his ideas came to him a little slowly. Not but what he had plenty of them, but they seemed disposed to crowd one another; so that whenever there was any thing to be said in a hurry, Ford was sure to get ahead of him, and sometimes even quiet Frank Harley. "Must be I'm growing, somehow," he said to himself, "or I wouldn't be so awkward." The north road from Grantley led through a region that was, as the old farmers said of it, "a-goin' back," and was less thickly peopled than it had been two or three generations before. There had once been pretty well cultivated farms all around some of the little lakes that were now bordered by stout growths of forest; and the roads among the hills wore a neglected look, many of them, as if it had ceased to profit anybody to keep them in order. There was "coming and going" over them, nevertheless; and the boys managed to get a "lift" of nearly five miles in a farmer's wagon, so that they reached the vicinity of Green Pond sooner than they had expected, and with much less fatigue. The same farmer, in response to anxious questioning by Dab, informed him,-- "Fish? Wall, ye-es. Nobody don't ketch 'em much nowadays. Time was when they was pretty much all fished out, but I heerd there was some fellers turned in a heap of seedlin' fish three or four year ago. Right away arter that, my boys went over, and put in three days a hand runnin', but they didn't get nothin' but pumpkin-seeds. Plenty of them yit, I s'pose." That was encouraging; but Ford at once remarked,-- "Pumpkin-seeds? A fine-looking fish, are they not? I know them. Somewhat depressed, and extended laterally?" "Guesso. You're 'tendin' school at the 'cadummy, ain't ye?" "Yes, we're there." "Thought so. Ye-es. We-ell, it's a good thing for the 'cadummy. Hope you'll ketch some o' them seedlin' fish. Ef ye do, you kin jest stuff 'em with big words, and bake 'em. They do say as how fish is good for the brains." "Don't we turn off somewhere along here?" asked Dabney. "Ye-es. Green Pond's right down there, through the woods. Not more'n a mile. See't ye don't lose yer way. What bait have ye got?" "Bait? Angle-worms. Are they the right thing?" "Worms? Ye-es. They'll do. Somebody told ye, did they? 'Twon't take ye long to larn how to put 'em on." There was not a great deal to be made out of that old New-England farmer; and his good-natured contempt for a lot of ignorant young "city fellers," in good clothes, did not require any further expression. They left him with a wide grin on his wrinkled face, and followed his directions over the nearest fence; but with ideas concerning their probable string of fish, that were rather "depressed" than "extended." It was a long mile, but it did not contain any danger of getting lost; and at the end of it they had quite enough of a surprise to pay them for their trouble. "Why, Ford, it's a beauty!" "Dab, do you s'pose as nice a pond as that hasn't any thing in it but pumpkin-seeds?" "No boat that I can see," remarked Frank. "We'll fish from the shore," said Dab. "There's a log that runs away out in. Rocks too." Rocks and trees and natural ruggedness all around, and some ten or a dozen acres of clear, cold, beautiful water, with little brooks and springs running into it, and a brook running out on the opposite shore that would have to grow considerably before it would be fit for mill-turning. "Boys," said Dabney, "we've missed it!" "How's that?" asked Ford. "Put on the smallest hooks you've got, right away, and try for minnows. There must be pickerel and bass here." "Bass? Of course! Didn't he say something about seed-fish? That's what they put in; and they weren't as big as pins when his boys came for 'em." "Minnow-poles," as they called them, could be cut from the bushes at the margin, and little fish could be taken at the same time that they were trying for large ones. They found too, before long, that sometimes a very respectable perch or bass would stoop to nibble at one of the "elegant worms" with which Dick Lee had provided them. "No turn of the tide to wait for here, Dab," said Ford, "and no crabs to steal your bait off. Hey! There comes one. Perch! First game for my hook." "We'll stay till dark, but we'll get a good string. Frank, your cork's under." "Never fished with one before," said Frank. "I'll soon get the hang of it." That was a capital school for it, at all events; and they learned that it might be a good thing for a little lake like that to have a bad reputation. "Fished out years ago. I understand now," said Dab. "Understand what?" "Why, those fellows in the village that sent me out here were playing a joke on us,--a good deal like one of Joe and Fuz Hart's." "Best kind of a joke. But if we tell about it when we get home, the whole village'll be over here next week." "Then we won't tell. Hurrah! I'll get him in. Steady, now. If he isn't a two-pounder! see him run? Boys, this is going to be fun." They did not neglect their minnow-catching; and before a great while they were varying their bait, very much to their advantage. How they did wish for a boat, so they could try the deeper water! They worked their way along, from point to point, looking for the best spot, if such there were; and Dabney at last found himself quite a distance ahead of his companions. "Boys! Ford! Frank! A boat! Come on!" Lying behind the trunk of a tree that had fallen into the water,--not much of a boat, to be sure, and without any oars or even rowlocks; but when the water was tipped out of it, and it was shoved in again, it actually floated. "Careful, Ford," said Dab. "Remember Dick Lee. The old thing may come to pieces. It wasn't made yesterday." "Look's as if Christopher Columbus owned it, and forgot just where he left it. We can paddle with pieces of bark, as far out as we need go." Now the fun was doubled; and some of the pickerel they pulled in reminded Dabney of small blue-fish, while the bass and perch were every way as respectable as ordinary porgies and black-fish, except for size. He had even to confess that the sea itself contained a great many small fish, and that he had often had much poorer luck in his own beloved bay. The boat was a great acquisition; but when they were paddling ashore for the fourth time, "to turn her over and let the water out," Dabney remarked,-- "It's after dinner-time, boys. Could either of you fellows eat any thing?" "Eat?" said Frank. "I'd forgotten that. Yes, let's have lunch. But there's more cold johnny-cake than any thing else in the basket." "There's plenty of salt and pepper though; and it won't take any time at all to make a fire, and broil some fish. Didn't you ever go on a chowder-party, and do your own cooking?" "No, I never did." "Nor I," said Ford very reluctantly. "Can we do it?" "Do it? I'll show you. No kettle. We'll have to broil. You fellows make a fire, while I clean some of these fish." It was every bit as good fun as catching those fish, to cook them there on the shore of that lovely little lake. Dabney did know all about it, as became a "'longshore boy;" and he took a particular pride in showing Ford and Frank how many different ways there were of cooking a fish without an oven or a kettle or a gridiron. It was another fine point to discover, after they had eaten all they could, including the cold johnny-cake, that they did not seem to have made their strings of fish look perceptibly smaller. "Tell you what, boys," said Dabney: "next time we come out we'll bring a hammer and nails, and some oakum, and I'll calk up that old punt so she'll float well enough. Only it won't do to dance in her." "Then," said Ford, "I move we don't try her again to-day. If we've got to carry all these fish, it'll be a long pull home. We're not half sure of catching another ride." "We can pole our fish, though, and make it easy carrying." "How's that?" "I'll show you. Cut two poles, hang your strings half way, shoulder the poles, and take turns carrying. One boy getting rested, all the while, and no cords cutting your hands." That was as sensible as if his own mother had told him; and it was a good thing he thought of it, for they did not "catch a ride" till they were half way home. All the wagons were coming the other way, of course, on Saturday afternoon; but the one chat then caught up with them had been carrying a new stove home, and was returning empty. "Fine strings of fish," remarked the stove-man as they clambered in. "Where'd you catch 'em?" "Over in one of the lakes." "Did ye though? You don't say! Guess I know the place. You must have had an all-killin' walk, though. I declare! I'm goin' to try that pond first day I get away." "Want some of these?" "Wouldn't rob ye,--but you've got a-plenty--that pickerel? Thank ye, now. Oh!--and the bass tew? You're good fellers." He seemed to be another; and Dab warned him at parting, that, "when he wanted to get a string of fish, if he'd come to him he'd tell him just where to go." "All right. Glad I had the luck to ketch up with ye." "Dab," said Ford as they reached the outskirts of Grantley, "I know it's late; but we must walk through the village with these fish, if it's only to have the whole town ask us where we caught them." "That's so. I'm rested now too. Let's get right out." They were nearly at the southerly end of the village, and there was quite a walk before them. "Dab," said Frank, "we've more fish than we'll need at our house, if we have 'em for breakfast and dinner both." "I've been thinking of that. Let's vote on it now. What do you say? One string for the minister?" "Yes," said Ford, "a bass for Mr. Fallow, a small pickerel for Mrs. Fallow, and a perch or a pumpkin-seed for each of the six little Fallows." "All right; and that big pickerel I caught, for Dr. Brandegee, and the biggest bass in the lot to keep it company. Let's make him up a prime good mess." "One that'll stand an examination," said Ford. CHAPTER XXXI. FIGHT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. Dick Lee was an unwise boy that afternoon. He knew how to turn his hand to a great many things, thanks to his home-training; and a woodpile was one of the matters he had learned how to deal with, but he had not taken hold of that of Mrs. Myers with any heart for his work. It was simply impossible for him to imagine that he was pulling in fish, or having any other kind of fun, while he was sawing wood, or even while splitting it. There was, however, something almost vicious in the way he came down with his axe upon some of the more obstinate pieces. "He will be a very useful boy," remarked Mrs. Myers, as she watched him from the window; "but I fear I shall have some difficulty with the others. They are very much inclined to be uppish." Dick toiled faithfully; and he felt it as a kind of relief, late in the day, to be sent to the grocery-store, at the lower end of the village, with a basket that was to bring home the usual Saturday assortment for Mrs. Myers. He did well enough in going; but on his way home, if the truth must be told, Dick Lee loitered dreadfully. It was so nice a day, and he had been so long at his woodpile, and he had had so little time to call his own that week. Over on the green, the boys of the village were playing a sort of "match-game" of base-ball, with a picked nine from the academy; and there seemed no reason why Dick and his basket should not stroll along inside the barrier-fence of the green, and see them play it. That was where his unwisdom showed itself; for among the boys who were not playing were Joe and Fuz Hart and all their "crowd," and this was the first time they had seen Dick on the green "all alone." That would have been quite enough of itself, considering how black he was, and that he was a "new boy" at the academy; but the additional fact that he had his basket on his arm opened the way to trouble for him all the sooner. He was standing still, on the walk near the fence, gazing at the batting and catching with so deep an interest that his mouth would stay open, when he suddenly found himself "surrounded." "Hullo, Dick, what you got in your basket?" "Groceries! Groceries! Fresh from Afriky." "Let's see 'em." "Jes' you keep off, now." "Give us that basket." "Don't you tech a thing!" "What you got, Midnight?" "None ob youah business. I's 'tendin' to mine. Put dat back, now, will you?" Dick had promptly retreated against the fence, in his surprise and vexation, and was defending himself and his cargo vigorously, but he was sadly outnumbered. They were a cowardly lot: for their all but helpless victim had even received several sharp blows, in return for his grasps and pushes; and the matter threatened to end unpleasantly for him, when suddenly Joe Hart felt his feet jerked from under him. Down he went, and over went Fuz on top of him; and then there were four or five boys all in a heap, with Dick's basket upset just beyond them, and Dick himself diving hither and thither after its late contents, and exclaiming,-- "Cap'n Dab's come! I's all right now. Jes' let me pick up some ob dese t'ings." There was a resentful ring in the last remark, as if he were thinking of something like war after the recovery of his groceries; but it was indeed the voice of Dab Kinzer, shouting full and clear,-- "Pick 'em up, Dick! we're just in time." A boy somewhat larger than the rest, a good half-head taller than Dabney, but with a somewhat pasty and unhealthy complexion, had selected Ford Foster, as the shortest of the new arrivals, and demanded,-- "What are you meddling for?" just as he aimed a clumsy blow at his head. That blow did not hit Ford; but a shorter young ruffian had also picked him out, perhaps for the same reason, and the hit he aimed reached its mark, for Ford had no extra pair of arms behind to box with. Frank Harley seemed, just then, to be remarkably busy with the heap of boys on the ground. "Spat!"--that was the way something sounded; and Dab Kinzer added,-- "Go for that fellow on the grass, Ford: I'll take care of the long one." "You will,--will you?" Spat--spat--spat! "Oh! I see: you don't know how to box; weak in the arms too. Better go home." The tall boy was stepping backwards quite rapidly, with one hand on his nose, and the other swinging wildly in the air above him; and Ford was keeping the "fellow on the grass" from getting up, when all the noise around them suddenly ceased. "Dr. Brandegee!" "Where? Where?" "Coming across the green, at the upper end." "He's coming this way." Several of the late assailants started on a run at once; but Dab Kinzer had caught a sharp whisper from Frank Harley, and he shouted,-- "No you won't, Joe Hart! Hold on, Fuz! That other chap must stay too. Give Dick back his groceries." "Dey's hooked a pile ob 'em," said Dick, his eyes dancing with triumph. "Jes' make 'em hand ober." "Do you mean to say we've been stealing?" fiercely demanded Joe. "What, me? me, steal?" almost gasped Fuz. "They wouldn't do such a thing as that," said Ford, not quite comprehending the situation. "That's it," said Dab: "let 'em empty their pockets"-- Joe was indignantly turning inside out the side pockets of his neat "cut-away," and a small, brown-paper-covered parcel dropped upon the ground. "Dem's de cloves," shouted Dick, as he darted forward, and picked it up. The fingers of Fuz almost unconsciously imitated those of his elder brother, and with a like result. "Dat's de cinnamon. If de oder feller didn't git de tea an' de sal'ratus! Whar's de nutmegs?" These, too, were forthcoming, as well as a paper of "indigo blue" for the next Monday's washing, and other items which testified strongly as to "how much at a time" Mrs. Myers was in the habit of buying. It was all over in less than half a minute, but Dick's assailants looked very much as if they wanted to sink right down through the grass. "Go home, Joseph," said Ford; "go home, Foster. I'll write to your father that you're out of these things at your boarding-house. We _buy_ all our groceries, where we live." "I never touched a thing," roared Joe. "Somebody put 'em in my pockets." "Don't say any thing more, Joseph," said Ford calmly. "If you don't get enough to eat, come over to our house: we won't let you starve. Give you all the bluing you want too." They did not seem to need any just then; and there was such a crowd of boys gathering that they were glad to take Ford's advice, and hurry away. Even then a good deal more attention might have been paid them, all around, but for the excitement created in the mind of every boy who looked at the great strings of fish Dab and his friends had dropped when they went in to the rescue of Dick Lee. Questions as to where they were caught, and how, poured upon the young fishermen so fast that it was not easy to dodge them all at once, or prevent a general stampede of the academy boys to Green Pond. "They'd use up the boat in one day, and all the fish in the next," said Dab to Frank; "but where'd you learn to do what you did for Fuz and Joe?" "Sleight-of-hand? Oh! one of father's Hindu converts had been a juggler. He taught me. They're the best in the world, but father doesn't like me to do much of it. We can have some fun with it yet, though. It came to me like a flash when I saw those things on the ground." "Served 'em right. Spoiling 'em on the ground was next thing to stealing." "Come on, boys," said Ford. "It's after five o'clock." They were all glad to escape from the crowd, especially Dick Lee; and it was not until they were across the street that the tall form of Dr. Brandegee came slowly down past the ball-players. He seemed particularly interested in that game. It was currently reported, indeed, that he had been a first-class athlete in his younger days, and that he took a quiet half-hour in the morning with his dumb-bells now, before doing any thing at all with his Greek and Latin. The "short-stop" was a well-built, sunburned student of at least twenty; and the doctor noticed how neatly he had been doing his work. "Wish I could catch an equation as well as I can a ball," said the young fellow, coloring a little, perhaps at the memory of something in mathematics which had "got by him." "You will, I think. By the way, didn't I see what looked like a disturbance down here among the boys, just now?" "Disturbance? Well, yes, I should say there was. Came near interrupting the game." "Any thing serious?" "Well, it might have been. Some of the boys made a set on that little colored chap. Mean thing to do. I'd ha' stopped it myself; but that Kinzer boy, and the other two that board with Mrs. Myers, they cleared it all up in no time." "No fighting, I hope?" "Well, no; but I tell you what, doctor, the rest of the boys'll let that nigger alone. His friends can box." "Ah, yes! I understand. They stood by him. Wouldn't see him imposed upon." "They just wouldn't. They're prime little chaps. The other boys were bigger'n they are. I'd ha' helped 'em, but they didn't need any help." "No. Yes,--I see. It won't do to have any fighting, but then! H'm! They stood right by him! Good-afternoon, Mr. Pulsifer." "Good-afternoon, Dr. Brandegee. There, if he hasn't made me lose a hit! I'd ha' fetched it. But I'm glad I had a chance to set him right about that scrimmage. I thought those three chaps were kind o' stuck up, but everybody'll know where to place 'em now." There was nothing like anger, or even disapproval, on Dr. Brandegee's face when he walked away; but he was muttering,-- "Know how to box, do they? I thought I saw something like it. They're a fine lot of young fellows. I must keep my eye on them. They'll be MEN one of these days!" They were only boys yet, however; and they were hardly arrived in front of the kitchen-door before they began to make the proposed division of the fish. Mrs. Myers came to meet Dick, and receive an account of his errand. "You've been gone twice as long--I declare, Almira, come here and see these fish. You have had wonderful luck, I must say. More'n we'll know what to do with." "I will attend to the cleaning of them," began Dabney; but Dick interrupted him with,-- "Guess not, Cap'n Dab. I's cleaned loads ob fish. Won't be no time at all puttin' t'rough jes' a string or two." "Dick will clean them," said Mrs. Myers; "but it's too late to cook any for supper." She turned away into the house as she spoke, and took Almira with her. "Now, boys," said Dabney, "we've just time, before supper, to go with these other strings, and get back." They would have been late indeed, if they had stopped to talk with every one who wanted to admire Dab's big pickerel and Ford's remarkable bass; but a little good management brought them to Dr. Brandegee's in not much more than five times the number of minutes needed to walk the distance. The fish were handed to the door-opener with,-- "The compliments of Mr. Harley, Mr. Kinzer, and Mr. Foster," and a great flourish of a bow from the latter, which could hardly be made to keep that string company till the doctor should see it. "Now for the minister's." The good man himself replied to the ring at his door-bell; but Dabney was half sorry he had consented to be spokesman this time. "My young friends?" said Mr. Fallow inquiringly. "Fish, sir," said Dab. "Some we caught to-day over in Green Pond. We thought we'd bring you a mess of 'em." He thought, too, without saying it,-- "Now I've made a mess of it. Why didn't I let Ford do it?" "Thank you. Thank you, my young friends. Very kind and thoughtful. Won't you walk in?" "No, sir, thank you. It's most supper-time. We must hurry back." "Mary! Come and see these fish. Some very fine ones. Going? Indeed? Saw you in church last Sunday. Hope I'll see you there again to morrow. Good-afternoon, my dear young friends." "Good-afternoon, sir." They walked away a little rapidly, but with a vivid and decidedly pleasant impression that they had given the pale-faced, earnest-eyed minister an extraordinary amount of comfort. "The fish ain't worth much," said Ford. "It couldn't have been just them!" No, indeed, it was not, and they failed to make it out to their satisfaction; but it might have helped them if they had seen him hand the fish to "Mary," and say,-- "There, what do you think of that? The very boys I told you of." "The ones you saw on the green, fighting?" "Exactly. I must see Dr. Brandegee. They can't be altogether bad." "Bad? No! There must be something about it. The doctor always knows. He will be able to explain it, I know." Great was the confidence of the Grantley people in Dr. Brandegee, as to any and all things relating to "his boys;" and that of Mrs. Fallow was none the less when her husband returned from his evening call. "Defending that colored boy? You don't say. The dear, brave little fellows! Fighting is dreadful. Did any of them get hurt?" "Hurt, dear? No; and they gave those young ruffians--H'm! Well--David had to do a great deal of fighting, Mary, but we must not approve too."-- "My dear! I say they did right." And the little woman's tired face flushed into sudden beauty, with her honest enthusiasm over "those boys." They had not reached the end of their day's experiences, however, when they left the minister's gate, or even when they arrived at their own. At that very moment Mrs. Myers was once more standing in the kitchen doorway. "Dick, as soon as you've had your supper, you may take one of those strings of fish over to Deacon Short's, and another to Mrs. Sunderland's. You may clean all the rest." "Yes'm," said Dick vaguely, "but dar's on'y one string." "Only one? Where are all the rest, I'd like to know?" Dabney and his friends were around the corner of the house now, and her last question was plainly directed to them. "The rest of what, Mrs. Myers'?" "Why, the fish. What have you done with them?" "Oh! they're all right, Mrs. Myers," said Ford. "Fish are good for brains. That's what we've done with 'em." "Brains? What"-- "Exactly. Next to us three, the men that work their brains the hardest around here are Mr. Fallow and my friend Dr. Brandegee." "And you never asked me a word about it!" "About what?" inquired Dabney. "I must say I don't quite understand. Do you mean, about what we were to do with our fish?" "Of course I do. I can't allow"-- She hesitated a moment, as if the next words were slow in coming; and Dab helped her out with,-- "Can't allow what, Mrs. Myers?" and Ford added,-- "Now, Mrs. Myers, there's nothing healthier than fish. It won't hurt either of 'em. Is supper ready?" "I hope it is," said Dab. "I'm getting hungry again." Mrs. Myers looked at them in amazement; and so did Miss Almira, for, if one thing was plainer than another, it was that neither of those three boys understood the nature of her complaint. It did not seem to occur to them, that she had, or could, or would claim any control over the results of their day's fun; not even when she said,-- "I intended one string for Deacon Short, and another for Mrs. Sunderland"-- "Don't work their brains, Mrs. Myers," said Ford. "Don't need any fish. But then, if we have as good luck next time, we'll bear them in mind. We've kept enough pan-fish for breakfast, and the big ones'll be just the thing for dinner." That had been the plan of Mrs. Myers herself; for she had already said to Almira,-- "It'll be a real saving, and the corned beef'll be just as good on Monday." More talk would hardly improve such a case as that; and it was really beginning to dawn upon Mrs. Myers, that her three boy boarders had minds and wills of their own, moreover, that they had not the most distant idea of failing to exercise them on every proper occasion. CHAPTER XXXII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS OF HIS COME TO VISIT DABNEY. "Boys," remarked Dab Kinzer, when they gathered in their own room after supper, "I can't say we've learned a great deal this first week; but we've found a tiptop fishing-ground, and we've settled the Hart boys." "Shouldn't wonder if Mrs. Myers feels a good deal more settled than she did too," said Ford. "But I'm thinking what Frank Harley's going to do with his fingers, when we can give him a chance. We've loads of fun ahead, or I'm mistaken." "I won't try it on very often," said Frank. "Fun's fun, that's a fact; but I came here to learn something." "My dear young friend," said Ford, with a sudden imitation of Mr. Fallow, "think of how much you've learned in seven days. Dab's beginning to know so much, he can't talk." "I'm not just comfortable about Dick," said Dabney. "Oh! he'll come out all right: the corn's mostly shelled, and the woodpile can't last forever. He doesn't know how to run a sewing-machine. She tried making him read aloud to her and Almira, last night; but Dick thinks she won't ask him to do it again. Don't be troubled about Richard: his future is safe." Part of it undoubtedly; and the boys had "settled" more things for themselves and him than those they mentioned. They had settled their own position among the boys of the academy and the village, old and young; for every soul of them had heard about "the big fight on the green" before he went to bed that night. They had secured Dick Lee's position for him: not that they had given him a false one, but that he would be safe to enjoy, almost unmolested, whatever position his own conduct might earn for him. That was all any boy ought to have, black or white. They had done much, as Ford said, to settle their own position at their boarding-house; but that was nothing of importance compared to the impression they had made upon the large heart and brain of the stately academy principal. They had made a firm friend of him, and of others whose friendship was worth having. All that was a great deal to have accomplished in one short week, but there was much more that would require their immediate attention. Books, fishing, lectures, base-ball, French, pigeon-shooting, elocution, kites, composition, nutting, and the academy debating society; and the list of the future demands upon their time grew as they talked, until Ford exclaimed,-- "Hold on, boys: my brains won't stand any more till after I've eaten a supply of fish." They ought all to have been able to think harder, after the next day's breakfast and dinner; but the "corned beef" came on Monday, and with it, as usual, came corn in other forms. "The farm" had done well that year, with that particular crop; but so had all the other farms, east and west, and Mrs. Myers found her best market for her maize harvest at her own table. It would take a good while to dispose of what Dick had already shelled, and all she could do was to be liberal as to quantity. There was no fault to be found with her on that score, but Dabney did not ask for any more recipes to send home to his mother. The second week was much longer than the first. Saturday came around very nearly in its own turn this time; but it brought with it such a storm of wind and rain as not only shut Green Pond out of all possible calculations, but kept the village green as well, clear of all boys. It was a good time to write letters in, and those written were long ones; but they did not contain a solitary complaint of any thing the boys had yet discovered in or about Grantley. "Hamilton," said Mrs. Kinzer, after pondering a little over her letter when it came, "Dabney seems to be well satisfied." "Mrs. Foster says Ford and Frank are." "But I notice he doesn't say any thing about his appetite. I do hope he isn't losing it. He seems to be studying hard." "Dabney? Lose his appetite in less than two weeks? No, mother Kinzer, it would take him longer than that." It was just one week later that he showed her a part of a curious epistle he had himself received from Dab. It had evidently been written in a moment of what is called "confidence." "I tell you what, Ham," he wrote, "mother doesn't know what can be done with corn. Mrs. Myers does. She raised a heap of it, this year; and the things she turns it into would drive a cook-book crazy. I've been giving them Latin names; and Frank, he turns them into Hindustanee. It's real fun sometimes, but I sha'n't be the boy I was. I'm getting corned. My hair is silkier, and my voice is husky. My ears are growing. I'd like a few clams and some fish, once in a while, just for a change. A crab would taste wonderfully good. So would some oysters, and they don't have any up here. We've had one good day's fishing, since we came; but we had to go miles and miles after it. Now, don't you tell mother we don't get enough to eat. There's plenty of it, and you ought to see Mrs. Myers smile when she passes the johnnycake. We're all trying to learn that heavenly smile. Ford does it best. I think Dick Lee is getting a little pale. Perhaps corn doesn't agree with him. He's learning fast, though, and so am I; but we have to work harder than Ford and Frank. I guess the Hart boys know more than they did when they got here; and they didn't learn it all out of their books, either. We keep up our French and our boxing; but oh, wouldn't I like to go for some blue-fish just now! Has mother made any mince-pies yet? I've almost forgotten how they taste. I was going by a house, the other day, and I smelt some ham cooking. I was real glad I hadn't forgotten. I knew what it was, right away. Don't you be afraid about my studying; for I'm at it all the while, except when we're playing ball or eating corn. They say they have sleighing here earlier than we do, and more of it, and plenty of skating. Well, now, don't say any thing to mother about the corn; but won't I eat when I get home! Yours all the while, DABNEY KINZER." "Why, the poor fellow!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer. "It's enough to stop his growth." It was not many days after that, before Dabney received a couple of boxes by express. The "marks" told where they came from; and he and the other boys carried them right up stairs, in the face of a kind suggestion from Mrs. Myers that "they might take them right out into the kitchen, and open them there." She had almost ceased from putting her wishes in any more dictatorial form; but she and Almira wondered exceedingly what might be the contents of those boxes. Dab was only a minute or so in finding out what was in one of them. "Boiled ham! A whole one! Out with it, Frank. All that brown paper,--why, it's a pair of chickens, all ready to roast." "Something more's down under those slats," said Ford, in a tone of great excitement. "Mince-pies! And they're not much mashed, either. It's wonderful how they did pack them." "Slats and shingles and paper," said Ford. "What can there be in that other box?" "Shall we eat first, or open it?" "Open it! Open it! Maybe they've sent you some corn." Opened it was, with a desperate display of energy. "Ice!" said Frank Harley. "Sawdust!" shouted Ford. "Fish!" said Dabney. "Clams, oysters, crabs, lobsters." Dick Lee had gazed in absolute silence up to that very moment; and all he could say now was,-- "Ah-h-h! O-h-h-h! Jes' ain't dey fine!" "Boys," said Dab, with a sort of loving look at the contents of that box, "do you suppose we can eat those fellows?" "Eat 'em!" exclaimed Ford. "Why, after they're cooked!" "Well, I s'pose we can; but I feel more like shaking hands with 'em all around, just now. They're old friends and neighbors of mine, you know." "Yes; but I guess we'd better eat them." "Cap'n Dab," said Dick, "dey jes' knock all de correck pronounciation out ob me, dey does." "Ford, Frank, I'll ask Mrs. Myers and Almira up here right away. Those oysters and clams have got to be eaten this very evening." They did not need twice asking; and there was a thoughtful expression on the face of Mrs. Myers when she looked from one box into the other. It was fairly on her tongue's end to suggest what share of those luxuries should be taken at once to Deacon Short's or Mrs. Sunderland's; but she stopped in time, for that thought was followed by another,-- "What could the boys have been writing home about her cooking and her table?" There might be something serious in it; for boarders were people who came and went, boys or no boys, and Dab and his friends were just the kind of boys to "come and go." At all events, she could not object to their having such a supply as that sent them; and she took up the responsibility of all the cookery required, at once. It was a feast while it lasted, and the effects of it upon the character of Mrs. Myers's table were permanent. There was no further danger that Dab's growth would be checked in any such manner as his mother had feared. Nor was there any great doubt remaining as to the steadiness of his growth in other ways, during his school days at Grantley; for he and his friends were now "settled;" and they had made that most important success in life,--a Good Beginning. THE END. 
15630	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 15630-h.htm or 15630-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/6/3/15630/15630-h/15630-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/6/3/15630/15630-h.zip) POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM by KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN With a Biographical Sketch, Portrait, and Illustrations Boston, New York, and Chicago Houghton, Mifflin & Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1896 [Frontispiece: Portrait of Mrs. Wiggin] KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. It is an advantage for an author to have known many places and different sorts of people, though the most vivid impressions are commonly those received in childhood and youth. Mrs. Wiggin, as she is known in literature, was Kate Douglas Smith; she was born in Philadelphia, and spent her young womanhood in California, but when a very young child she removed to Hollis in the State of Maine, and since her maturity has usually made her summer home there; her earliest recollections thus belong to the place, and she draws inspiration for her character and scene painting very largely from this New England neighborhood. Hollis is a quiet, secluded place, a picturesque but almost deserted village--if the few houses so widely scattered can be termed a village--located among the undulating hills that lie along the lower reaches of the Saco River. Here she plans to do almost all her actual writing--the story itself is begun long before--and she resorts to the place with pent-up energy. A quaint old house of colonial date and style, set in the midst of extensive grounds and shaded by graceful old trees,--this is "Quillcote,"--the summer home of Mrs. Wiggin. Quillcote is typical of many old New England homesteads; with an environment that is very close to the heart of nature, it combines all that is most desirable and beautiful in genuine country life. The old manor house is located on a sightly elevation commanding a varied view of the surrounding hills and fertile valleys; to the northwest are to be seen the foot-hills of Mt. Washington, and easterly a two hours' drive will bring one to Old Orchard Beach, and the broad, blue, delicious ocean whose breezes are generously wafted inland to Quillcote. Mrs. Wiggin is thoroughly in love with this big rambling house, from garret to cellar. A genuine historic air seems to surround the entire place, lending an added charm, and there are many impressive characteristics of the house in its dignity of architecture, which seem to speak of a past century with volumes of history in reserve. A few steps from these ample grounds, on the opposite side of the road, is a pretty wooden cottage of moderate size and very attractive, the early home of Mrs. Wiggin. These scenes have inspired much of the local coloring of her stories of New England life and character. "Pleasant River" in _Timothy's Quest_ is drawn from this locality, and in her latest book, _The Village Watch Tower_, many of her settings and descriptions are very close to existing conditions. Her own room and literary workshop is on the second floor of the house; it is distinctively a study in white, and no place could be more ideal for creative work. It has the cheeriest outlook from four windows with a southern exposure, overlooking a broad grass plat studded with trees, where birds from early dawn hold merry carnival, and squirrels find perfect and unmolested freedom. A peep into this sanctum is a most convincing proof that she is a woman who dearly loves order, as every detail plainly indicates, and it is also noticeable that any display of literary litter is most conspicuously absent. Interesting souvenirs and gifts of infinite variety are scattered all over the room, on the wainscoting, mantel, and in every available niche; very many are from children and all are dainty tributes. A picture of an irresistibly droll child face, of the African type and infectiously full of mirth, is one of a great company of children who look at you from every side and angle of the room. Dainty old pieces of china, rare bits of bric-a-brac, the very broad and old-time fireplaces filled with cut boughs of the spicy fir balsam, and various antique pieces of furniture lend to the inner atmosphere of Quillcote a fine artistic and colonial effect, while not a stone's throw away, at the foot of a precipitous bank, flows--in a very irregular channel--the picturesque Saco River. In this summer home Mrs. Wiggin has the companionship of her mother, and her sister, Miss Nora Smith, herself a writer, which renders it easy to abandon herself wholly to her creative work; this coupled with the fact that she is practically in seclusion banishes even a thought of interruption. And now, what was the beginning and the growth of the delightful literary faculty, which has already given birth to so many pleasant fancies and happy studies, especially of young life? A glimpse is given in the following playful letter and postscript from herself and her sister to a would-be biographer. MY DEAR BOSWELL,--I have asked my family for some incidents of my childhood, as you bade me,--soliciting any "anecdotes," "characteristics," or "early tendencies" that may have been, as you suggest, "foreshadowings" of later things. I have been much chagrined at the result. My younger sister states that I was a nice, well-mannered, capable child, nothing more; and that I never did anything nor said anything in any way remarkable. She affirms that, so far from spending my childhood days in composition, her principal recollection of me is that of a practical stirring little person, clad in a linsey woolsey gown, eternally dragging a red and brown sled called "The Artful Dodger." She adds that when called upon to part with this sled, or commanded to stop sliding, I showed certain characteristics that may perhaps have been "foreshadowings," but that certainly were not engaging ones. My mother was a good deal embarrassed when questioned, and finally confessed that I never said anything worthy of mention until I was quite "grown up;" a statement that is cheerfully corroborated by all the authorities consulted. . . . Do not seek, then, to pierce my happy obscurity. . . . Believe me, dear Bozzy, Sincerely your Johnson, (K. D. W.) Postscript by Johnson's Sister,-- The above report is substantially correct, though a few touches of local color were added which we see Johnson's modesty has moved her to omit. My sister was certainly a capable little person at a tender age, concocting delectable milk toast, browning toothsome buckwheats, and generally making a very good Parent's Assistant. I have also visions of her toiling at patchwork and oversewing sheets like a nice old-fashioned little girl in a story book; and in connection with the linsey woolsey frock and the sled before mentioned, I see a blue and white hood with a mass of shining fair hair escaping below it, and a pair of very pink cheeks. Further to illustrate her personality, I think no one much in her company at any age could have failed to note an exceedingly lively tongue and a general air of executive ability. If I am to be truthful, I must say that I recall few indications of budding authorship, save an engrossing diary (kept for six months only), and a devotion to reading. Her "literary passions" were the _Arabian Nights_, _Scottish Chiefs_, _Don Quixote_, _Thaddeus of Warsaw_, _Irving's Mahomet_, _Thackeray's Snobs_, _Undine_, and the _Martyrs of Spain_. These volumes, joined to an old green Shakespeare and a Plum Pudding edition of Dickens, were the chief of her diet. But stay! while I am talking of literary tendencies, I do remember a certain prize essay entitled "Pictures in the Clouds,"--not so called because it _took_ the prize, alas! but because it competed for it. There is also a myth in the household (doubtless invented by my mother) that my sister learned her letters from the signs in the street, and taught herself to read when scarcely out of long clothes. This may be cited as a bit of "corroborative detail," though personally I never believed in it. Johnson's Sister, N. A. S. Like many who have won success in literature, her taste and aptitude showed themselves early. It would be unfair to take _Polly Oliver's Problem_ as in any sense autobiographical, as regards a close following of facts, but it may be guessed to have some inner agreement with Mrs. Wiggin's history, for she herself when a girl of eighteen wrote a story, _Half a Dozen Housekeepers_, which was published in _St. Nicholas_ in the numbers for November and December, 1878. She was living at the time in California, and more to the purpose even than this bright little story was the preparation she was making for her later successes in the near and affectionate study of children whom she was teaching. She studied the kindergarten methods for a year under Emma Marwedel, and after teaching for a year in Santa Barbara College, she was called upon to organize in San Francisco the first free kindergarten west of the Rocky Mountains. She was soon joined in this work by her sister; and the enthusiasm and good judgment shown by the two inspired others, and made the famous "Silver Street Kindergarten" not only a great object lesson on the Pacific Coast, but an inspiration to similar efforts in Japan, Australia, New Zealand, British Columbia, and the Hawaiian Islands. This school was, and is at the present time, located in a densely inhabited and poverty-ridden quarter of the city. It was largely among the very poor that Mrs. Wiggin's full time and wealth of energy were devoted, for kindergartening was never a fad with her as some may have imagined; always philanthropic in her tendencies, she was, and is, genuinely and enthusiastically in earnest in this work. It is interesting to know that on the wall of one apartment at the Silver Street Kindergarten hangs a life-like portrait of its founder, underneath which you may read these words:-- KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. _In this room was born the first free Kindergarten west of the Rocky Mountains. Let me have the happiness of looking down upon many successive groups of children sitting in these same seats._ We are told that the children love that room the best; it is pictured as a bright, cheery spot, where the children used to gather with "Miss Kate" in the bygone days. By the window there is a bird-cage; the tiny occupant bearing the historical name of "Patsy." Connected with this kindergarten is a training-school, organized by Mrs. Wiggin in 1880, and conducted by Miss Nora Smith for several years afterward. The two sisters in collaboration have added much valuable matter to kindergarten literature, notably the three volumes entitled _The Republic of Childhood_, _Children's Sights_, and _The Story Hour_. On her marriage, Mrs. Wiggin gave up teaching, but continued to give two talks a week to the Training Class. She was also a constant visitor in the many kindergartens which had sprung up under the impulse of herself and her associates. She played with the children, sang to them, told them stories, and thus was all the while not only gathering material unconsciously, but practicing the art which she was to make her calling. The dozen years thus spent were her years of training, and, during this time she wrote and printed _The Story of Patsy_, merely to raise money for the kindergarten work. Three thousand copies were sold without the aid of a publisher, and the success was repeated when, not long after, _The Birds' Christmas Carol_ appeared. In 1888 Mrs. Wiggin removed to New York, and her friends urged her to come before the public with a regular issue of the last-named story. Houghton, Mifflin and Company at once brought out an edition, and the popularity which the book enjoyed in its first limited circle was now repeated on a very large scale. The reissue of _The Story of Patsy_ followed at the hands of the same publishers, and they have continued to bring out the successive volumes of her writing. It is not necessary to give a formal list of these books. Perhaps _The Birds' Christmas Carol_, which is so full of that sweet, tender pathos and wholesome humor which on one page moves us to tears, and the next sets us shaking with laughter, has been more widely enjoyed and read than her other stories, at least in America. It has been translated into Japanese, French, German, and Swedish, and has been put in raised type for the use of the blind. Patsy is a composite sketch taken from kindergarten life. For _Timothy's Quest_, one of the brightest and most cleverly written of character sketches, the author feels an especially tender sentiment. The story of how the book took form is old, but will bear repeating; it originated from the casual remark of a little child who said, regarding a certain house, "I think they need some babies there." Mrs. Wiggin at once jotted down in her note-book "needing babies," and from this nucleus the charming story of "Timothy" was woven into its present form. It is said that Rudyard Kipling considers Polly Oliver one of the most delightful of all girl-heroines; and Mrs. Wiggin really hopes some day to see the "Hospital Story Hour" carried out in real life. She owns a most interesting collection of her books in several languages. The illustrations of these are very unique, as most of them are made to correspond with the life of the country in which they are published. _Timothy's Quest_ is a favorite in Denmark with its Danish text and illustrations. It has also found its way into Swedish, and has appeared in the Tauchnitz edition, as has also _A Cathedral Courtship_. Her latest book, _The Village Watch Tower_, is composed of several short stories full of the very breath and air of New England. They are studies of humble life, interesting oddities and local customs, and are written in her usual bright vein. It was not long after her removal to the Atlantic coast that Mrs. Wiggin, now a widow and separated much of the year from her special work in California, threw herself eagerly into the kindergarten movement in New York, and it was in this interest that she was drawn into the semi-public reading of her own stories. Her interpretation of them is full of exquisite taste and feeling, but she has declared most characteristically that she would rather write a story for the love of doing it, than be paid by the public for reading it; hence her readings have always been given purely for philanthropic purposes, especially for the introduction of kindergartens, a cause which she warmly advocates, and with which she has most generously identified herself. I may say that there is an old meeting-house in Hollis in which she has been interested since her childhood. Each succeeding summer the whole countryside within a radius of many miles gathers there to hear her bright, sympathetic readings of her manuscript stories, sometimes before even her publishers have a peep at them. These occasions are rare events that are much talked over and planned for, as I learned soon after reaching that neighborhood. During the summer of 1895 she read one of her manuscript stories--_The Ride of the Midnight Cry_ (now published in _The Village Watch Tower_)--to a group of elderly ladies in the neighborhood of Quillcote, who are deeply interested in all she writes. The story takes its title from an ancient stage-coach well known throughout that region in its day, and known only by the suggestive if not euphonious name of "The Midnight Cry." Mrs. Wiggin possesses rare musical taste and ability, and enthusiastically loves music as an art. It is simply a recreation and delight to her to compose and adapt whatever pleases her fancy to her own flow of harmony. She is the possessor of some very rare and interesting foreign instruments; among this collection is a Hawaiian guitar, the tiniest of stringed instruments, and also one of curious Portuguese workmanship. In the early months of 1895 she was married to George C. Riggs, of New York, but she prefers to retain in literature the name with which she first won distinction. I will speak of her New York winter home only to say that it is the gathering-place of some of the most eminent authors and artists in the country. She goes abroad yearly, and Maine levies a heavy claim on her by right of home ties and affection, for the 'Pine Tree State' is proud to claim this gifted daughter, not only for her genius but her beauty of character and true womanliness. Mrs. Wiggin's work is characterized by a delicious flow of humor, depth of pathos, and a delicate play of fancy. Her greatest charm as a writer is simplicity of style. It enables us to come in perfect touch with her characterizations, which are so full of human nature that, as some one has said, "we feel them made of good flesh and blood like ourselves, with whom we have something, be it ever so little, that keeps us from being alien one to another." Her keen but sympathetic penetration attains some of the happiest results in the wholesome realism of her child characters; her children become real to us, creep into our hearts, and we love them, and in sympathy with this sentiment springs up a spontaneous reawakening of interest in the child-world about us. EMMA SHERMAN ECHOLS. POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM A STORY FOR GIRLS "_What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it_." GOETHE. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE II. FORECASTING THE FUTURE III. THE DOCTOR GIVES POLLY A PRESCRIPTION IV. THE BOARDERS STAY, AND THE OLIVERS GO V. TOLD IN LETTERS VI. POLLY TRIES A LITTLE MISSIONARY WORK VII. "WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS" VIII. TWO FIRESIDE CHATS IX. HARD TIMES X. EDGAR GOES TO CONFESSION XI. THE LADY IN BLACK XII. THE GREAT SILENCE XIII. A GARDEN FLOWER, OR A BANIAN-TREE XIV. EDGAR DISCOURSES OF SCARLET RUNNERS XV. LIFE IN THE BIRDS' NEST XVI. THE CANDLE CALLED PATIENCE XVII. POLLY LAUNCHES HER SHIPS XVIII. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR: REPORTED IN A LETTER BY AN EYE-WITNESS ILLUSTRATIONS PORTRAIT OF MRS. WIGGIN . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ MRS. OLIVER AND POLLY "IT IS SOME OF THE STUDENTS" "SHE OPENED THE BOOK AND READ" [Transcriber's note: The second illustration was missing from the original book.] POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM. "Pretty Polly Oliver, my hope and my fear, Pretty Polly Oliver, I've loved you so dear!" DINAH MARIA MULOCK. CHAPTER I. A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. "I have determined only one thing definitely," said Polly Oliver; "and that is, the boarders must go. Oh, how charming that sounds! I 've been thinking it ever since I was old enough to think, but I never cast it in such an attractive, decisive form before. 'The Boarders Must Go!' To a California girl it is every bit as inspiring as 'The Chinese Must Go.' If I were n't obliged to set the boarders' table, I 'd work the motto on a banner this very minute, and march up and down the plaza with it, followed by a crowd of small boys with toy drums." "The Chinese never did go," said Mrs. Oliver suggestively, from the sofa. "Oh, that's a trifle; they had a treaty or something, and besides, there are so many of them, and they have such an object in staying." "You can't turn people out of the house on a moment's warning." "Certainly not. Give them twenty-four hours, if necessary. We can choose among several methods of getting rid of them. I can put up a placard with BOARDERS, HO! printed on it in large letters, and then assemble them in the banquet-hall and make them a speech." "You would insult them," objected Mrs. Oliver feebly, "and they are perfectly innocent." "Insult them? Oh, mamma, how unworthy of you! I shall speak to them firmly but very gently. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' I shall begin, 'you have done your best to make palatable the class of human beings to which you belong, but you have utterly failed, and you must go! Board, if you must, ladies and gentlemen, but not here! Sap, if you must, the foundations of somebody else's private paradise, but not ours. In the words of the Poe-et, "Take thy beaks from off our door."' Then it will be over, and they will go out." "Slink out, I should say," murmured Polly's mother. "Very well, slink out," replied Polly cheerfully. "I should like to see them slink, after they 've been rearing their crested heads round our table for generations; but I think you credit them with a sensitiveness they do not, and in the nature of things cannot, possess. There is something in the unnatural life which hardens both the boarder and those who board her. However, I don't insist on that method. Let us try bloodless eviction,--set them quietly out in the street with their trunks; or strategy,--put one of them in bed and hang out the smallpox flag. Oh, I can get rid of them in a week, if I once set my mind on it." "There is no doubt of that," said Mrs. Oliver meekly. Polly's brain continued to teem with sinister ideas. "I shall make Mr. Talbot's bed so that the clothes will come off at the foot every night. He will remonstrate. I shall tell him that he kicks them off, and intimate that his conscience troubles him, or he would never be so restless. He will glare. I shall promise to do better, yet the clothes will come off worse and worse, and at last, perfectly disheartened, he will go. I shall tell Mr. Greenwood at the breakfast-table, what I have been longing for months to tell him, that we can hear him snore, distinctly, through the partition. He will go. I shall put cold milk in Mrs. Caldwell's coffee every morning. I shall mean well, you know, but I shall forget. She will know that I mean well, and that it is only girlish absent-mindedness, but she will not endure it very long; she will go. And so, by the exercise of a little ingenuity, they will depart one by one, remarking that Mrs. Oliver's boarding-house is not what it used to be; that Pauline is growing a little 'slack.'" "Polly!" and Mrs. Oliver half rose from the sofa, "I will not allow you to call this a boarding-house in that tone of voice." "A boarding-house, as I take it," argued Polly, "is a house where the detestable human vipers known as boarders are 'taken in and done for.'" "But we have always prided ourselves on having it exactly like a family," said her mother plaintively. "You know we have not omitted a single refinement of the daintiest home-life, no matter at what cost of labor and thought." "Certainly, that's the point,--and there you are, a sofa-invalid, and here am I with my disposition ruined for life; such a wreck in temper that I could blow up the boarders with dynamite and sleep peacefully after it." "Now be reasonable, little daughter. Think how kind and grateful the boarders have been (at least almost always), how appreciative of everything we have done for them." "Of course; it is n't every day they can secure an--an--elderly Juno like you to carve meat for them, or a--well, just for the sake of completing the figure of speech--a blooming Hebe like me (I 've always wondered why it was n't _She_be!) to dispense their tea and coffee; to say nothing of broma for Mr. Talbot, cocoa for Mr. Greenwood, cambric tea for Mrs. Hastings, and hot water for the Darlings. I have to keep a schedule, and refer to it three times a day. This alone shows that boarders are n't my vocation." A bit of conversation gives the clue to character so easily that Mrs. Oliver and her daughter need little more description. You can see the pretty, fragile mother resting among her pillows, and I need only tell you that her dress is always black, her smile patient, her eyes full of peace, and her hands never idle save in this one daily resting-hour prescribed by the determined Miss Polly, who mounts guard during the appointed time like a jailer who expects his prisoner to escape if he removes his eagle eye for an instant. The aforesaid impetuous Miss Polly has also told you something of herself in this brief interview. She is evidently a person who feels matters rather strongly, and who is wont to state them in the strongest terms she knows. Every word she utters shows you that, young as she looks, she is the real head of the family, and that her vigorous independence of thought and speech must be the result of more care and responsibility than ordinarily fall to the lot of a girl of sixteen. Certain of her remarks must be taken with a grain of salt. Her assertion of willingness to blow up innocent boarders in their beds would seem, for instance, to indicate a vixenish and vindictive sort of temper quite unwarranted by the circumstances; but a glance at the girl herself contradicts the thought. _Item_: A firm chin. She will take her own way if she can possibly get it; but _item_; a sweet, lovable mouth framed in dimples; a mouth that breaks into smiles at the slightest provocation, no matter how dreary the outlook; a mouth that quivers at the first tender word, and so the best of all correctives to the determined little chin below. _Item_: A distinctly saucy nose; an aggressive, impertinent, spirited little nose, with a few freckles on it; a nose that probably leads its possessor into trouble occasionally. _Item_: Two bright eyes, a trifle overproud and willful, perhaps, but candid and full of laughter. _Item_: A head of brilliant, auburn hair; lively, independent, frisky hair, each glittering thread standing out by itself and asserting its own individuality; tempestuous hair that never "stays put;" capricious hair that escapes hairpins and comes down unexpectedly; hoydenish hair that makes the meekest hats look daring. For the rest, a firm, round figure, no angles, everything, including elbows, in curves; blooming cheeks and smooth-skinned, taper-fingered hands tanned a very honest brown,--the hands of a person who loves beauty. Polly Oliver's love of beautiful things was a passion, and one that had little gratification; but luckily, though good music, pictures, china, furniture, and "purple and fine linen" were all conspicuous by their absence, she could feast without money and without price on the changeful loveliness of the Santa Ynez mountains, the sapphire tints of the placid Pacific, and the gorgeous splendor of the Californian wild-flowers, so that her sense of beauty never starved. Her hand was visible in the modest sitting-room where she now sat with her mother; for it was pretty and homelike, although its simple decorations and furnishings had been brought together little by little during a period of two years; so that the first installments were all worn out, Polly was wont to remark plaintively, before the last additions made their appearance. The straw matting had Japanese figures on it, while a number of rugs covered the worn places, and gave it an opulent look. The table-covers, curtains, and portières were of blue jean worked in outline embroidery, and Mrs. Oliver's couch had as many pillows as that of an oriental princess; for Polly's summers were spent camping in a cañon, and she embroidered sofa-cushions and draperies with frenzy during these weeks of out-of-door life. Upon the cottage piano was a blue Canton ginger-jar filled with branches of feathery bamboo that spread its lace-like foliage far and wide over the ceiling and walls, quite covering the large spot where the roof had leaked. Various stalks of tropical-looking palms, distributed artistically about, concealed the gaping wounds in the walls, inflicted by the Benton children, who had once occupied this same apartment. Mexican water-jars, bearing peacock feathers, screened Mr. Benton's two favorite places for scratching matches. The lounge was the sort of lounge that looks well only between two windows, but Polly was obliged to place it across the corner where she really needed the table, because in that position it shielded from the public view the enormous black spots on the wall where Reginald Benton had flung the ink-bottle at his angel sister Pansy Belle. Then there was an umbrella-lamp bestowed by a boarder whom Mrs. Oliver had nursed through typhoid fever; a banjo; plenty of books and magazines; and an open fireplace, with a great pitcher of yellow wild-flowers standing between the old-fashioned brass andirons. Little Miss Oliver's attitude on the question of the boarders must stand quite without justification. "It is a part of Polly," sighed her mother, "and must be borne with Christian fortitude." Colonel Oliver had never fully recovered from a wound received in the last battle of the civil war, and when he was laid to rest in a quiet New England churchyard, so much of Mrs. Oliver's heart was buried with him that it was difficult to take up the burden of life with any sort of courage. At last her delicate health prompted her to take the baby daughter, born after her husband's death, and go to southern California, where she invested her small property in a house in Santa Barbara. She could not add to her income by any occupation that kept her away from the baby; so the boarders followed as a matter of course (a house being suitable neither for food nor clothing), and a constantly changing family of pleasant people helped her to make both ends meet, and to educate the little daughter as she grew from babyhood into childhood. Now, as Polly had grown up among the boarders, most of whom petted her, no one can account for her slightly ungrateful reception of their good-will; but it is certain that the first time she was old enough to be trusted at the table, she grew very red in the face, slipped down from her high chair, and took her bowl of bread and milk on to the porch. She was followed and gently reasoned with, but her only explanation was that she did n't "yike to eat wiv so many peoples." Persuasion bore no fruit, and for a long time Miss Polly ate in solitary grandeur. Indeed, the feeling increased rather than diminished, until the child grew old enough to realize her mother's burden, when with passionate and protecting love she put her strong young shoulders under the load and lifted her share, never so very prettily or gracefully,--it is no use trying to paint a halo round Polly's head,--but with a proud courage and a sort of desperate resolve to be as good as she could, which was not very good, she would have told you. She would come back from the beautiful home of her friend, Bell Winship, and look about on her own surroundings, never with scorn, or sense of bitterness,--she was too sensible and sweet-natured for that,--but with an inward rebellion against the existing state of things, and a secret determination to create a better one, if God would only give her power and opportunity. But this pent-up feeling only showed itself to her mother in bursts of impulsive nonsense, at which Mrs. Oliver first laughed and then sighed. "Oh, for a little, little breakfast-table!" Polly would say, as she flung herself on her mother's couch, and punched the pillows desperately. "Oh, for a father to say 'Steak, Polly dear?' instead of my asking, 'Steakorchop?' over and over every morning! Oh, for a lovely, grown-up, black-haired sister, who would have hundreds of lovers, and let me stay in the room when they called! Oh, for a tiny baby brother, fat and dimpled, who would crow, and spill milk on the tablecloth, and let me sit on the floor and pick up the things he threw down! But instead of that, a new, big, strange family, different people every six months, people who don't like each other, and have to be seated at opposite ends of the table; ladies whose lips tremble with disappointment if they don't get the second joint of the chicken, and gentlemen who are sulky if any one else gets the liver. Oh, mamma, I am sixteen now, and it will soon be time for me to begin taking care of you; but I warn you, I shall never do it by means of the boarders!" "Are you so weak and proud, little daughter, as to be ashamed because I have taken care of you these sixteen years 'by means of the boarders,' as you say?" "No, no, mamma! Don't think so badly of me as that. That feeling was outgrown long ago. Do I not know that it is just as fine and honorable as anything else in the world, and do I not love and honor you with all my heart because you do it in so sweet and dignified a way that everybody respects you for it? But it is n't my vocation. I would like to do something different, something wider, something lovelier, if I knew how, and were ever good enough!" "It is easy to 'dream noble things,' dear, but hard to do them 'all day long.' My own feeling is, if one reaches the results one is struggling for, and does one's work as well as it lies in one to do it, that keeping boarders is as good service as any other bit of the world's work. One is not always permitted to choose the beautiful or glorious task. Sometimes all one can do is to make the humble action fine by doing it 'as it is done in heaven.' Remember, 'they also serve who only stand and wait.'" "Yes, mamma," said Polly meekly; "but," stretching out her young arms hopefully and longingly, "it must be that they also serve who stand and _dare_, and I 'm going to try that first,--then I 'll wait, if God wants me to." "What if God wants you to wait first, little daughter?" Polly hid her face in the sofa-cushions and did not answer. CHAPTER II. FORECASTING THE FUTURE. Two of Mrs. Oliver's sitting-room windows looked out on the fig-trees, and the third on a cosy piazza corner framed in passion-vines, where at the present moment stood a round table holding a crystal bowl of Gold of Ophir roses, a brown leather portfolio, and a dish of apricots. Against the table leaned an old Spanish guitar with a yellow ribbon round its neck, and across the corner hung a gorgeous hammock of Persian colored threads, with two or three pillows of canary-colored China silk in one end. A bamboo lounging-chair and a Shaker rocker completed the picture; and the passer-by could generally see Miss Anita Ferguson reclining in the one, and a young (but not Wise) man from the East in the other. It was not always the same young man any more than the decorations were always of the same color. "That's another of my troubles," said Polly to her friend Margery Noble, pulling up the window-shade one afternoon and pointing to the now empty "cosy corner." "I don't mind Miss Ferguson's sitting there, though it used always to be screened off for my doll-house, and I love it dearly; but she pays to sit there, and she ought to do it; besides, she looks prettier there than any one else. Isn't it lovely? The other day she had pink oleanders in the bowl, the cushions turned the pink side up,--you see they are canary and rose-color,--a pink muslin dress, and the guitar trimmed with a fringe of narrow pink ribbons. She was a dream, Margery! But she does n't sit there with her young men when I am at school, nor when I am helping Ah Foy in the dining-room, nor, of course, when we are at table. She sits there from four to six in the afternoon and in the evening, the only times I have with mamma in this room. We are obliged to keep the window closed, lest we should overhear the conversation. That is tiresome enough in warm weather. You see the other windows are shaded by the fig-trees, so here we sit, in Egyptian darkness, mamma and I, during most of the pleasant afternoons. And if anything ever came of it, we would n't mind, but nothing ever does. There have been so many young men,--I could n't begin to count them, but they have worn out the seats of four chairs,--and why does n't one of them take her away? Then we could have a nice, plain young lady who would sit quietly on the front steps with the old people, and who would n't want me to carry messages for her three times a day." At the present moment, however, Miss Anita Ferguson, clad in a black habit, with a white rose in her buttonhole, and a neat black derby with a scarf of white _crêpe de chine_ wound about it, had gone on the mesa for a horseback ride, so Polly and Margery had borrowed the cosy corner for a chat. Margery was crocheting a baby's afghan, and Polly was almost obscured by a rumpled, yellow dress which lay in her lap. "You observe my favorite yellow gown?" she asked. "Yes, what have you done to it?" "Gin Sing picked blackberries in the colander. I, supposing the said colander to be a pan with the usual bottom, took it in my lap and held it for an hour while I sorted the berries. Result: a hideous stain a foot and a half in diameter, to say nothing of the circumference. Mr. Greenwood suggested oxalic acid. I applied it, and removed both the stain and the dress in the following complete manner;" and Polly put her brilliant head through an immense circular hole in the front breadth of the skirt. "It 's hopeless, is n't it? for of course a patch won't look well," said Margery. "Hopeless? Not a bit. You see this pretty yellow and white striped lawn? I have made a long, narrow apron of it, and ruffled it all round. I pin it to my waist thus, and the hole is covered. But it looks like an apron, and how do I contrive to throw the public off the scent? I add a yoke and sash of the striped lawn, and people see simply a combination-dress. I do the designing, and my beloved little mother there will do the sewing; forgetting her precious Polly's carelessness in making the hole, and remembering only her cleverness in covering it." "Capital!" said Margery; "it will be prettier than ever. Oh dear! that dress was new when we had our last lovely summer in the cañon. Shall we ever go again, all together, I wonder? Just think how we are all scattered,--the Winships traveling in Europe (I 'll read you Bell's last letter by and by); Geoffrey Strong studying at Leipsic; Jack Howard at Harvard, with Elsie and her mother watching over him in Cambridge; Philip and I on the ranch as usual, and you here. We are so divided that it does n't seem possible that we can ever have a complete reunion, does it?" "No," said Polly, looking dreamily at the humming-birds hovering over the honeysuckle; "and if we should, everything would be different. Bless dear old Bell's heart! What a lovely summer she must be having! I wonder what she will do." "Do?" echoed Margery. "Yes; it always seemed to me that Bell Winship would do something in the world; that she would never go along placidly like other girls, she has so many talents." "Yes; but so long as they have plenty of money, Dr. and Mrs. Winship would probably never encourage her in doing anything." "It would be all the better if she could do something because she loved it, and with no thought of earning a living by it. Is n't it odd that I who most need the talents should have fewer than any one of our dear little group? Bell can write, sing, dance, or do anything else, in fact; Elsie can play like an angel; you can draw; but it seems to me I can do nothing well enough to earn money by it; and that is precisely what I must do." "You 've never had any special instruction, Polly dear, else you could sing as well as Bell, or play as well as Elsie." "Well, I must soon decide. Mamma says next summer, when I am seventeen, she will try to spend a year in San Francisco and let me study regularly for some profession. The question is, what?--or whether to do something without study. I read in a magazine the other day that there are now three hundred or three thousand, I can't remember which, vocations open to women. If it were even three hundred I could certainly choose one to my liking, and there would be two hundred and ninety-nine left over for the other girls. Mrs. Weeks is trying to raise silkworms. That would be rather nice, because the worms would be silent partners in the business and do most of the work." "But you want something without any risks, you know," said Margery sagely. "You would have to buy ground for the silkworms, and set out the mulberries, and then a swarm of horrid insects might happen along and devour the plants before the worms began spinning." "'Competition is the life of trade,'" said Polly. "No, that is n't what I mean--'Nothing venture, nothing have,' that's it. Then how would hens do? Ever so many women raise hens." "Hens have diseases, and they never lay very well when you have to sell the eggs. By the way, Clarence Jones, who sings in the choir,--you know, the man with the pink cheeks and corn-silk hair,--advertises in the 'Daily Press' for a 'live partner.' Now, there 's a chance on an established hen-ranch, if he does n't demand capital or experience." "It's a better chance for Miss Ferguson. But she does n't like Mr. Jones, because when he comes to call, his coat-pockets are always bulging with brown paper packages of a hen-food that he has just invented. The other day, when he came to see her, she was out, and he handed me his card. It had a picture and advertisement of 'The Royal Dish-faced Berkshire Pig' on it; and I 'm sure, by her expression when she saw it, that she will never be his 'live partner.' No, I don't think I 'll have an out-of-door occupation, it's so trying to the complexion. Now, how about millinery? I could be an apprentice, and gradually rise until I imported everything direct from Paris." "But, Polly," objected Margery, "you know you never could tie a bow, or even put a ribbon on your sailor hat." "But I could learn. Do you suppose all the milliners were called to their work by a consciousness of genius? Perish the thought! If that were true, there wouldn't be so many hideous hats in the shop windows. However, I don't pine for millinery; it's always a struggle for me to wear a hat myself." "You 've done beautifully the last year or two, dear, and you 've reaped the reward of virtue, for you 've scarcely a freckle left." "Oh, that isn't hats," rejoined Polly, "that's the law of compensation. When I was younger, and did n't take the boarders so much to heart, I had freckles given to me for a cross; but the moment I grew old enough to see the boarders in their true light and note their effect on mamma, the freckles disappeared. Now, here 's an idea. I might make a complexion lotion for a living. Let me see what I 've been advised by elderly ladies to use in past years: ammonia, lemon-juice, cucumbers, morning dew, milk, pork rinds, kerosene, and a few other household remedies. Of course I 'm not sure which did the work, but why could n't I mix them all in equal parts,--if they would mix, you know, and let those stay out that would n't,--and call it the 'Olivera Complexion Lotion'? The trade-mark might be a cucumber, a lemon, and a morning dew-drop, _rampant_, and a frightened little brown spot _couchant_. Then on the neat label pasted on the bottles above the trade-mark there might be a picture of a spotted girl,--that's Miss Oliver before using her lotion,--and a copy of my last photograph,--that's Miss Oliver radiant in beauty after using her lotion." Margery laughed, as she generally did at Polly's nonsense. "That sounds very attractive, but if you are anxious for an elegant and dignified occupation which shall restore your mother to her ancestral position, it certainly has its defects." "I know everything has its defects, everything except one, and I won't believe that has a single weak point." "Oh, Polly, you deceiver! You have a secret leaning toward some particular thing, after all!" "Yes; though I have n't talked it over fully yet, even with mamma, lest she should think it one of my wild schemes; but, Margery, I want with all my heart to be a kindergartner like Miss Mary Denison. There would be no sting to me in earning my living, if only I could do it by working among poor, ragged, little children, as she does. I run in and stay half an hour with her whenever I can, and help the babies with their sewing or weaving, and I always study and work better myself afterward,--I don't know whether it's the children, or Miss Denison, or the place, or all three. And the other day, when I was excused from my examinations, I stayed the whole morning in the kindergarten. When it was time for the games, and they were all on the circle, they began with a quiet play they call 'Silent Greeting,' and oh, Margery, they chose me to come in, of their own accord! When I walked into the circle to greet that smallest Walker baby my heart beat like a trip-hammer, I was so afraid I should do something wrong, and they would never ask me in again. Then we played 'The Hen and Chickens,' and afterward something about the birds in the greenwood; and one of the make-believe birds flew to me (I was a tree, you know, a whispering elm-tree), and built its nest in my branches, and then I smoothed its feathers and sang to it as the others had done, and it was like heaven! After the play was over, we modeled clay birds; and just as we were making the tables tidy, Professor Hohlweg came in and asked Miss Denison to come into the large hall to play for the marching, as the music-teacher was absent. Then what did Miss Denison do but turn to me and say, 'Miss Oliver, you get on so nicely with the children, would you mind telling them some little story for me? I shall be gone only ten or fifteen minutes.' Oh, Margery, it was awful! I was more frightened than when I was asked to come into the circle; but the children clapped their hands and cried, 'Yes, yes, tell us a story!' I could only think of 'The Hen that Hatched Ducks,' but I sat down and began, and, as I talked, I took my clay bird and molded it into a hen, so that they would look at me whether they listened or not. Of course, one of the big seven-year-old boys began to whisper and be restless, but I handed him a large lump of clay and asked him to make a nest and some eggs for my hen, and that soon absorbed his attention. They listened so nicely,--you can hardly believe how nicely they listened! When I finished I looked at the clock. It had been nine minutes, and I could n't think what to do the other dreadful minutes till Miss Denison should come back. At last my eye fell on the blackboard, and that gave me an idea. I drew a hen's beak and then a duck's, a hen's foot and then a duck's, to show them the difference. Just then Miss Denison came in softly, and I confess I was bursting with pride and delight. There was the blackboard with the sketches, not very good ones, it is true, the clay hen and nest and eggs, and all the children sitting quietly in their wee red chairs. And Miss Denison said, 'How charming of you to carry out the idea of the morning so nicely! My dear little girl, you were made for this sort of thing, did you know it?'" "Well, I should n't think you had patience enough for any sort of teaching," said Margery candidly. "Neither did I suppose so myself, and I have n't any patience to spare, that is, for boarders, or dishes, or beds; but I love children so dearly that they never try my patience as other things do." "You have had the play side of the kindergarten, Polly, while Miss Denison had the care. There must be a work-a-day side to it; I'm sure Miss Denison very often looks tired to death." "Of course!" cried Polly. "I know it 's hard work; but who cares whether a thing is hard or not, if one loves it? I don't mind work; I only mind working at something I dislike and can never learn to like. Why, Margery, at the Sunday-school picnics you go off in the broiling sun and sit on a camp-chair and sketch, while I play Fox and Geese with the children, and each of us pities the other and thinks she must be dying with heat. It 's just the difference between us! You carry your easel and stool and paint-boxes and umbrella up the steepest hill, and never mind if your back aches; I bend over Miss Denison's children with their drawing or building, and never think of my back-ache, do you see?" "Yes; but I always keep up my spirits by thinking that though I may be tired and discouraged, it is worth while because it is Art I am working at; and for the sake of being an artist I ought to be willing to endure anything. You would n't have that feeling to inspire and help you." "I should like to know why I would n't," exclaimed Polly, with flashing eyes. "I should like to know why teaching may not be an art. I confess I don't know exactly what an artist is, or rather what the dictionary definition of art is; but sit down in Miss Burke's room at the college; you can't stay there half an hour without thinking that, rather than have her teach you anything, you would be an ignorant little cannibal on a desert island! She does n't know how, and there is nothing beautiful about it. But look at Miss Denison! When she comes into her kindergarten it is like the sunrise, and she makes everything blossom that she touches. It is all so simple and sweet that it seems as if anybody could do it; but when you try it you find that it is quite different. Whether she plays or sings, or talks or works with the children, it is perfect. 'It all seems so easy when you do it,' I said to her yesterday, and she pointed to the quotation for the day in her calendar. It was a sentence from George MacDonald: 'Ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil.' Now it may be that Miss Mary Denison is only an angel; but I think that she 's an artist." "On second thoughts, perhaps you are right in your meaning of the word, though it does n't follow that all teachers are artists." "No; nor that all the painters are," retorted Polly. "Think of that poor Miss Thomas in your outdoor class. Last week, when you were sketching the cow in front of the old barn, I sat behind her for half an hour. Her barn grew softer and softer and her cow harder and harder, till when she finished, the barn looked as if it were molded in jelly and the cow as if it were carved in red sandstone." "She ought not to be allowed to paint," said Margery decisively. "Of course she ought n't! That's just what I say; and I ought not to be allowed to keep boarders, and I won't!" "I must say you have wonderful courage, Polly. It seems so natural and easy for you to strike out for yourself in a new line that it must be you feel a sense of power, and that you will be successful." Polly's manner changed abruptly as she glanced in at her mother's empty chair before she replied. "Courage! Sometimes I think I have n't a morsel. I am a gilded sham. My knees tremble whenever I think of my future 'career,' as I call it. Mamma thinks me filled with a burning desire for a wider sphere of action, and so I am, but chiefly for her sake. Courage! There 's nothing like having a blessed, tired little mother to take care of,--a mother whom you want to snatch from the jaws of a horrible fate. That 's a trifle strong, but it's dramatic! You see, Margery, a woman like my mother is not going to remain forever in her present rank in her profession,--she is too superior; she is bound to rise. Now, what would become of her if she rose? Why, first, she would keep a country hotel, and sit on the front piazza in a red rocker, and chat with the commercial travelers; and then she would become the head of a summer resort, with a billiard-room and a bowling-alley. I must be self-supporting, and 'I will never desert Mr. Micawber,' so I should make beds and dust in Hotel Number One, and in Hotel Number Two entertain the guests with my music and my 'sprightly manners,'--that's what Mr. Greenwood calls them, and the only reason I am sorry we live in a republic is that I can't have him guillotined for doing it, but must swallow my wrath because he pays twenty dollars a week and seldom dines at home. Finally, in Hotel Number Three I should probably marry the ninepin-man or the head clerk, so as to consolidate the management and save salaries, and there would end the annals of the Olivers! No, Margery!" cried Polly, waving the scissors in the air, "everybody is down on the beach, and I can make the welkin ring if I like, so hear me: The boarders must go! How, when, and where they shall go are three problems I have n't yet solved; and what I shall find to take the place of them when they do go is a fourth problem, and the knottiest one of all!" CHAPTER III. THE DOCTOR GIVES POLLY A PRESCRIPTION. As the summer wore away, Mrs. Oliver daily grew more and more languid, until at length she was forced to ask a widowed neighbor, Mrs. Chadwick, to come and take the housekeeping cares until she should feel stronger. But beef-tea and drives, salt-water bathing and tonics, seemed to do no good, and at length there came a day when she had not sufficient strength to sit up. The sight of her mother actually in bed in the daytime gave Polly a sensation as of a cold hand clutching at her heart, and she ran for Dr. Edgerton in an agony of fear. But good "Dr. George" (as he was always called, because he began practice when his father, the old doctor, was still living) came home with her, cheered her by his hopeful view of the case, and asked her to call at his office that afternoon for some remedies. After dinner was over, Polly kissed her sleeping mother, laid a rose on her pillow for good-by, and stole out of the room. Her heart was heavy as she walked into the office where the doctor sat alone at his desk. "Good-day, my dear!" he said cordially, as he looked up, for she was one of his prime favorites. "Bless my soul, how you do grow, child! Why you are almost a woman!" "I am quite a woman," said Polly, with a choking sensation in her throat; "and you have something to say to me, Dr. George, or you would n't have asked me to leave mamma and come here this stifling day; you would have sent the medicine by your office-boy." Dr. George laid down his pen in mild, amazement. "You are a woman, in every sense of the word, my dear! Bless my soul, how you do hit it occasionally, you sprig of a girl! Now, sit by that window, and we 'll talk. What I wanted to say to you is this, Polly. Your mother must have an entire change. Six months ago I tried to send her to a rest-cure, but she refused to go anywhere without you, saying that you were her best tonic." Two tears ran down Polly's cheeks. "Tell me that again, please," she said softly, looking out of the window. "She said--if you will have the very words, and all of them--that you were sun and stimulant, fresh air, medicine, and nourishment, and that she could not exist without those indispensables, even in a rest-cure." Polly's head went down on the windowsill in a sudden passion of tears. "Hoity-toity! that 's a queer way of receiving a compliment, young woman!" She tried to smile through her April shower. "It makes me so happy, yet so unhappy, Dr. George. Mamma has been working her strength away so many years, and I 've been too young to realize it, and too young to prevent it, and now that I am grown up I am afraid it is too late." "Not too late, at all," said Dr. George cheerily; "only we must begin at once and attend to the matter thoroughly. Your mother has been in this southern climate too long, for one thing; she needs a change of air and scene. San Francisco will do, though it 's not what I should choose. She must be taken entirely away from her care, and from everything that will remind her of it; and she must live quietly, where she will not have to make a continual effort to smile and talk to people three times a day. Being agreeable, polite, and good-tempered for fifteen years, without a single lapse, will send anybody into a decline. You 'll never go that way, my Polly! Now, pardon me, but how much ready money have you laid away?" "Three hundred and twelve dollars." "Whew!" "It is a good deal," said Polly, with modest pride; "and it would have been more yet if we had not just painted the house." "'A good deal!' my poor lambkin! I hoped it was $1012, at least; but, however, you have the house, and that is as good as money. The house must be rented, at once, furniture, boarders, and all, as it stands. It ought to bring $85 or $95 a month, in these times, and you can manage on that, with the $312 as a reserve." "What if the tenant should give up the house as soon as we are fairly settled in San Francisco?" asked Polly, with an absolutely new gleam of caution and business in her eye. "Brava! Why do I attempt to advise such a capable little person? Well, in the first place, there are such things as leases; and in the second place, if your tenant should move out, the agent must find you another in short order, and you will live, meanwhile, on the reserve fund. But, joking aside, there is very little risk. It is going to be a great winter for Santa Barbara, and your house is attractive, convenient, and excellently located. If we can get your affairs into such shape that your mother will not be anxious, I hope, and think, that the entire change and rest, together with the bracing air, will work wonders. I shall give you a letter to a physician, a friend of mine, and fortunately I shall come up once a month during the winter to see an old patient who insists on retaining me just from force of habit." "And in another year, Dr. George, I shall be ready to take care of mamma myself; and then-- "She shall sit on a cushion, and sew a fine seam, And feast upon strawberries, sugar, and cream." "Assuredly, my Polly, assuredly." The doctor was pacing up and down the office now, hands in pockets, eyes on floor. "The world is your oyster; open it, my dear,--open it. By the way," with a sharp turn, "with what do you propose to open it?" "I don't know yet, but not with boarders, Dr. George." "Tut, tut, child; must n't despise small things!" "Such as Mr. Greenwood," said Polly irrepressibly, "weight two hundred and ninety pounds; and Mrs. Darling, height six feet one inch; no, I 'll try not to despise small things, thank you!" "Well, if there 's a vocation, it will 'call,' you know, Polly. I 'd rather like you for an assistant, to drive my horse and amuse my convalescents. Bless my soul! you 'd make a superb nurse, except"-- "Except what, sir?" "You 're not in equilibrium yet, my child; you are either up or down, generally up. You bounce, so to speak. Now, a nurse must n't bounce; she must be poised, as it were, or suspended, betwixt and between, like Mahomet's coffin. But thank Heaven for your high spirits, all the same! They will tide you over many a hard place, and the years will bring the 'inevitable yoke' soon enough, Polly," and here Dr. George passed behind the girl's chair and put his two kind hands on her shoulders. "Polly, can you be really a woman? Can you put the little-girl days bravely behind you?" "I can, Dr. George." This in a very trembling voice. "Can you settle all these details for your mother, and assume responsibilities? Can you take her away, as if she were the child and you the mother, all at once?" "I can!" This more firmly. "Can you deny yourself for her, as she has for you? Can you keep cheerful and sunny? Can you hide your fears, if there should be cause for any, in your own heart? Can you be calm and strong, if"-- "No, no!" gasped Polly, dropping her head on the back of the chair and shivering like a leaf. "No, no; don't talk about fears, Dr. George. She will be better. She will be better very soon. I could not live"-- "It is n't so easy to die, my child, with plenty of warm young blood running pell-mell through your veins, and a sixteen-year-old heart that beats like a chronometer." "I could not bear life without mamma, Dr. George!" "A human being, made in the image of God, can bear anything, child; but I hope you won't have to meet that sorrow for many a long year yet. I will come in to-morrow and coax your mother into a full assent to my plans; meanwhile, fly home with your medicines. There was a time when you used to give my tonics at night and my sleeping-draught in the morning; but I believe in you absolutely from this day." Polly put her two slim hands in the kind doctor's, and looking up with brimming eyes into his genial face said, "Dear Dr. George, you may believe in me; indeed, indeed you may!" Dr. George looked out of his office window, and mused as his eyes followed Polly up the shaded walk under the pepper-trees. "Oh, these young things, these young things, how one's heart yearns over them!" he sighed. "There she goes, full tilt, notwithstanding the heat; hat swinging in her hand instead of being on her pretty head; her heart bursting with fond schemes to keep that precious mother alive. It's a splendid nature, that girl's; one that is in danger of being wrecked by its own impetuosity, but one so full and rich that it is capable of bubbling over and enriching all the dull and sterile ones about it. Now, if all the money I can rake and scrape together need not go to those languid, boneless children of my languid, boneless sister-in-law, I could put that brave little girl on her feet. I think she will be able to do battle with the world so long as she has her mother for a motive-power. The question is, how will she do it without?" CHAPTER IV. THE BOARDERS STAY, AND THE OLIVERS GO. Dr. George found Mrs. Oliver too ill to be anything but reasonable. After a long talk about her own condition and Polly's future, she gave a somewhat tearful assent to all his plans for their welfare, and agreed to make the change when a suitable tenant was found for the house. So Polly eased the anxiety that gnawed at her heart by incredible energy in the direction of house-cleaning; superintending all sorts of scrubbings, polishings, and renovating of carpets with the aid of an extra Chinaman, who was fresh from his native rice-fields and stupid enough to occupy any one's mind to the exclusion of other matters. Each boarder in turn was asked to make a trip to the country on a certain day, and on his return found his room in spotless order; while all this time the tired mother lay quietly in her bed, knowing little or nothing of her daughter's superhuman efforts to be "good." But a month of rest worked wonders, and Mrs. Oliver finally became so like her usual delicate but energetic self that Polly almost forgot her fears, although she remitted none of her nursing and fond but rigid discipline. At length something happened; and one glorious Saturday morning in October, Polly saddled Blanquita, the white mare which Bell Winship had left in Polly's care during her European trip, and galloped over to the Nobles' ranch in a breathless state of excitement. Blanquita was happy too, for Polly had a light hand on the rein and a light seat in the saddle. She knew there would be a long rest at the journey's end, and that, too, under a particularly shady pepper-tree; so both horse and rider were in a golden humor as they loped over the dusty road, the blue Pacific on the one hand, and the brown hills, thirsty for rain, on the other. Polly tied Blanquita to the pepper-tree, caught her habit in one hand, and ran up the walnut-tree avenue to the Nobles' house. There was no one in; but that was nothing unusual, since a house is chiefly useful for sleeping purposes in that lovely climate. No one on the verandas, no one in the hammocks; after seeking for some little time she came upon Margery and her mother at work in their orange-tree sitting-room, Mrs. Noble with her mending-basket, Margery painting as usual. The orange-tree sitting-room was merely a platform built under the trees, which in the season of blossoms shed a heavy fragrance in the warm air, and later on hung their branches of golden fruit almost into your very lap. "Here you are!" cried Polly, plunging through the trees as she caught sight of Margery's pink dress. "You have n't any hats to swing, so please give three rousing cheers! The house is rented and a lease signed for a year!" "That is good news, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Noble, laying down her needle. "And who is the tenant?" "Whom do you suppose? Mrs. Chadwick herself! She has been getting on very nicely with the housekeeping (part of the credit belongs to me, but no one would ever believe it), and the boarders have been gradually weaned from mamma and accustomed to the new order of things, so they are tolerably content. Ah Foy also has agreed to stay, and that makes matters still more serene, since he is the best cook in Santa Barbara. Mrs. Chadwick will pay eighty-five dollars a month. Dr. George thinks we ought to get more, but mamma is so glad to have somebody whom she knows, and so relieved to feel that there will be no general breaking up of the 'sweet, sweet home,' that she is glad to accept the eighty-five dollars; and I am sure that we can live in modest penury on that sum. Of course Mrs. Chadwick may weary in well-doing; or she may die; or she may even get married,--though that's very unlikely, unless one of the boarders can't pay his board and wants to make it up to her in some way. Heigho! I feel like a princess, like a capitalist, like a gilded society lady!" sighed Polly, fanning herself with her hat. "And now you and your mother will come to us for a week or two, as you promised, won't you?" asked Mrs. Noble. "That will give you time to make your preparations comfortably." Polly took a note from her pocket and handed it to Mrs. Noble: "Mrs. Oliver presents her compliments to Mrs. Noble, and says in this letter that we accept with pleasure Mrs. Noble's kind invitation to visit her. Said letter was not to be delivered, in case Mrs. Noble omitted to renew the invitation; but as all is right, I don't mind announcing that we are coming the day after to-morrow." "Oh, Polly, Polly! How am I ever to live without you!" sighed Margery. "First Elsie, then Bell, now you!" "Live for your Art with a big A, Peggy, but it's not forever. By and by, when you are a successful artist and I am a successful something, in short, when we are both 'careering,' which is my verb to express earning one's living by the exercise of some splendid talent, we will 'career' together in some great metropolis. Our mothers shall dress in Lyons velvet and point-lace. Their delicate fingers, no longer sullied by the vulgar dishcloth and duster, shall glitter with priceless gems, while you and I, the humble authors of their greatness, will heap dimes on dimes until we satisfy ambition." Mrs. Noble smiled. "I hope your 'career,' as you call it, will be one in which imagination will be of use, Polly." "I don't really imagine all the imaginations you imagine I imagine," said Polly soberly, as she gave Mrs. Noble's hand an affectionate squeeze. "A good deal of it is 'whistling to keep my courage up.' But everything looks hopeful just now. Mamma is so much better, everybody is so kind, and do you know, I don't loathe the boarders half so much since we have rented them with the house? "They grow in beauty side by side, They fill our home with glee. "Now that I can look upon them as personal property, part of our goods and chattels, they have ceased to be disagreeable. Even Mr. Greenwood--you remember him, Margery?" "The fat old man who calls you sprightly?" "The very same; but he has done worse since that. To be called sprightly is bad enough, but yesterday he said that he shouldn't be surprised _if I married well--in--course--of--time_!" Nothing but italics would convey the biting sarcasm of Polly's inflections, and no capitals in a printer's case could picture her flashing eyes, or the vigor with which she prodded the earth with her riding-whip. "I agree with him, that it is not impossible," said Mrs. Noble teasingly, after a moment of silence. "Now, dearest aunty Meg, don't take sides with that odious man! If, in the distant years, you ever see me on the point of marrying well, simply mention Mr. Greenwood's name to me, and I 'll draw back even if I am walking up the middle aisle with an ivory prayer-book in my hand!" "Just to spite Mr. Greenwood; that would be sensible," said Margery. "You could n't be so calm if you had to sit at the same table with him day after day. He belongs at the second table by--by every law of his nature! But, as I was saying, now that we have rented him to Mrs. Chadwick with the rest of the furniture, and will have a percentage on him just as we do on the piano which is far more valuable, I have been able to look at him pleasantly." "You ought to be glad that the boarders like you," said Margery reprovingly. "They don't, as a rule; only the horrors and the elderly gentlemen approve of me. But good-by for to-day, aunty Meg. Come to the gate, Peggy dear!" The two friends walked through the orange-grove, their arms wound about each other, girl-fashion. They were silent, for each was sorry to lose the other, and a remembrance of the dear old times, the unbroken circle, the peaceful schooldays and merry vacations, stole into their young hearts, together with visions of the unknown future. As Polly untied Blanquita and gave a heroic cinch to the saddle, she gave a last searching look at Margery, and said finally, "Peggy dear, I am very sure you are blue this morning; tell your faithful old Pollykins all about it." One word was enough for Margery in her present mood, and she burst into tears on Polly's shoulder. "Is it Edgar again?" whispered Polly. "Yes," she sobbed. "Father has given him three months more to stay in the university, and unless he does better he is to come home and live on the cattle-ranch. Mother is heart-broken over it; for you know, Polly, that Edgar will never endure such a life; and yet, dearly as he loves books, he is n't doing well with his studies. The president has written father that he is very indolent this term and often absent from recitations; and one of the Santa Barbara boys, a senior, writes Philip that he is not choosing good friends, nor taking any rank in his class. Mother has written him such a letter this morning! If he can read it without turning his back upon his temptations, whatever they may he, I shall never have any pride in him again; and oh, Polly, I have been so proud of him, my brilliant, handsome, charming brother!" "Poor Edgar! I can't believe it is anything that will last. He is so bright and lovable; every one thought he would take the highest honors. Why, Margery, he is, or was, the most ambitious boy I ever knew, and surely, surely he cannot have changed altogether! Surely he will come to himself when he knows he may have to leave college unless he does his best. I 'm so sorry, dear old Peggy! It seems heartless that my brighter times should begin just when you are in trouble. Perhaps mamma and I can do something for Edgar; we will try, you may lie sure. Good-by, dearest; I shall see you again very soon." Ten days later, Polly stood on the deck of the Orizaba just at dusk, looking back on lovely Santa Barbara as it lay in the lap of the foothills freshened by the first rains. The dull, red-tiled roofs of the old Spanish adobes gleamed through the green of the pepper-trees, the tips of the tall, straggling blue-gums stood out sharply against the sky, and the twin towers of the old Mission rose in dazzling whiteness above a wilderness of verdure. The friendly faces on the wharf first merged themselves into a blurred mass of moving atoms, then sank into nothingness. Polly glanced into her stateroom. Mrs. Oliver was a good sailor, and was lying snug and warm under her blankets. So Polly took a camp-chair just outside the door, wrapped herself in her fur cape, crowded her tam-o'-shanter tightly on, and sat there alone as the sunset glow paled in the western sky and darkness fell upon the face of the deep. The mesa faded from sight; and then the lighthouse, where she had passed so many happy hours in her childhood. The bright disk of flame shone clear and steady across the quiet ocean, seeming to say, _Let your light so shine! Let your light so shine! Good luck, Polly! Keep your own lamp filled and trimmed, like a wise little virgin!_ And her heart answered, "Good-by, dear light! I am leaving my little-girl days on the shore with you, and I am out on the open sea of life. I shall know that you are shining, though I cannot see you. Good-by! Shine on, dear light! I am going to seek my fortune!" CHAPTER V. TOLD IN LETTERS. _Extracts from Polly Oliver's Correspondence._ SAN FRANCISCO, November 1, 188--. DEAR MARGERY,--I have been able to write you only scraps of notes heretofore, but now that we are quite settled I can tell you about our new home. We were at a hotel for a week, as long as I, the family banker, felt that we could, afford it. At the end of that time, by walking the streets from morning till night, looking at every house with a sign "To Let" on it, and taking mamma to see only the desirable ones, we found a humble spot to lay our heads. It is a tiny upper flat, which we rent for thirty dollars a month. The landlady calls it furnished, but she has an imagination which takes even higher flights than mine. Still, with the help of the pretty things we brought with us, we are very cosy and comfortable. There is a tiny parlor, which, with our Santa Barbara draperies, table-covers, afternoon tea-table, grasses, and books, looks like a corner of the dear home sitting-room. Out of this parlor is a sunny bedroom with two single brass bedsteads, and space enough to spare for mamma's rocking-chair in front of a window that looks out on the Golden Gate. The dining-room just holds, by a squeeze, the extension-table and four chairs; and the dot of a kitchen, with an enchanting gas-stove, completes the suite. We are dining at a restaurant a short distance off, at present, and I cook the breakfasts and luncheons; but on Monday, as mamma is so well, I begin school from nine to twelve each day under a special arrangement, and we are to have a little Chinese boy who will assist in the work and go home at night to sleep. His wages will be eight dollars a month, and the washing probably four dollars more. This, with the rent, takes forty-two dollars from our eighty-five, and it remains to be seen whether it is too much. I shall walk one way to school, although it is sixteen squares and all up and down hill. . . . The rains thus far have been mostly in the night, and we have lovely days. Mamma and I take long rides on the cable-cars in the afternoon, and stay out at the Cliff House on the rocks every pleasant Saturday. Then we 've discovered nice sheltered nooks in the sand dunes beyond the park, and there we stay for hours, mamma reading while I study. We are so quiet and so happy; we were never alone together in our lives before. You, dear Peggy, who have always had your family to yourself, can hardly think how we enjoy being at table together, just we two. I take mamma's coffee to her and kiss her on the right cheek; then follows an egg, with another kiss on the left cheek; then a bit of toast, with a bear-hug, and so on. We have a few pleasant friends here, you know, and they come to see mamma without asking her to return the calls, as they see plainly she has no strength for society. . . . POLLY. P. S. We have a remarkable front door, which opens with a spring located in the wall at the top of the stairs. It is a modern improvement and I never tire of opening it, even though each time I am obliged to go downstairs to close it again. When Dr. George came last week, he rang the bell, and being tired with the long pull up the hill, leaned against the door to breathe. Of course I knew nothing of this, and as soon as I heard the bell I flew to open the door with my usual neatness and dispatch, when who should tumble in, full length, but poor dear Dr. George! He was so surprised, and the opposite neighbors were so interested, and I was so sorry, that I was almost hysterical. Dr. George insists that the door is a trap laid for unsuspecting country people. November 9. . . . The first week is over, and the finances did n't come out right at all. I have a system of bookkeeping which is original, simple, practical, and absolutely reliable. The house-money I keep in a cigar-box with three partitions (formerly used for birds' eggs), and I divide the month's money in four parts, and pay everything weekly. The money for car-fare, clothing, and sundries I keep in an old silver sugar-bowl, and the reserve fund, which we are never to touch save on the most dreadful provocation, in a Japanese ginger-jar with a cover. These, plainly marked, repose in my upper drawer. Mamma has no business cares whatever, and everything ought to work to a charm, as it will after a while. But this first week has been discouraging, and I have had to borrow enough from compartment two, cigar-box, to pay debts incurred by compartment one, cigar-box. This is probably because we had to buy a bag of flour and ten pounds of sugar. Of course this won't happen every week. . . . I wrote Ah Foy a note after we arrived, for he really seems to have a human affection for us. I inclose his answer to my letter. It is such a miracle of Chinese construction that it is somewhat difficult to get his idea; still I think I see that he is grateful for past favors; that he misses us; that the boarders are going on "very happy and joy;" that he is glad mamma is better, and pleased with the teacher I selected for him. But here it is; judge for yourself:-- SANTA BARBARA, November 5. DEAR MY FREND. I was joy pleased to received a letter from you how are Your getting along and my Dear if your leaves a go We but now I been it is here I am very sorry for are a your go to in San Francisco if any now did you been it is that here very happy and joy I am so glad for your are to do teachers for me but I am very much thank you dear my frend. Good-By. AH FOY. November 15, . . . The first compartment, cigar-box, could n't pay back the money it borrowed from the second compartment, and so this in turn had to borrow from the third compartment. I could have made everything straight, I think, if we had n't bought a feather duster and a gallon of kerosene. The first will last forever, and the second for six weeks, so it is n't fair to call compartment number two extravagant. At the end of this month I shall remove some of the partitions in the cigar-box and keep the house-money in two parts, balancing accounts every fortnight. . . . November 24. . . . My bookkeeping is in a frightful snarl. There is neither borrowing nor lending in the cigar-box now, for all the money for the month is gone at the end of the third week. The water, it seems, was not included in the thirty dollars for the rent, and compartment three had to pay two dollars for that purpose when compartment two was still deeply in its debt. If compartment two had only met its rightful obligations, compartment three need n't have "failed up," as they say in New England; but as it is, poor compartment four is entirely bankrupt, and will have to borrow of the sugar-bowl or the ginger-jar. As these banks are not at all in the same line of business, they ought not to be drawn into the complications of the cigar-box, for they will have their own troubles by and by; but I don't know what else to do. . . . December 2. . . . It came out better at the end of the month than I feared, for we spent very little last week, and have part of the ten pounds of sugar, kerosene, feather duster, scrubbing-brush, blanc-mange mould, tapioca, sago, and spices with which to begin the next month. I suffered so with the debts, losses, business embarrassments, and failures of the four compartments that when I found I was only four dollars behind on the whole month's expenses, I knocked out all the compartments, and am not going to keep things in weeks. I made up the deficit by taking two dollars out of the reserve fund, and two dollars out of my ten-dollar gold piece that Dr. George gave me on my birthday. I have given the ginger-jar a note of hand for two dollars from the cigar-box, and it has resumed business at the old stand. Compartment four, cigar-box, which is perfectly innocent, as it was borrowed out of house and home by compartment three, also had to give a note to the sugar-bowl, and I made the ginger-jar give me a note for my two dollars birthday-money. Whether all these obligations will be met without lawsuits, I cannot tell; but I know by the masterly manner in which I have fought my way through these intricate affairs with the loss of only four dollars in four weeks, that I possess decided business ability, and this gives me courage to struggle on. December 30, 188-. . . . We are having hard times, dear old Margery, though I do not regret coming to San Francisco, for mamma could not bear the slightest noise or confusion, nor lift her hand to any sort of work, in her present condition. At any rate, we came by Dr. George's orders, so my conscience is clear. . . . Mrs. Chadwick has sent us only sixty-five dollars this month, instead of eighty-five. Some of the boarders are behind in their payments. The Darlings have gone away, and "she hopes to do better next month." Mamma cannot bear to press her, she is so kind and well-meaning; so do not for the world mention the matter to Dr. George. I will write to him when I must, not before. Meanwhile I walk to school both ways, saving a dollar and a quarter a month. Have found a cheaper laundry; one dollar more saved. Cut down fruit bill; one dollar more. Blacked my white straw sailor with shoe-blacking, trimmed it with two neckties and an old blackbird badly molted; result perfectly hideous, but the sugar-bowl, clothing, and sundry fund are out of debt and doing well. Had my faded gray dress dyed black, and trimmed the jacket with pieces of my moth-eaten cock's-feather boa; perfectly elegant, almost too gorgeous for my humble circumstances. Mamma looks at me sadly when I don these ancient garments, and almost wishes I had n't such "a wealthy look." I tell her I expect the girls to say, when I walk into the school-yard on Monday, "Who is this that cometh with dyed garments from Bozrah?" Mamma has decided that I may enter a training-school for kindergartners next year; so I am taking the studies that will give me the best preparation, and I hope to earn part of my tuition fees, when the time comes, by teaching as assistant. . . . I go over to Berkeley once a week to talk Spanish with kind Professor Salazar and his wife. They insist that it is a pleasure, and will not allow mamma to pay anything for the lessons. I also go every Tuesday to tell stories at the Children's Hospital. It is the dearest hour of the week. When I am distracted about bills and expenses and mamma's health and Mrs. Chadwick's mismanagements and Yung Lee's mistakes (for he is beautiful as an angel and stupid as a toad), I put on my hat and go out to the children, poor little things! They always have a welcome for me, bless them! and I always come back ready to take up my trials again. Edgar is waiting to take this to the post-box, so I must say good-night. He is such a pleasure to us and such a comfort to mamma. I know for the first time in my life the fun of having a brother. Ever your affectionate POLLYKINS. The foregoing extracts from Polly's business letters give you an idea only of her financial difficulties. She was tempted to pour these into one sympathizing ear, inasmuch as she kept all annoyances from her mother as far as possible; though household economies, as devised by her, lost much of their terror. Mrs. Oliver was never able to see any great sorrow in a monthly deficit when Polly seated herself before her cash-boxes and explained her highly original financial operations. One would be indeed in dire distress of mind could one refrain from smiling when, having made the preliminary announcement,--"The great feminine financier of the century is in her counting-room: let the earth tremble!"--she planted herself on the bed, oriental fashion, took pencil and account-book in lap, spread cigar-box, sugar-bowl, and ginger-jar before her on the pillows, and ruffled her hair for the approaching contest. CHAPTER VI. POLLY TRIES A LITTLE MISSIONARY WORK. One change had come over their life during these months which, although not explained in Polly's correspondence, concerns our little circle of people very intimately. The Olivers had been in San Francisco over a month, but though Edgar Noble had been advised of the fact, he had not come over from Berkeley to see his old friends. Polly had at length written him a note, which still remained unanswered when she started one afternoon on a trip across the bay for her first Spanish conversation with Professor Salazar. She had once visited the university buildings, but Professor Salazar lived not only at some distance from the college, but at some distance from everything else. Still, she had elaborate written directions in her pocket, and hoped to find the place without difficulty. She had no sooner alighted at the station than she felt an uneasy consciousness that it was not the right one, and that she should have gone farther before leaving the railway. However, there was no certainty about it in her mind, so after asking at two houses half a mile apart, and finding that the inmates had never heard of Professor Salazar's existence, she walked down a shady road, hoping to find another household where his name and fame had penetrated. The appointed hour for the lessons was half past three on Fridays, but it was after four, and Polly seemed to be walking farther and farther away from civilization. "I shall have to give it up," she thought; "I will go back to the station where I got off and wait until the next train for San Francisco comes along, which will be nobody knows when. How provoking it is, and how stupid I am! Professor Salazar will stay at home for me, and very likely Mrs. Salazar has made butter-cakes and coffee, and here am I floundering in the woods! I 'll sit down under these trees and do a bit of Spanish, while I 'm resting for the walk back." Just at this moment a chorus of voices sounded in the distance, then some loud talking, then more singing. "It is some of the students," thought Polly, as she hastily retired behind a tree until they should pass. [Illustration: "It is some of the students."] But unfortunately they did not pass. Just as they came opposite her hiding-place, they threw themselves down in a sunny spot on the opposite side of the road and lighted their cigarettes. "No hurry!" said one. "Let 's take it easy; the train does n't leave till 4.50. Where are you going, Ned?" "Home, I suppose, where I was going when you met me. I told you I could only walk to the turn." "Home? No, you don't!" expostulated half a dozen laughing voices; "we 've unearthed the would-be hermit, and we mean to keep him." "Can't go with you to-night, boys, worse luck!" repeated the second speaker. "Got to cram for that examination or be plucked again; and one more plucking will settle this child's university career!" "Oh, let the examinations go to the dickens! What 's the use?--all the same a hundred years hence. The idea of cramming Friday night! Come on!" "Can't do it, old chaps; but next time goes. See you Monday. Ta-ta!" Polly peeped cautiously from behind her tree. "I believe that voice is Edgar Noble's, or else I 'm very much mistaken. I thought of it when I first heard them singing. Yes, it is! Now, those hateful boys are going to get him into trouble!" Just at this moment four of the boys jumped from the ground and, singing vociferously-- "He won't go home any more, He won't go home any more, He won't go home any more, Way down on the Bingo farm!" rushed after young Noble, pinioned him, and brought him back. "See here, Noble," expostulated one of them, who seemed to be a commanding genius among the rest,--"see here, don't go and be a spoil-sport! What 's the matter with you? We 're going to chip in for a good dinner, go to the minstrels, and then,--oh, then we 'll go and have a game of billiards. You play so well that you won't lose anything. And if you want money, Will's flush, he 'll lend you a 'tenner.' You know there won't be any fun in it unless you 're there! We 'll get the last boat back to-night, or the first in the morning." A letter from his mother lay in Edgar's pocket,--a letter which had brought something like tears to his eyes for a moment, and over which he had vowed better things. But he yielded, nevertheless,--that it was with reluctance did n't do any particular good to anybody, though the recording angels may have made a note of it,--and strolled along with the other students, who were evidently in great glee over their triumph. Meanwhile Polly had been plotting. Her brain was not a great one, but it worked very swiftly; Dr. George called it, chaffingly, a small mind in a very active state. Scarcely stopping to think, lest her courage should not be equal to the strain of meeting six or eight young men face to face, she stepped softly out of her retreat, walked gently down the road, and when she had come within ten feet of the group, halted, and, clearing her throat desperately, said, "I beg your pardon"-- The whole party turned with one accord, a good deal of amazement in their eyes, as there had not been a sign of life in the road a moment before, and now here was a sort of woodland sprite, a "nut-brown mayde," with a remarkably sweet voice. "I beg your pardon, but can you tell me the way to Professor Salazar's house? Why" (this with a charming smile and expression as of one having found an angel of deliverance),--"why, it is--is n't it?--Edgar Noble of Santa Barbara!" Edgar, murmuring "Polly Oliver, by Jove!" lifted his hat at once, and saying, "Excuse me, boys," turned back and, gallantly walked at Polly's side. "Why, Miss Polly, this is an unexpected way of meeting you!" ("Very unexpected," thought Polly.) "Is it not, indeed? I wrote you a note the other day, telling you that we hoped to see you soon in San Francisco." "Yes," said Edgar; "I did n't answer it because I intended to present myself in person to-morrow or Sunday. What are you doing in this vicinity?" he continued, "or, to put it poetically, "Pray why are you loitering here, pretty maid?" "No wonder you ask. I am 'floundering,' at present. I came over to a Spanish lesson at Professor Salazar's, and I have quite lost my way. If you will be kind enough to put me on the right road I shall be very much obliged, though I don't like to keep you from your friends," said Polly, with a quizzical smile. "You see the professor won't know why I missed my appointment, and I can't bear to let him think me capable of neglect; he has been so very kind." "But you can't walk there. You must have gotten off at the wrong station; it is quite a mile, even across the fields." "And what is a mile, sir? Have you forgotten that I am a country girl?" and she smiled up at him brightly, with a look that challenged remembrance. "I remember that you could walk with any of us," said Edgar, thinking how the freckles had disappeared from Polly's rose-leaf skin, and how particularly fetching she looked in her brown felt sailor-hat. "Well, if you really wish to go there, I 'll see you safely to the house and take you over to San Francisco afterward, as it will be almost dark. I was going over, at any rate, and one train earlier or later won't make any difference." ("Perhaps it won't and perhaps it will," thought Polly.) "If you are sure it won't be too much trouble, then"-- "Not a bit. Excuse me a moment while I run back and explain the matter to the boys." The boys did not require any elaborate explanation. Oh, the power of a winsome face! No better than many other good things, but surely one of them, and when it is united to a fair amount of goodness, something to be devoutly thankful for. It is to be feared that if a lumpish, dumpish sort of girl (good as gold, you know, but not suitable for occasions when a fellow's will has to be caught "on the fly," and held until it settles to its work),--if that lumpish, dumpish girl had asked the way to Professor Salazar's house, Edgar Noble would have led her courteously to the turn of the road, lifted his hat, and wished her a pleasant journey. But Polly was wearing her Sunday dress of brown cloth and a jaunty jacket trimmed with sable (the best bits of an old pelisse of Mrs. Oliver's). The sun shone on the loose-dropping coil of the waving hair that was only caught in place by a tortoise-shell arrow; the wind blew some of the dazzling tendrils across her forehead; the eyes that glanced up from under her smart little sailor-hat were as blue as sapphires; and Edgar, as he looked, suddenly feared that there might be vicious bulls in the meadows, and did n't dare as a gentleman to trust Polly alone! He had n't remembered anything special about her, but after an interval of two years she seemed all at once as desirable as dinner, as tempting as the minstrels, almost as fascinating as the billiards, when one has just money enough in one's pocket for one's last week's bills and none at all for the next! The boys, as I say, had imagined Edgar's probable process of reasoning. Polly was standing in the highroad where "a wayfaring man, though a fool," could look at her; and when Edgar explained that it was his duty to see her safely to her destination, they all bowed to the inevitable. The one called Tony even said that he would be glad to "swap" with him, and the whole party offered to support him in his escort duty if he said the word. He agreed to meet the boys later, as Polly's quick ear assured her, and having behaved both as a man of honor and knight of chivalry, he started unsuspectingly across the fields with his would-be guardian. She darted a searching look at him as they walked along. "Oh, how old and 'gentlemanly' you look, Edgar! I feel quite afraid of you!" "I 'm glad you do. There used to be a painful lack of reverence in your manners, Miss Polly." "There used to be a painful lack of politeness in yours, Mr. Edgar. Oh dear, I meant to begin so nicely with you and astonish you with my new grown-up manners! Now, Edgar, let us begin as if we had just been introduced; if you will try your best not to be provoking, I won't say a single disagreeable thing." "Polly, shall I tell you the truth?" "You might try; it would be good practice even if you did n't accomplish anything." "How does that remark conform with your late promises? However, I 'll be forgiving and see if I receive any reward; I 've tried every other line of action. What I was going to say when you fired that last shot was this: I agree with Jack Howard, who used to say that he would rather quarrel with you than be friends with any other girl." "It is nice," said Polly complacently. "I feel a sort of pleasant glow myself, whenever I 've talked to you a few minutes; but the trouble is that you used to fan that pleasant glow into a raging heat, and then we both got angry." "If the present 'raging heat' has faded into the 'pleasant glow,' I don't mind telling you that you are very much improved," said Edgar encouragingly. "Your temper seems much the same, but no one who knew you at fourteen could have foreseen that you would turn out so exceedingly well." "Do you mean that I am better looking?" asked Polly, with the excited frankness of sixteen years. "Exactly." "Oh, thank you, thank you, Edgar. I 'm a thousand times obliged. I 've thought so myself, lately; but it's worth everything to have your grown-up, college opinion. Of course red hair has come into vogue, that's one point in my favor, though I fear mine is a little vivid even for the fashion; Margery has done a water color of my head which Phil says looks like the explosion of a tomato. Then my freckles are almost gone, and that is a great help; if you examine me carefully in this strong light you can only count seven, and two of those are getting faint-hearted. Nothing can be done with my aspiring nose. I 've tried in vain to push it down, and now I 'm simply living it down." Edgar examined her in the strong light mischievously. "Turn your profile," he said. "That's right; now, do you know, I rather like your nose, and it's a very valuable index to your disposition. I don't know whether, if it were removed from your face, it would mean so much; but taken in connection with its surroundings, it's a very expressive feature; it warns the stranger to be careful. In fact, most of your features are danger signals, Polly; I 'm rather glad I 've been taking a course of popular medical lectures on First Aid to the Injured!" And so, with a great deal of nonsense and a good sprinkling of quiet, friendly chat, they made their way to Professor Salazar's house, proffered Polly's apologies, and took the train for San Francisco. CHAPTER VII. "WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS." The trip from Berkeley to San Francisco was a brilliant success from Edgar's standpoint, but Polly would have told you that she never worked harder in her life. "I 'll just say 'How do you do?' to your mother, and then be off," said Edgar, as they neared the house. "Oh, but you surely will stay to dinner with us!" said Polly, with the most innocent look of disappointment on her face,--a look of such obvious grief that a person of any feeling could hardly help wishing to remove it, if possible. "You see, Edgar" (putting the latch-key in the door), "mamma is so languid and ill that she cannot indulge in many pleasures, and I had quite counted on you to amuse her a little for me this evening. But come up, and you shall do as you like after dinner." "I 've brought you a charming surprise, mamacita!" called Polly from the stairs: "an old friend whom I picked up in the woods like a wild-flower and brought home to you." ("Wild-flower is a good name for him," she thought.) Mrs. Oliver was delighted to see Edgar, but after the first greetings were over, Polly fancied that she had not closed the front door, and Edgar offered to go down and make sure. In a second Polly crossed the room to her mother's side, and whispered impressively, "Edgar _must_ be kept here until after midnight; I have good reasons that I will explain when we are alone. Keep him somehow,--anyhow!" Mrs. Oliver had not lived sixteen years with Polly without learning to leap to conclusions. "Run down and ask Mrs. Howe if she will let us have her hall-bedroom tonight," she replied; "nod your head for yes when you come back, and I 'll act accordingly; I have a request to make of Edgar, and am glad to have so early an opportunity of talking with him." "We did close the door, after all," said Edgar, coming in again. "What a pretty little apartment you have here! I have n't seen anything so cosy and homelike for ages." "Then make yourself at home in it," said Mrs. Oliver, while Polly joined in with, "Is n't that a pretty fire in the grate? I 'll give you one rose-colored lamp with your firelight. Here, mamacita, is the rocker for you on one side; here, Edgar, is our one 'man's chair' for you on the other. Stretch out your feet as lazily as you like on my new goatskin rug. You are our only home-friend in San Francisco; and oh, how mamma will spoil you whenever she has the chance! Now talk to each other cosily while the 'angel of the house' cooks dinner." It may be mentioned here that as Mrs. Chadwick's monthly remittances varied from sixty to seventy-five dollars, but never reached the promised eighty-five, Polly had dismissed little Yung Lee for a month, two weeks of which would be the Christmas vacation, and hoped in this way to make up deficiencies. The sugar-bowl and ginger-jar were stuffed copiously with notes of hand signed "Cigar-box," but held a painfully small amount of cash. "Can't I go out and help Polly?" asked Edgar, a little later. "I should never have agreed to stay and dine if I had known that she was the cook." "Go out, by all means; but you need n't be anxious. Ours is a sort of doll-house-keeping. We buy everything cooked, as far as possible, and Polly makes play of the rest. It all seems so simple and interesting to plan for two when we have been used to twelve and fourteen." "May I come in?" called Edgar from the tiny dining-room to Polly, who had laid aside her Sunday finery and was clad in brown Scotch gingham mostly covered with ruffled apron. "Yes, if you like; but you won't be spoiled here, so don't hope it. Mamma and I are two very different persons. Tie that apron round your waist; I 've just begun the salad-dressing; is your intelligence equal to stirring it round and round and pouring in oil drop by drop, while I take up the dinner?" "Fully. Just try me. I 'll make it stand on its head in three minutes!" Meanwhile Polly set on the table a platter of lamb-chops, some delicate potato chips which had come out of a pasteboard box, a dish of canned French peas, and a mound of currant-jelly. "That is good," she remarked critically, coming back to her apprentice, who was toiling with most unnecessary vigor, so that the veins stood out boldly on his forehead. "You're really not stupid, for a boy; and you have n't 'made a mess,' which is more than I hoped. Now, please pour the dressing over those sliced tomatoes; set them on the side-table in the banquet-hall; put the plate in the sink (don't stare at me!); open a bottle of Apollinaris for mamma,--dig out the cork with a hairpin, I 've lost the corkscrew; move three chairs up to the dining-table (oh, it's so charming to have three!); light the silver candlesticks in the centre of the table; go in and bring mamma out in style; see if the fire needs coal; and I'll be ready by that time." "I can never remember, but I fly! Oh, what an excellent slave-driver was spoiled in you!" said Edgar. The simple dinner was delicious, and such a welcome change from the long boarding-house table at which Edgar had eaten for over a year. The candles gave a soft light; there was a bowl of yellow flowers underneath them. Mrs. Oliver looked like an elderly Dresden-china shepherdess in her pale blue wrapper, and Polly did n't suffer from the brown gingham, with its wide collar and cuffs of buff embroidery, and its quaint full sleeves. She had burned two small blisters on her wrist: they were scarcely visible to the naked eye, but she succeeded in obtaining as much sympathy for them as if they had been mortal wounds. Her mother murmured 'Poor darling wrist' and 'kissed the place to make it well.' Edgar found a bit of thin cambric and bound up the injured member with cooling flour, Mistress Polly looking demurely on, thinking meanwhile how much safer he was with them than with the objectionable Tony. After the lamb-chops and peas had been discussed, Edgar insisted on changing the plates and putting on the tomato salad; then Polly officiated at the next course, bringing in coffee, sliced oranges, and delicious cake from the neighboring confectioner's. "Can't I wash the dishes?" asked Edgar, when the feast was ended. "They are not going to be washed, at least by us. This is a great occasion, and the little girl downstairs is coming up to clear away the dinner things." Then there was the pleasant parlor again, and when the candles were lighted in the old-fashioned mirror over the fireplace, everything wore a festive appearance. The guitar was brought out, and Edgar sang college songs till Mrs. Oliver grew so bright that she even hummed a faint second from her cosy place on the sofa. And then Polly must show Edgar how she had made Austin Dobson's "Milkmaid Song" fit "Nelly Ely," and she must teach him the pretty words. "Across the grass, I saw her pass, She comes with tripping pace; A maid I know, And March winds blow Her hair across her face. Hey! Dolly! Ho! Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May Or blooms the eglantine." By this time the bandage had come off the burned wrist, and Edgar must bind it on again, and Polly shrieked and started when he pinned the end over, and Edgar turned pale at the thought of his brutal awkwardness, and Polly burst into a ringing peal of laughter and confessed that the pin had n't touched her, and Edgar called her a deceitful little wretch. This naturally occupied some time, and then there was the second verse:-- "The March winds blow, I watch her go, Her eye is blue and clear; Her cheek is brown And soft as down To those who see it near. Hey! Dolly! Ho! Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May Or blooms the eglantine." After this singing-lesson was over it was nearly eleven o'clock, but up to this time Edgar had shown no realizing sense of his engagements. "The dinner is over, and the theatre party is safe," thought Polly. "Now comes the 'tug of war,' that mysterious game of billiards." But Mrs. Oliver was equal to the occasion. When Edgar looked at his watch, she said: "Polly, run and get Mrs. Noble's last letter, dear;" and then, when she was alone with Edgar, "My dear boy, I have a favor to ask of you, and you must be quite frank if it is not convenient for you to grant it. As to-morrow will be Saturday, perhaps you have no recitations, and if not, would it trouble you too much to stay here all night and attend to something for me in the morning? I will explain the matter, and then you can answer me more decidedly. I have received a letter from a Washington friend who seems to think it possible that a pension may be granted to me. He sends a letter of introduction to General M------, at the Presidio, who, he says, knew Colonel Oliver, and will be able to advise me in the matter. I am not well enough to go there for some days, and of course I do not like to send Polly alone. If you could go out with her, give him the letter of introduction, and ask him kindly to call upon us at his leisure, and find out also if there is any danger in a little delay just now while I am ill, it would be a very great favor." "Of course I will, with all the pleasure in life, Mrs. Oliver," replied Edgar, with the unspoken thought, "Confound it! There goes my game; I promised the fellows to be there, and they 'll guy me for staying away! However, there 's nothing else to do. I should n't have the face to go out now and come in at one or two o'clock in the morning." Polly entered just then with the letter. "Edgar is kind enough to stay all night with us, dear, and take you to the Presidio on the pension business in the morning. If you will see that his room is all right, I will say good-night now. Our guest-chamber is downstairs, Edgar; I hope you will be very comfortable. Breakfast at half past eight, please." When the door of Mrs. Howe's bedroom closed on Edgar, Polly ran upstairs, and sank exhausted on her own bed. "Now, mamma, 'listen to my tale of woe!' I got off at the wrong station,--yes, it was stupid; but wait: perhaps I was led to be stupid. I lost my way, could n't find Professor Salazar's house, could n't find anything else. As I was wandering about in a woodsy road, trying to find a house of some kind, I heard a crowd of boys singing vociferously as they came through the trees. I did n 't care to meet them, all alone as I was, though of course there was nothing to be afraid of, so I stepped off the road behind some trees and bushes until they should pass. It turned out to be half a dozen university students, and at first I did n't know that Edgar was among them. They were teasing somebody to go over to San Francisco for a dinner, then to the minstrels, and then to wind up with a game of billiards, and other gayeties which were to be prolonged indefinitely. What dreadful things may have been included I don't know. A wretch named 'Tony' did most of the teasing, and he looked equal to planning any sort of mischief. All at once I thought I recognized a familiar voice. I peeped out, and sure enough it was Edgar Noble whom they were coaxing. He did n't want to go a bit,--I 'll say that for him,--but they were determined that he should. I didn't mind his going to dinners and minstrels, of course, but when they spoke of being out until after midnight, or to-morrow morning, and when one beetle-browed, vulgar-looking creature offered to lend him a 'tenner,' I thought of the mortgage on the Noble ranch, and the trouble there would be if Edgar should get into debt, and I felt I must do something to stop him, especially as he said himself that everything depended on his next examinations." "But how did you accomplish it?" asked Mrs. Oliver, sitting up in bed and glowing with interest. "They sat down by the roadside, smoking and talking it over. There was n't another well-born, well-bred looking young man in the group. Edgar seemed a prince among them, and I was so ashamed of him for having such friends! I was afraid they would stay there until dark, but they finally got up and walked toward the station. I waited a few moments, went softly along behind them, and when I was near enough I cleared my throat (oh, it was a fearful moment!), and said, 'I beg your pardon, but can you direct me to Professor Salazar's house?' and then in a dramatic tone, 'Why, it is--is n't it?--Edgar Noble of Santa Barbara!' He joined me, of course. Oh, I can't begin to tell you all the steps of the affair, I am so exhausted. Suffice it to say that he walked to Professor Salazar's with me to make my excuses, came over to town with me, came up to the house, I trembling for fear he would slip through my fingers at any moment; then, you know, he stayed to dinner, I in terror all the time as the fatal hours approached and departed; and there he is, 'the captive of my bow and spear,' tucked up in Mrs. Howe's best bed, thanks to your ingenuity! I could never have devised that last plot, mamma; it was a masterpiece!" "You did a kind deed, little daughter," said Mrs. Oliver, with a kiss. "But poor Mrs. Noble! What can we do for her? We cannot play policemen all the time. We are too far from Edgar to know his plans, and any interference of which he is conscious would be worse than nothing. I cannot believe that he is far wrong yet. He certainly never appeared better; so polite and thoughtful and friendly. Well, we must let the morrow bring counsel." "I hope that smirking, odious Tony is disappointed!" said Polly viciously, as she turned out the gas. "I distinctly heard him tell Edgar to throw a handkerchief over my hair if we should pass any wild cattle! How I 'd like to banish him from this vicinity! Invite Edgar to dinner next week, mamma; not too soon, or he will suspect missionary work. Boys hate to be missionaried, and I 'm sure I don't blame them. I hope he is happy downstairs in his little prison! He ought to be, if ignorance is bliss!" CHAPTER VIII. TWO FIRESIDE CHATS. It was five o'clock Saturday afternoon, and Edgar Noble stood on the Olivers' steps, Mrs. Oliver waving her hand from an upper window, and Polly standing on the stairs saying good-by. "Come over to dinner some night, won't you, Edgar?" she asked carelessly; "any night you like, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday." "Wednesday, please, as it comes first!" said Edgar roguishly. "May I help cook it?" "You not only may, but you must. Good-by." Polly went upstairs, and, after washing the lunch-dishes in a reflective turn of mind which did away with part of the irksomeness of the task, went into the parlor and sat on a stool at her mother's feet. A soft rain had begun to fall; the fire burned brightly; the bamboo cast feathery shadows on the wall; from a house across the street came the sound of a beautiful voice singing,-- "Oh, holy night! the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth!" All was peaceful and homelike; if it would only last, thought Polly. "You are well to-night, mamacita." A look of repressed pain crossed Mrs. Oliver's face as she smoothed the bright head lying in her lap. "Very comfortable, dear, and very happy; as who would not be, with such a darling comfort of a daughter? Always sunny, always helpful, these last dear weeks,--cook, housekeeper, nurse, banker, all in one, with never a complaint as one burden after another is laid on her willing shoulders." "Don't, mamma!" whispered Polly, seeking desperately for her handkerchief. "I can stand scolding, but compliments always make me cry; you know they do. If Ferdinand and Isabella had told Columbus to discover my pocket instead of America, he would n't have been as famous as he is now; there, I 've found it. Now, mamma, you know your whole duty is to be well, well, well, and I 'll take care of everything else." "I 've been thinking about Edgar, Polly, and I have a plan, but I shall not think of urging it against your will; you are the mistress of the house nowadays." "I know what it is," sighed Polly. "You think we ought to take another boarder. A desire for boarders is like a taste for strong drink; once acquired, it is almost impossible to eradicate it from the system." "I do think we ought to take this boarder. Not because it will make a difference in our income, but I am convinced that if Edgar can have a pleasant home and our companionship just at this juncture, he will break away from his idle habits, and perhaps his bad associations, and take a fresh start. I feel that we owe it to our dear old friends to do this for them, if we can. Of course, if it proves too great a tax upon you, or if I should have another attack of illness, it will be out of the question; but who knows? perhaps two or three months will accomplish our purpose. He can pay me whatever he has been paying in Berkeley, less the amount of his fare to and fro. We might have little Yung Lee again, and Mrs. Howe will be glad to rent her extra room. It has a fireplace, and will serve for both bedroom and study, if we add a table and student-lamp." "I don't believe he will come," said Polly. "We are all very well as a diversion, but as a constancy we should pall upon him. I never could keep up to the level I have been maintaining for the last twenty-four hours, that is certain. It is nothing short of degradation to struggle as hard to amuse a boy as I have struggled to amuse Edgar. I don't believe he could endure such exhilaration week after week, and I am very sure it would kill me. Besides, he will fancy he is going to be watched and reported at headquarters in Santa Barbara!" "I think very likely you are right; but perhaps I can put the matter so that it will strike him in some other light." "Very well, mamacita; I 'm resigned. It will break up all our nice little two-ing, but we will be his guardian angel. I will be his guardian and you his angel, and oh, how he would dislike it if he knew it! But wait until odious Mr. Tony meets him to-night! What business is it of his if my hair is red! When he chaffs him for breaking his appointment, I dare say we shall never see him again." "You are so jolly comfortable here! This house is the next best thing to mother," said Edgar, with boyish heartiness, as he stood on the white goatskin with his back to the Olivers' cheerful fireplace. It was Wednesday evening of the next week. Polly was clearing away the dinner things, and Edgar had been arranging Mrs. Oliver's chair and pillows and footstool like the gentle young knight he was by nature. What wonder that all the fellows, even "smirking Tony," liked him and sought his company? He who could pull an oar, throw a ball, leap a bar, ride a horse, or play a game of skill as if he had been born for each particular occupation,--what wonder that the ne'er-do-wells and idlers and scamps and dullards battered at his door continually and begged him to leave his books and come out and "stir up things"! "If you think it is so 'jolly,'" said Mrs. Oliver, "how would you like to come here and live with us awhile?" This was a bombshell. The boy hesitated naturally, being taken quite by surprise. ("Confound it!" he thought rapidly, "how shall I get out of this scrape without being impolite! They would n't give me one night out a week if I came!") "I 'd like it immensely, you know," he said aloud, "and it's awfully kind of you to propose it, and I appreciate it, but I don't think--I don't see, that is, how I could come, Mrs. Oliver. In the first place, I 'm quite sure my home people would dislike my intruding on your privacy; and then,--well, you know I am out in the evening occasionally, and should n't like to disturb you, besides, I 'm sure Miss Polly has her hands full now." "Of course you would be often out in the evening, though I don't suppose you are a 'midnight reveler.' You would simply have a latch-key and go out and come in as you liked. Mrs. Howe's room is very pleasant, as you know; and you could study there before your open fire, and join us when you felt like it. Is it as convenient and pleasant for you to live on this side of the bay, and go back and forth?" "Oh yes! I don't mind that part of it." ("This is worse than the Inquisition; I don't know but that she will get me in spite of everything!") "Oh dear!" thought Mrs. Oliver, "he does n't want to come; and I don't want him to come, and I must urge him to come against his will. How very disagreeable missionary work is, to be sure! I sympathize with him, too. He is afraid of petticoat government, and fears that he will lose some of his precious liberty. If I had fifty children, I believe I should want them all girls." "Besides, dear Mrs. Oliver," continued Edgar, after an awkward pause, "I don't think you are strong enough to have me here. I believe you 're only proposing it for my good. You know that I 'm in a forlorn students' boarding-house, and you are anxious to give me 'all the comforts of a home' for my blessed mother's sake, regardless of your own discomforts." "Come here a moment and sit beside me on Polly's footstool. You were nearly three years old when Polly was born. You were all staying with me that summer. Did you know that you were my first boarders? You were a tiny fellow in kilts, very much interested in the new baby, and very anxious to hold her. I can see you now rocking the cradle as gravely as a man. Polly has hard times and many sorrows before her, Edgar! You are old enough to see that I cannot stay with her much longer." Edgar was too awed and too greatly moved to answer. "I should be very glad to have you with us, both because I think we could in some degree take the place of your mother and Margery, and because I should be glad to feel that in any sudden emergency, which I do not in the least expect, we should have a near friend to lean upon ever so little." Edgar's whole heart went out in a burst of sympathy and manly tenderness. In that moment he felt willing to give up every personal pleasure, if he might lift a feather's weight of care from the fragile woman who spoke to him with such sweetness and trust. For there is nothing hopeless save meanness and poverty of nature; and any demand on Edgar Noble's instinct of chivalrous protection would never be discounted. "I will come gladly, gladly, Mrs. Oliver," he said, "if only I can be of service; though I fear it will be all the other way. Please borrow me for a son, just to keep me in training, and I 'll try to bear my honors worthily." "Thank you, dear boy. Then it is settled, if you are sure that the living in the city will not interfere with your studies; that is the main thing. We all look to you to add fresh laurels to your old ones. Are you satisfied with your college life thus far?" ("They have n't told her anything. That 's good," thought Edgar.) "Oh yes; fairly well! I don't--I don't go in for being a 'dig,' Mrs. Oliver. I shall never be the valedictorian, and all that sort of thing; it does n't pay. Who ever hears of valedictorians twenty years after graduation? Class honors don't amount to much." "I suppose they can be overestimated; but they must prove some sort of excellence which will stand one in good stead in after years. I should never advise a boy or girl to work for honors alone; but if after doing one's very best the honors come naturally, they are very pleasant." "Half the best scholars in our class are prigs," said Edgar discontentedly. "Always down on the live fellows who want any sport. Sometimes I wish I had never gone to college at all. Unless you deny yourself every pleasure, and live the life of a hermit, you can't take any rank. My father expects me to get a hundred and one per cent. in every study, and thinks I ought to rise with the lark and go to bed with the chickens. I don't know whether he ever sowed any wild oats; if he did, it was so long ago that he has quite forgotten I must sow mine some time. He ought to be thankful they are such a harmless sort." "I don't understand boys very well," said Mrs. Oliver smilingly. "You see, I never have had any to study, and you must teach me a few things. Now, about this matter of wild oats. Why is it so necessary that they should be sown? Is Margery sowing hers? I don't know that Polly feels bound to sow any." "I dare say they are not necessities," laughed Edgar, coloring. "Perhaps they are only luxuries." Mrs. Oliver looked at the fire soberly. "I know there may be plenty of fine men who have a discreditable youth to look back upon,--a youth finally repented of and atoned for; but that is rather a weary process, I should think, and they are surely no stronger men _because_ of the 'wild oats,' but rather in _spite_ of them." "I suppose so," sighed Edgar; "but it's so easy for women to be good! I know you were born a saint, to begin with. You don't know what it is to be in college, and to want to do everything that you can't and ought n't, and nothing that you can and ought, and get all tangled up in things you never meant to touch. However, we 'll see!" Polly peeped in at the door very softly. "They have n't any light; that 's favorable. He 's sitting on my footstool; he need n't suppose he is going to have _that_ place! I think she has her hand on his arm,--yes, she has! And he is stroking it! Oh, you poor innocent child, you do not realize that that soft little hand of my mother's never lets go! It slips into a five and three-quarters glove, but you 'll be surprised, Mr. Edgar, when you discover you cannot get away from it. Very well, then; it is settled. I 'll go back and put the salt fish in soak for my boarder's breakfast. I seem to have my hands rather full!--a house to keep, an invalid mother, and now a boarder. The very thing I vowed that I never would have--another boarder; what grandmamma would have called an 'unstiddy boy boarder!" And as Polly clattered the pots and pans, the young heathen in the parlor might have heard her fresh voice singing with great energy: "Shall we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high,-- Shall we to men benighted The lamp of life deny?" CHAPTER IX. HARD TIMES. The new arrangement worked exceedingly well. As to Edgar's innermost personal feelings, no one is qualified to speak with any authority. Whether he experienced a change of heart, vowed better things, prayed to be delivered from temptation, or simply decided to turn over a new leaf, no one knows; the principal fact in his life, at this period, seems to have been an unprecedented lack of time for any great foolishness. Certain unpleasant things had transpired on that eventful Friday night when he had missed his appointment with his fellow-students, which had resulted in an open scandal too disagreeable to be passed over by the college authorities; the redoubtable Tony had been returned with thanks to his fond parents in a distant part of the state, and two others had been temporarily suspended. Edgar Noble was not too blind to see the happy chance that interfered with his presence on that occasion, and was sensible enough to realize that, had he been implicated in the least degree (he scorned the possibility of his taking any active part in such scurrilous proceedings), he would probably have shared Tony's fate. Existence was wearing a particularly dismal aspect on that afternoon when Edgar had met Polly Oliver in the Berkeley woods. He felt "nagged," injured, blue, out of sorts with fate. He had not done anything very bad, he said to himself; at least, nothing half so bad as lots of other fellows, and yet everybody frowned on him. His father had, in his opinion, been unnecessarily severe; while his mother and sister had wept over him (by letter) as if he were a thief and a forger, instead of a fellow who was simply having a "little fling." He was annoyed at the conduct of Scott Burton,--"king of snobs and prigs," he named him,--who had taken it upon himself to inform Philip Noble of his (Edgar's) own personal affairs; and he was enraged at being preached at by that said younger brother. But of late everything had taken an upward turn, and by way of variety, existence turned a smiling face toward him. He had passed his examinations, most unexpectedly to himself, with a respectable percentage to spare. There was a time when he would have been ashamed of this meagre result. He was now, just a little, but the feeling was somewhat submerged in his gratitude at having "squeaked through" at all. A certain inspired Professor Hope, who wondered what effect encouragement would have on a fellow who did n't deserve any, but might possibly need it, came up to him after recitations, one day, and said:-- "Noble, I want to congratulate you on your papers in history and physics. They show signal ability. There is a plentiful lack of study evinced, but no want of grasp or power. You have talents that ought to put you among the first three men in the University, sir. I do not know whether you care to take the trouble to win such a place (it _is_ a good deal of trouble), but you can win it if you like. That's all I have to say, Noble. Good-morning!" This unlooked-for speech fell like balm on Edgar's wounded self-respect, and made him hold his head higher for a week; and, naturally, while his head occupied this elevated position, he was obliged to live up to it. He also felt obliged to make an effort, rather reluctantly, to maintain some decent standing in the classes of Professor Hope, even if he shirked in all the rest. And now life, on the whole, save for one carking care that perched on his shoulder by day and sat on his eyelids at night, was very pleasant; though he could not flatter himself that he was absolutely a free agent. After all ordinary engagements of concerts, theatres, lectures, or what not, he entered the house undisturbed, and noiselessly sought his couch. But one night, when he ventured to stay out till after midnight, just as he was stealing in softly, Mrs. Oliver's gentle voice came from the head of the stairs, saying, "Good-night, Edgar, the lamp is lighted in your room!" Edgar closed his door and sat down disconsolately on the bed, cane in hand, hat on the back of his head. The fire had burned, to a few glowing coals; his slippers lay on the hearth, and his Christmas "easy jacket" hung over the back of his great armchair; his books lay open under the student-lamp, and there were two vases of fresh flowers in the room: that was Polly's doing. "Mrs. Oliver was awake and listening for me; worrying about me, probably; I dare say she thought I 'd been waylaid by bandits," he muttered discontentedly. "I might as well live in the Young Women's Christian Association! I can't get mad with an angel, but I did n't intend being one myself! Good gracious! why don't they hire me a nurse and buy me a perambulator!" But all the rest was perfect; and his chief chums envied him after they had spent an evening with the Olivers. Polly and he had ceased to quarrel, and were on good, frank, friendly terms. "She is no end of fun," he would have told you; "has no nonsensical young-lady airs about her, is always ready for sport, sings all kinds of songs from grave to gay, knows a good joke when you tell one, and keeps a fellow up to the mark as well as a maiden aunt." All this was delightful to everybody concerned. Meanwhile the household affairs were as troublesome as they could well be. Mrs. Oliver developed more serious symptoms, and Dr. George asked the San Francisco physician to call to see her twice a week at least. The San Francisco physician thought "a year at Carlsbad, and a year at Nice, would be a good thing;" but, failing these, he ordered copious quantities of expensive drugs, and the reserve fund shrank, though the precious three hundred and twelve dollars was almost intact. Poor Mrs. Chadwick sent tearful monthly letters, accompanied by checks of fifty to sixty-five dollars. One of the boarders had died; two had gone away; the season was poor; Ah Foy had returned to China; Mr. Greenwood was difficult about his meals; the roof leaked; provisions were dear; Mrs. Holmes in the next street had decided to take boarders; Eastern people were grumbling at the weather, saying it was not at all as reported in the guide-books; real-estate and rents were very low; she hoped to be able to do better next month; and she was Mrs. Oliver's "affectionate Clementine Churchill Chadwick." Polly had held a consultation with the principal of her school, who had assured her that as she was so well in advance of her class, she could be promoted the next term, if she desired. Accordingly, she left school in order to be more with her mother, and as she studied with Edgar in the evening, she really lost nothing. Mrs. Howe remitted four dollars from the monthly rent, in consideration of Spanish lessons given to her two oldest children. This experiment proved a success, and Polly next accepted an offer to come three times a week to the house of a certain Mrs. Baer to amuse (instructively) the four little Baer cubs, while the mother Baer wrote a "History of the Dress-Reform Movement in English-Speaking Nations." For this service Polly was paid ten dollars a month in gold coin, while the amount of spiritual wealth which she amassed could not possibly be estimated in dollars and cents. The ten dollars was very useful, for it procured the services of a kind, strong woman, who came on these three afternoons of Polly's absence, put the entire house in order, did the mending, rubbed Mrs. Oliver's tired back, and brushed her hair until she fell asleep. So Polly assisted in keeping the wolf from the door, and her sacrifices watered her young heart and kept it tender. "Money may always be a beautiful thing. It is we who make it grimy." Edgar shared in the business conferences now. He had gone into convulsions of mirth over Polly's system of accounts, and insisted, much against her will, in teaching her book-keeping, striving to convince her that the cash could be kept in a single box, and the accounts separated in a book. These lessons were merry occasions, for there was a conspicuous cavity in Polly's brain where the faculty for mathematics should have been. "Your imbecility is so unusual that it 's a positive inspiration," Edgar would say. "It is n't like any ordinary stupidity; there does n't seem to be any bottom to it, you know; it 's abnormal, it 's fascinating, Polly!" Polly glowed under this unstinted praise. "I am glad you like it," she said. "I always like to have a thing first-class of its kind, though I can't pride myself that it compares with your Spanish accent, Edgar; that stands absolutely alone and unapproachable for badness. I don't worry about my mathematical stupidity a bit since I read Dr. Holmes, who says that everybody has an idiotic area in his mind." There had been very little bookkeeping to-night. It was raining in torrents. Mrs. Oliver was talking with General M---- in the parlor, while Edgar and Polly were studying in the dining-room. Polly laid down her book and leaned back in her chair. It had been a hard day, and it was very discouraging that a new year should come to one's door laden with vexations and anxieties, when everybody naturally expected new years to be happy, through January and February at least. "Edgar," she sighed plaintively, "I find that this is a very difficult world to live in, sometimes." Edgar looked up from his book, and glanced at her as she lay back with closed eyes in the Chinese lounging-chair. She was so pale, so tired, and so very, very pretty just then, her hair falling in bright confusion round her face, her whole figure relaxed with weariness, and her lips quivering a little, as if she would like to cry if she dared. Polly with dimples playing hide and seek in rosy cheeks, with dazzling eyes, and laughing lips, and saucy tongue, was sufficiently captivating; but Polly with bright drops on her lashes, with a pathetic droop in the corners of her mouth and the suspicion of a tear in her voice,--this Polly was irresistible. "What's the matter, pretty Poll?" "Nothing specially new. The Baer cubs were naughty as little demons to-day. One of them had a birthday-party yesterday, with four kinds of frosted cake. Mrs. Baer's system of management is n't like mine, and until I convince the children I mean what I say, they give me the benefit of the doubt. The Baer place is so large that Mrs. Baer never knows where disobedience may occur, and that she may be prepared she keeps one of Mr. Baer's old slippers on the front porch, one in the carriage-house, one in the arbor, one in the nursery, and one under the rose hedge at the front gate. She showed me all these haunts, and told me to make myself thoroughly at home. I felt tempted to-day, but I resisted." "You are working too hard, Polly. I propose we do something about Mrs. Chadwick. You are bearing all the brunt of other people's faults and blunders." "But, Edgar, everything is so mixed: Mrs. Chadwick's year of lease is n't over; I suppose she cannot be turned out by main force, and if we should ask her to leave the house it might go unrented for a month or two, and the loss of that money might be as much as the loss of ten or fifteen dollars a month for the rest of the year. I could complain of her to Dr. George, but there again I am in trouble. If he knew that we are in difficulties, he would offer to lend us money in an instant, and that would make mamma ill, I am sure; for we are under all sorts of obligations to him now, for kindnesses that can never be repaid. Then, too, he advised us not to let Mrs. Chadwick have the house. He said that she had n't energy enough to succeed; but mamma was so sorry for her, and so determined to give her a chance, that she persisted in letting her have it. We shall have to find a cheaper flat, by and by, for I 've tried every other method of economizing, for fear of making mamma worse with the commotion of moving." CHAPTER X. EDGAR GOES TO CONFESSION. "I 'm afraid I make it harder, Polly, and you and your mother must be frank with me, and turn me out of the Garden of Eden the first moment I become a nuisance. Will you promise?" "You are a help to us, Edgar; we told you so the other night. We could n't have Yung Lee unless you lived with us, and I could n't earn any money if I had to do all the housework." "I 'd like to be a help, but I 'm so helpless!" "We are all poor together just now, and that makes it easier." "I am worse than poor!" Edgar declared. "What can be worse than being poor?" asked Polly, with a sigh drawn from the depths of her boots. "To be in debt," said Edgar, who had not the slightest intention of making this remark when he opened his lips. Now the Olivers had only the merest notion of Edgar's college troubles; they knew simply what the Nobles had told them, that he was in danger of falling behind his class. This, they judged, was a contingency no longer to be feared; as various remarks dropped by the students who visited the house, and sundry bits of information contributed by Edgar himself, in sudden bursts of high spirits, convinced them that he was regaining his old rank, and certainly his old ambition. "To be in debt," repeated Edgar doggedly, "and to see no possible way out of it. Polly, I 'm in a peck of trouble! I 've lost money, and I 'm at my wits' end to get straight again!" "Lost money? How much? Do you mean that you lost your pocket-book?" "No, no; not in that way." "You mean that you spent it," said Polly. "You mean you overdrew your allowance." "Of course I did. Good gracious, Polly! there are other ways of losing money than by dropping it in the road. I believe girls don't know anything more about the world than the geography tells them,--that it's a round globe like a ball or an orange!" "Don't be impolite. The less they know about the old world the better they get on, I dare say. Your colossal fund of worldly knowledge does n't seem to make you very happy, just now. How could you lose your money, I ask? You 're nothing but a student, and you are not in any business, are you?" "Yes, I am in business, and pretty bad business it is, too." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I 've been winding myself up into a hard knot, the last six months, and the more I try to disentangle myself, the worse the thing gets. My allowance is n't half enough; nobody but a miser could live on it. I 've been unlucky, too. I bought a dog, and some one poisoned him before I could sell him; then I lamed a horse from the livery-stable, and had to pay damages; and so it went. The fellows all kept lending me money, rather than let me stay out of the little club suppers, and since I 've shut down on expensive gayeties they've gone back on me, and all want their money at once; so does the livery-stable keeper, and the owner of the dog, and a dozen other individuals; in fact, the debtors' prison yawns before me." "Upon my word, I 'm ashamed of you!" said Polly, with considerable heat. "To waste money in that way, when you knew perfectly well you could n't afford it, was--well, it was downright dishonest, that's what it was! To hear you talk about dogs, and lame horses, and club suppers, anybody would suppose you were a sporting man! Pray, what else do they do in that charming college set of yours?" "I might have known you would take that tone, but I did n't, somehow. I told you just because I thought you were the one girl in a thousand who would understand and advise a fellow when he knows he's made a fool of himself and acted like a cur! I did n't suppose you would call hard names, and be so unsympathizing, after all we have gone through together!" "I 'm not!--I did n't!--I won't do it again!" said Polly incoherently, as she took a straight chair, planted her elbows on the table, and leaned her chin in her two palms. "Now let's talk about it; tell me everything quickly. How much is it?" "Nearly two hundred dollars! Don't shudder so provokingly, Polly; that 's a mere bagatelle for a college man, but I know it's a good deal for me,--a good deal more than I know how to get, at all events." "Where is the debtors' prison?" asked Polly in an awestruck whisper. "Oh, there is n't any such thing nowadays! I was only chaffing; but of course, the men to whom I am in debt can apply to father, and get me in a regular mess. I 've pawned my watch to stave one of them off. You see, Polly, I would rather die than do it; nevertheless, I would write and tell father everything, and ask him for the money, but circumstances conspire just at this time to make it impossible. You know he bought that great ranch in Ventura county with Albert Harding of New York. Harding has died insolvent, and father has to make certain payments or lose control of a valuable property. It's going to make him a rich man some time, but for a year or two we shall have to count every penny. Of course the fruit crop this season has been the worst in ten years, and of course there has been a frost this winter, the only severe one within the memory of the oldest inhabitant,--that's the way it always is,--and there I am! I suppose you despise me, Polly?" "Yes, I do!" (hotly)--"No, I don't altogether, and I 'm not good enough myself to be able to despise people. Besides, you are not a despisable boy. You were born manly and generous and true-hearted, and these hateful things that you have been doing are not a part of your nature a bit; but I 'm ashamed of you for yielding to bad impulses when you have so many good ones, and--oh dear!--I do that very same thing myself, now that I stop to think about it. But how could you, _you_, Edgar Noble, take that evil-eyed, fat-nosed, common Tony Selling for a friend? I wonder at you!" "He is n't so bad in some ways. I owe him eighty dollars of that money, and he says he 'll give me six months to pay it." "I 'm glad he has some small virtues," Polly replied witheringly. "Now, what can we do, Edgar? Let us think. What can, what _can_ we do?" and she leaned forward reflectively, clasping her knee with her hands and wrinkling her brow with intense thought. That little "we" fell on Edgar's loneliness of spirit consolingly; for it adds a new pang to self-distrust when righteous people withdraw from one in utter disdain, even if they are "only girls" who know little of a boy's temptations. "If you can save something each month out of your allowance, Edgar," said Polly, finally, with a brighter look, "I can spare fifty or even seventy-five dollars of our money, and you may pay it back as you can. We are not likely to need it for several months, and your father and mother ought not to be troubled with this matter, now that it's over and done with." The blood rushed to Edgar's face as he replied stiffly: "I may be selfish and recklessly extravagant, but I don't borrow money from girls. If you wanted to add the last touch to my shame, you 've done it. Don't you suppose I have eyes, Polly Oliver? Don't you suppose I 've hated myself ever since I came under this roof, when I have seen the way you worked and planned and plotted and saved and denied yourself? Don't you suppose I 've looked at you twenty times a day, and said to myself, 'You miserable, selfish puppy, getting yourself and everybody who cares for you into trouble, just look at that girl and be ashamed of yourself down to the ground!' And now you offer to lend me money! Oh, Polly, I wouldn't have believed it of you!" Polly felt convicted of sin, although she was not very clear as to the reason. She blushed as she said hastily, "Your mother has been a very good friend to us, Edgar; why should n't we help you a little, just for once? Now, let us go in to see mamma and talk it all over together!" "If you pity me, Polly, don't tell her; I could not bear to have that saint upon earth worried over my troubles; it was mean enough to add a feather's weight to yours." "Well, we won't do it, then," said Polly, with maternal kindness in her tone. "Do stop pacing up and down like a caged panther. We 'll find some other way out of the trouble; but boys are such an anxiety! Do you think, Edgar, that you have reformed?" "Bless your soul! I 've kept within my allowance for two or three months. As Susan Nipper says, 'I may be a camel, but I 'm not a dromedary!' When I found out where I was, I stopped; I had to stop, and I knew it. I 'm all right now, thanks to--several things. In fact, I 've acquired a kind of appetite for behaving myself now, and if the rascally debts were only out of the way, I should be the happiest fellow in the universe." "You cannot apply to your father, so there is only one thing to do,--that is, to earn the money." "But how, when I 'm in the class-room three fourths of the day?" "I don't know," said Polly hopelessly. "I can tell you what to do, but not how to do it; I 'm nothing but a miserable girl." "I must stay in college, and I must dig and make up for lost time; so most of my evenings will be occupied." "You must put all your 'musts' together," said Polly decisively, "and then build a bridge over them, or tunnel through them, or span them with an arch. We 'll keep thinking about it, and I'm sure something will turn up; I 'm not discouraged a bit. You see, Edgar," and Polly's face flushed with feeling as she drew patterns on the tablecloth with her tortoise-shell hairpin,--"you see, of course, the good fairies are not going to leave you in the lurch when you 've turned your back on the ugly temptations, and are doing your very best. And now that we 've talked it all over, Edgar, I 'm not ashamed of you! Mamma and I have been so proud of your successes the last month. She believes in you!" "Of course," said Edgar dolefully; "because she knows only the best." "But I know the best and the worst too, and I believe in you! It seems to me the best is always the truest part of one, after all. No, we are not going to be naughty any more; we are going to earn that hateful Tony's money; we are going to take all the class honors, just for fun, not because we care for such trifles, and we are going home for the summer holidays in a blaze of glory!" Edgar rose with a lighter heart in his breast than he had felt there for many a week. "Good-night, Parson Polly," he said rather formally, for he was too greatly touched to be able to command his tones; "add your prayers to your sermons, and perhaps you 'll bring the black sheep safely into the fold." The quick tears rushed to Polly's eyes; for Edgar's stiff manner sat curiously on him, and she feared she had annoyed him by too much advice. "Oh, Edgar," she said, with a quivering lip, "I did n't mean to pose or to preach! You know how full of faults I am, and if I were a boy I should be worser I was only trying to help a little, eves if I am younger and a girl! Don't--don't think I was setting myself up as better than you; that's so mean and conceited and small! Edgar dear, I am so proud to think you told me your troubles; don't turn away from me, or I shall think you are sorry you trusted me!" and Polly laid a persuasive, disarming hand on the lad's shoulder. Suddenly Edgar's heart throbbed with a new feeling. He saw as in a vision the purity, fidelity, and tender yearning of a true woman's nature shining through a girl's eyes. In that moment he wished as never before to be manly and worthy. He seemed all at once to understand his mother, his sister, all women better, and with a quick impulsive gesture which he would not have understood a month before, he bent his head over astonished Polly's hand, kissed it reverently, then opened the door and went to his room without a word. CHAPTER XI. THE LADY IN BLACK. "I 've had a little adventure," said Polly to her mother one afternoon. "I went out, for the sake of the ride, on the Sutler Street cable-cars with Milly Foster. When we came to the end of the line, Milly walked down to Greary Street to take her car home. I went with her to the corner, and as I was coming back I saw a lady in black alighting from an elegant carriage. She had a coachman and a footman, both with weeds on their hats, and she seemed very sad and grave; but she had such a sweet, beautiful face that I was sorry for her the first moment I looked at her. She walked along in front of me toward the cemetery, and there we met those boys that stand about the gate with bouquets. She glanced at the flowers as if she would like to buy some, but you know how hideous they always are, every color of the rainbow crowded in tightly together, and she looked away, dissatisfied. I don't know why she had n't brought some with her,--she looked rich enough to buy a whole conservatory; perhaps she had n't expected to drive there. However, Milly Foster had given me a whole armful of beautiful flowers,--you know she has a 'white garden:' there were white sweet peas, Lamarque roses, and three stalks of snowy Eucharist lilies. I need n't tell my own mother that I did n't stop to think twice; I just stepped up to her and said, 'I should like to give you my flowers, please. I don't need them, and I am sure they are just sweet and lovely enough for the place you want to lay them.' "The tears came into her eyes,--she was just ready to cry at anything, you know,--and she took them at once, and said, squeezing my hand very tightly, 'I will take them, dear. The grave of my own, and my only, little girl lies far away from this,--the snow is falling on it to-day,--but whenever I cannot give the flowers to her, I always find the resting-places of other children, and lay them there. I know it makes her happy, for she was born on Christmas Day, and she was full of the Christmas spirit, always thinking of other people, never of herself.' "She did look so pale, and sad, and sweet, that I began to think of you without your troublesome Polly, or your troublesome Polly without you; and she was pleased with the flowers and glad that I understood, and willing to love anything that was a girl or that was young,--oh, you know, mamacita,--and so I began to cry a little, too; and the first thing I knew I kissed her, which was most informal, if not positively impertinent. But she seemed to like it, for she kissed me back again, and I ran and jumped on the car, and here I am! You will have to eat your dinner without any flowers, madam, for you have a vulgarly strong, healthy daughter, and the poor lady in black has n't." This was Polly's first impression of "the lady in black," and thus began an acquaintance which was destined before many months to play a very important part in Polly's fortunes and misfortunes. What the lady in black thought of Polly, then and subsequently, was told at her own fireside, where she sat, some six weeks later, chatting over an after-dinner cup of coffee with her brother-in-law. "Take the armchair, John," said Mrs. Bird; "for I have 'lots to tell you,' as the young folks say. I was in the Children's Hospital about five o'clock to-day. I have n't been there for three months, and I felt guilty about it. The matron asked me to go upstairs into the children's sitting-room, the one Donald and I fitted up in memory of Carol. She said that a young lady was telling stories to the children, but that I might go right up and walk in. I opened the door softly, though I don't think the children would have noticed if I had fired a cannon in their midst, and stood there, spellbound by the loveliest, most touching scene I ever witnessed. The room has an open fire, and in a low chair, with the firelight shining on her face, sat that charming, impulsive girl who gave me the flowers at the cemetery--I told you about her. She was telling stories to the children. There were fifteen or twenty of them in the room, all the semi-invalids and convalescents, I should think, and they were gathered about her like flies round a saucer of honey. Every child that could, was doing its best to get a bit of her dress to touch, or a finger of her hand to hold, or an inch of her chair to lean upon. They were the usual pale, weary-looking children, most of them with splints and weights and crutches, and through the folding-doors that opened into the next room I could see three more tiny things sitting up in their cots and drinking in every word with eagerness and transport. "And I don't wonder. There is magic in that girl for sick or sorrowing people. I wish you could have seen and heard her. Her hair is full of warmth and color; her lips and cheeks are pink; her eyes are bright with health and mischief, and beaming with love, too; her smile is like sunshine, and her voice as glad as a wild bird's. I never saw a creature so alive and radiant, and I could feel that the weak little creatures drank in her strength and vigor, without depleting her, as flowers drink in the sunlight. "As she stood up and made ready to go, she caught sight of me, and ejaculated, with the most astonished face, 'Why, it is my lady in black!' Then, with a blush, she added, 'Excuse me! I spoke without thinking--I always do. I have thought of you very often since I gave you the flowers; and as I did n't know your name, I have always called you my lady in black.' "'I should be very glad to be your "lady" in any color,' I answered, 'and my other name is Mrs. Bird.' Then I asked her if she would not come and see me. She said, 'Yes, with pleasure,' and told me also that her mother was ill, and that she left her as little as possible; whereupon I offered to go and see her instead. "Now, here endeth the first lesson, and here beginneth the second, namely, my new plan, on which I wish to ask your advice. You know that all the money Donald and I used to spend on Carol's nurses, physicians, and what not, we give away each Christmas Day in memory of her. It may be that we give it in monthly installments, but we try to plan it and let people know about it on that day. I propose to create a new profession for talented young women who like to be helpful to others as well as to themselves. I propose to offer this little Miss Oliver, say twenty-five dollars a month, if she will go regularly to the Children's Hospital and to the various orphan asylums just before supper and just before bedtime, and sing and tell stories to the children for an hour. I want to ask her to give two hours a day only, going to each place once or twice a week; but of course she will need a good deal of time for preparation. If she accepts, I will see the managers of the various institutions, offer her services, and arrange for the hours. I am confident that they will receive my protegee with delight, and I am sure that I shall bring the good old art of story-telling into fashion again, through this gifted girl. Now, John, what do you think?" "I heartily approve, as usual. It is a novelty, but I cannot see why it 's not perfectly expedient, and I certainly can think of no other way in which a monthly expenditure of twenty-five dollars will carry so much genuine delight and comfort to so many different children. Carol would sing for joy if she could know of your plan." "Perhaps she does know it," said Mrs. Bird softly. And so it was settled. Polly's joy and gratitude at Mrs. Bird's proposal baffles the powers of the narrator. It was one of those things pleasant to behold, charming to imagine, but impossible to describe. After Mrs. Bird's carriage had been whirled away, she watched at the window for Edgar, and, when she saw him nearing the steps, did not wait for him to unlock the door, but opened it from the top of the stairs, and flew down them to the landing as lightly as a feather. As for Edgar himself, he was coming up with unprecedented speed, and they nearly fell into each other's arms as they both exclaimed, in one breath, "Hurrah!" and then, in another, "Who told you?" "How did you know it?" asked Edgar. "Has Tom Mills been here?" "What is anybody by the name of Mills to me in my present state of mind!" exclaimed Polly. "Have you some good news, too? If so, speak out quickly." "Good news? I should think I had; what else were you hurrahing about? I 've won the scholarship, and I have a chance to earn some money! Tom Mills's eyes are in bad condition, and the oculist says he must wear blue goggles and not look at a book for two months. His father wrote to me to-day, and he asks if I will read over the day's lessons with Tom every afternoon or evening, so that he can keep up with the class; and says that if I will do him this great service he will be glad to pay me any reasonable sum. He 'ventured' to write me on Professor Hope's recommendation." "Oh, Edgar, that is too, too good!" cried Polly, jumping up and down in delight. "Now hear my news. What do you suppose has happened?" "Turned-up noses have come into style." "Insulting! That is n't the spirit I showed when you told me your good news." "You 've found the leak in the gas stove." "On the contrary, I don't care if all the gas in our establishment leaks from now to--the millennium. Guess again, stupid!" "Somebody has left you a million." "No, no!" (scornfully.) "Well, I can't wait your snail's pace. My lady in black, Mrs. Donald Bird, has been here all the afternoon, and she offers me twenty-five dollars a month to give up the Baer cubs and tell stories two hours a day in the orphan asylums and the Children's Hospital! Just what I love to do! Just what I always longed to do! Just what I would do if I were a billionaire! Is n't it heavenly?" "Well, well! We are in luck, Polly. Hurrah! Fortune smiles at last on the Noble-Oliver household. Let's have a jollification! Oh, I forgot. Tom Mills wants to come to dinner. Will you mind?" "Let him come, goggles and all, we 'll have the lame and the halt, as well as the blind, if we happen to see any. Mamma won't care. I told her we 'd have a feast to-night that should vie with any of the old Roman banquets! Here 's my purse; please go down on Sutter Street--ride both ways--and buy anything extravagant and unseasonable you can find. Get forced tomatoes; we'll have 'chops and tomato sauce' à la Mrs. Bardell; order fried oysters in a browned loaf; get a quart of ice cream, the most expensive variety they have, a loaf of the richest cake in the bakery, and two chocolate eclairs apiece. Buy hothouse roses, or orchids, for the table, and give five cents to that dirty little boy on the corner there. In short, as Frank Stockton says, 'Let us so live while we are up that we shall forget we have ever been down'!" and Polly plunged upstairs to make a toilet worthy of the occasion. The banquet was such a festive occasion that Yung Lee's Chinese reserve was sorely tried, and he giggled more than once, while waiting on the table. Polly had donned a trailing black silk skirt of her mother's, with a white chuddah shawl for a court train, and a white lace waist to top it. Her hair was wound into a knot on the crown of her head and adorned with three long black ostrich feathers, which soared to a great height, and presented a most magnificent and queenly appearance. Tom Mills, whose father was four times a millionaire, wondered why they never had such gay times at his home, and tried to fancy his sister Blanche sparkling and glowing and beaming over the prospect of earning twenty-five dollars a month. Then, when bedtime came, Polly and her mother talked it all over in the dark. "Oh, mamacita, I am so happy! It's such a lovely beginning, and I shall be so glad, so glad to do it! I hope Mrs. Bird did n't invent the plan for my good, for I have been frightfully shabby each time she has seen me, but she says she thinks of nothing but the children. Now we will have some pretty things, won't we? And oh! do you think, not just now, but some time in the distant centuries, I can have a string of gold beads?" "I do, indeed," sighed Mrs. Oliver. "You are certainly in no danger of being spoiled by luxury in your youth, my poor little Pollykins; but you will get all these things some time, I feel sure, if they are good for you, and if they belong to you. You remember the lines I read the other day:-- "'Hast not thy share? On winged feet, Lo! it rushes thee to meet; And all that Nature made thy own, Floating in air or pent in stone, Will rive the hills and swim the sea And, like thy shadow, follow thee.'" "Yes," said Polly contentedly; "I am satisfied. My share of the world's work is rushing to meet me. To-night I could just say with Sarah Jewett's Country Doctor, 'My God, I thank thee for my future.'" CHAPTER XII. THE GREAT SILENCE. The months of April and May were happy ones. The weather was perfect, as only California weather understands the art of being; the hills were at their greenest; the wind almost forgot to blow; the fields blazed in wild-flowers; day after day rose in cloudless splendor, and day after day the Golden Gate shone like a sapphire in the sun. Polly was inwardly nervous. She had the "awe of prosperity" in her heart, and everything seemed too bright to last. Both she and Edgar were very busy. But work that one loves is no hardship, especially when one is strong and young and hopeful, and when one has great matters at stake, such as the health and wealth of an invalid mother, or the paying off of disagreeable debts. Even the limp Mrs. Chadwick shared in the general joy; for Mr. Greenwood was so utterly discouraged with her mismanagement of the house, so determined not to fly to ills he knew not of, and so anxious to bring order out of chaos, that on the spur of the moment one day he married her. On the next day he discharged the cook, hired a better one the third, dunned the delinquent boarder the fourth, and collected from him on the fifth; so the May check (signed Clementine Chadwick Greenwood) was made out for eighty-five dollars. But in the midst of it all, when everything in the outside world danced with life and vigor, and the little house could hardly hold its sweet content,--without a glimmer of warning, without a moment's fear or dread, without the precious agony of parting, Mrs. Oliver slipped softly, gently, safely, into the Great Silence. Mercifully it was Edgar, not Polly, who found her in her accustomed place on the cushions, lying with closed eyelids and smiling lips. It was half past five. . . . Polly must have gone out at four, as usual, and would be back in half an hour. . . . Yung Lee was humming softly in the little kitchen. . . . In five minutes Edgar Noble had suffered, lived, and grown ten years. He was a man. . . . And then came Polly,--and Mrs. Bird with her, thank Heaven!--Polly breathless and glowing, looking up at the bay window for her mother's smile of welcome. In a few seconds the terrible news was broken, and Polly, overpowered with its awful suddenness, dropped before it as under a physical blow. It was better so. Mrs. Bird carried her home for the night, as she thought, but a merciful blur stole over the child's tired brain, and she lay for many weeks in a weary illness of delirium and stupor and fever. Meanwhile, Edgar acted as brother, son, and man of the house. He it was who managed everything, from the first sorrowful days up to the closing of the tiny upper flat where so much had happened: not great things of vast outward importance, but small ones,--little miseries and mortifications and struggles and self-denials and victories, that made the past half year a milestone in his life. A week finished it all! It takes a very short time, he thought, to scatter to the winds of heaven all the gracious elements that make a home. Only a week; and in the first days of June, Edgar went back to Santa Barbara for the summer holidays without even a sight of his brave, helpful girl-comrade. He went back to his brother's congratulations, his sister's kisses, his mother's happy tears, and his father's hearty hand-clasp, full of renewed pride and belief in his eldest son. But there was a shadow on the lad's high spirits as he thought of gay, courageous, daring Polly, stripped in a moment of all that made life dear. "I wish we could do something for her, poor little soul," he said to his mother in one of their long talks in the orange-tree sitting-room. "Tongue cannot tell what Mrs. Oliver has been to me, and I 'm not a bit ashamed to own up to Polly's influence, even if she is a girl and two or three years younger than I am. Hang it! I 'd like to see the fellow that could live under the same roof as those two women, and not do the best that was in him! Has n't Polly some relatives in the East?" "No near ones, and none that she has ever seen. Still, she is not absolutely alone, as many girls would be under like circumstances. We would be only too glad to have her here; the Howards have telegraphed asking her to spend the winter with them in Cambridge; I am confident Dr. Winship will do the same when the news of Mrs. Oliver's death reaches Europe; and Mrs. Bird seems to have constituted herself a sort of fairy Godmother in chief. You see everybody loves Polly; and she will probably have no less than four homes open to her. The fact is, if you should put Polly on a desert island, the bees and the butterflies and the birds would gather about her; she draws everything and everybody to her magically. Then, too, she is not penniless. Rents are low, and she cannot hope to get quite as much for the house as before, but even counting repairs, taxes, and furnishings, we think she is reasonably certain of fifty dollars a month." "She will never be idle, unless this sorrow makes a great change in her. Polly seems to have been created to 'become' by 'doing.'" "Yet she does not in the least relish work, Edgar. I never knew a girl with a greater appetite for luxury. One cannot always see the deepest reasons in God's providence as applied to one's own life and character; but it is often easy to understand them as one looks at other people and notes their growth and development. For instance, Polly's intense love for her invalid mother has kept her from being selfish. The straitened circumstances in which she has been compelled to live have prevented her from yielding to self-indulgence or frivolity. Even her hunger for the beautiful has been a discipline; for since beautiful things were never given to her ready-made, she has been forced to create them. Her lot in life, which she has always lamented, has given her a self-control, a courage, a power, which she never would have had in the world had she grown up in luxury. She is too young to see it, but it is very clear to me that Polly Oliver is a glorious product of circumstances." "But," objected Edgar, "that is not fair. You are giving all the credit to circumstances, and none to Polly's own nature." "Not at all. If there had not been the native force to develop, experience would have had nothing to work upon. As it is, her lovely childish possibilities have become probabilities, and I look to see the girlish probabilities blossom into womanly certainties." Meanwhile Polly, it must be confessed, was not at the present time quite justifying the good opinion of her friends. She had few of the passive virtues. She could bear sharp stabs of misfortune, which fired her energy and pride, but she resented pin pricks. She could carry heavy, splendid burdens cheerfully, but she fretted under humble cares. She could serve by daring, but not by waiting. She would have gone to the stake or the scaffold, I think, with tolerable grace; but she would probably have recanted any article of faith if she had been confronted with life-imprisonment. Trouble that she took upon herself for the sake of others, and out of love, she accepted sweetly. Sorrows that she did not choose, which were laid upon her without her consent, and which were "just the ones she did _not_ want, and did _not_ need, and would _not_ have, and could _not_ bear,"--these sorrows found her unwilling, bitter, and impatient. Yet if life is a school and we all have lessons to learn in it, the Great Teacher will be unlikely to set us tasks which we have already finished. Some review there must be, for certain things are specially hard to keep in mind, and have to be gone over and over, lest they fade into forgetfulness. But there must be continued progress in a life school. There is no parrot repetition, sing-song, meaningless, of words that have ceased to be vital. New lessons are to be learned as fast as the old ones are understood. Of what use to set Polly tasks to develop her bravery, when she was already brave? Courage was one of the little jewels set in her fairy crown when she was born, but there was a round, empty space beside it, where Patience should have been. Further along was Daring, making a brilliant show, but again there was a tiny vacancy waiting for Prudence. The crown made a fine appearance, on the whole, because the large jewels were mostly in place, and the light of these blinded you to the lack of the others; but to the eye of the keen observer there was a want of symmetry and completeness. Polly knew the unfinished state of her fairy crown as well as anybody else. She could not plead ignorance as an excuse; but though she would have gone on polishing the great gems with a fiery zeal, she added the little jewels very slowly, and that only on compulsion. There had been seven or eight weeks of partial unconsciousness, when the sorrow and the loneliness of life stole into her waking dreams only vaguely and at intervals; when she was unhappy, and could not remember why; and slept, to wake and wonder and sleep again. Then there were days and weeks when the labor of living was all that the jaded body could accomplish; when memory was weak; when life began at the pillow, and ended at the foot of the bed, and the universe was bounded by the chamber windows. But when her strength came back, and she stood in the middle of the floor, clothed and in her right mind, well enough to remember,--oh! then indeed the deep waters of bitterness rolled over poor Polly's head and into her heart, and she sank beneath them without a wish or a struggle to rise. "If it had been anything else!" she sobbed. "Why did God take away my most precious, my only one to live for, when I was trying to take care of her, trying to be good, trying to give back the strength that had been poured out on me,--miserable, worthless me! Surely, if a girl was willing to do without a father and sisters and brothers, without good times and riches, willing to work like a galley slave, willing to 'scrimp' and plan and save for ever and ever; surely 'they' might be willing that she should keep her mother!" Poor Polly! Providence at this time seemed nothing more than a collection of demons which she classified under the word "they," and which she felt certain were scourging her pitilessly and needlessly. She could not see any reason or justification in "their" cruelties,--for that was the only term she could apply to her afflictions. Mrs. Bird had known sorrow, and she did her best to minister to the troubled and wrong little heart; but it was so torn that it could be healed only by the soft balm of Time. Perhaps, a long while after such a grief,--it is always "perhaps" in a great crisis, though the certainty is ours if we will but grasp it,--perhaps the hidden meaning of the sorrow steals gently into our softened hearts. We see, as in a vision, a new light by which to work; we rise, cast off the out-grown shell, and build us a more stately mansion, in which to dwell till God makes that home also too small to hold the ever-growing soul! CHAPTER XIII. A GARDEN FLOWER, OR A BANIAN-TREE. In August Mr. John Bird took Polly to the Nobles' ranch in Santa Barbara, in the hope that the old scenes and old friends might soothe her, and give her strength to take up the burden of life with something of her former sunshiny spirit. Edgar was a junior now, back at his work, sunburned and strong from his summer's outing. He had seen Polly twice after his return to San Francisco; but the first meeting was an utter failure, and the second nearly as trying. Neither of them could speak of the subject that absorbed their thoughts, nor had either courage enough to begin other topics of conversation. The mere sight of Edgar was painful to the girl now, it brought to mind so much that was dear, so much that was past and gone. In the serenity of the ranch-life, the long drives with Margery and Philip, the quiet chats with Mrs. Noble, Polly gained somewhat in strength; but the old "spring," vitality, and enthusiasm had vanished for the time, and the little circle of friends marveled at this Polly without her nonsense, her ready smiles, her dancing dimples, her extravagances of speech. Once a week, at least, Dr. George would steal an hour or two, and saddle his horse to take Polly for a gallop over the hills, through the cañons, or on the beach. His half-grave, half-cheery talks on these rides did her much good. He sympathized and understood and helped, even when he chided, and Polly sometimes forgot her own troubles in wondering whether Dr. George had not suffered and overcome a good many of his own. "You make one great error, my child," he once said, in response to one of Polly's outbursts of grief; "and it is an error young people very naturally fall into. You think that no one was ever chastened as you are. You say, with Jeremiah, 'No prophet is afflicted like unto this prophet!' Now you are simply bearing your own share of the world's trouble. How can you hope to escape the universal lot? There are dozens of people within sight of this height of land who have borne as much, and must bear as much again. I know this must seem a hard philosophy, and I should not preach it to any but a stout little spirit like yours, my Polly. These things come to all of us; they are stern facts; they are here, and they must be borne; but it makes all the difference in the world how we bear them. We can clench our fists, close our lips tightly, and say, 'Since I must, I can;' or we can look up and say cheerfully, 'I will!' The first method is philosophical and strong enough, but there is no sweetness in it. If you have this burden to carry, make it as light, not as heavy, as you can; if you have this grief to endure, you want at least to come out of it sweeter and stronger than ever before. It seems a pity to let it go for nothing. In the largest sense of the word, you can live for your mother now as truly as you did in the old times; you know very well how she would have had you live." Polly felt a sense of shame steal over her as she looked at Dr. George's sweet, strong smile and resolute mouth, and she said, with the hint of a new note in her voice:-- "I see, and I will try; but how does one ever learn to live without loving,--I mean the kind of loving I had in my life? I know I can live for my mother in the largest sense of the word, but to me all the comfort and sweetness seems to tuck itself under the word in its 'little' sense. I shall have to go on developing and developing until I am almost developed to death, and go on growing and growing in grace until I am ready to be caught up in a chariot of fire, before I can love my mother 'in the largest sense of the word.' I want to cuddle my head on her shoulder, that's what I want. Oh, Dr. George, how does one contrive to be good when one is not happy? How can one walk in the right path when there does n't seem to be any brightness to go by?" "My dear little girl," and Dr. George looked soberly out on the ocean, dull and lifeless under the gray October sky, "when the sun of one's happiness is set, one lights a candle called 'Patience,' and guides one's footsteps by that!" "If only I were not a rich heiress," said Polly next morning, "I dare say I should be better off; for then I simply could n't have gone to bed for two or three months, and idled about like this for another. But there seems to be no end to my money. Edgar paid all the bills in San Francisco, and saved twenty out of our precious three hundred and twelve dollars. Then Mrs. Greenwood's rent-money has been accumulating four months, while I have been visiting you and Mrs. Bird; and the Greenwoods are willing to pay sixty dollars a month for the house still, even though times are dull; so I am hopelessly wealthy,--but on the whole I am very glad. The old desire to do something, and be something, seems to have faded out of my life with all the other beautiful things. I think I shall go to a girls' college and study, or find some other way of getting through the hateful, endless years that stretch out ahead! Why, I am only a little past seventeen, and I may live to be ninety! I do not see how I can ever stand this sort of thing for seventy-three years!" Mrs. Noble smiled in spite of herself. "Just apply yourself to getting through this year, Polly dear, and let the other seventy-two take care of themselves. They will bring their own cares and joys and responsibilities and problems, little as you realize it now. This year, grievous as it seems, will fade by and by, until you can look back at it with resignation and without tears." "I don't want it to fade!" cried Polly passionately. "I never want to look back at it without tears! I want to be faithful always; I want never to forget, and never to feel less sorrow than I do this minute!" "Take that blue-covered Emerson on the table, Polly; open it at the essay on 'Compensation,' and read the page marked with the orange leaf." The tears were streaming down Polly's cheeks, but she opened the book, and read with a faltering voice:-- "We cannot part with our f--fr--friends. We cannot let our angels go. [Sob.] We do not see that they only go out that archangels may come in. . . . We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or re-create that beautiful yesterday. [Sob.] We linger in the ruins of the old tent where once we had shelter. . . . We cannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. [Sob.] But we sit and weep in vain. We cannot stay amid the ruins. The voice of the Almighty saith, 'Up and onward for evermore!' . . . The sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all sorrow. . . . The man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden flower, with no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men." [Illustration: "She opened the book and read."] "Do you see, Polly?" "Yes, I see; but oh, I was so happy being a garden flower with the sunshine on my head, and I can't seem to care the least little bit for being a banian-tree!" "Well," said Mrs. Noble, smiling through her own tears, "I fear that God will never insist on your 'yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men' unless you desire it. Not all sunny garden flowers become banian-trees by the falling of the walls. Some of them are crushed beneath the ruins, and never send any more color or fragrance into the world." "The garden flower had happiness before the walls fell," said Polly. "It is happiness I want." "The banian-tree had blessedness after the walls fell, and it is blessedness I want; but then, I am forty-seven, and you are seventeen!" sighed Mrs. Noble, as they walked through the orange orchard to the house. CHAPTER XIV. EDGAR DISCOURSES OF SCARLET RUNNERS. One day, in the middle of October, the mail brought Polly two letters: the first from Edgar, who often dashed off cheery scrawls in the hope of getting cheery replies, which never came; and the second from Mrs. Bird, who had a plan to propose. Edgar wrote:-- . . . "I have a new boarding-place in San Francisco, a stone's throw from Mrs. Bird's, whose mansion I can look down upon from a lofty height reached by a flight of fifty wooden steps,--good training in athletics! Mrs. Morton is a kind landlady and the house is a home, in a certain way,-- "But oh, the difference to me 'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee! "There is a Morton girl, too; but she neither plays nor sings nor jokes, nor even looks,--in fine, she is not Polly! I have come to the conclusion, now, that girls in a house are almost always nuisances,--I mean, of course, when, they are not Pollies. Oh, why are you so young, and so loaded with this world's goods, that you will never need me for a boarder again? Mrs. Bird is hoping to see you soon, and I chose my humble lodging on this hill-top because, from my attic's lonely height, I can watch you going in and out of your 'marble halls;' and you will almost pass my door as you take the car. In view of this pleasing prospect (now, alas! somewhat distant), I send you a scrap of newspaper verse which prophesies my sentiments. It is signed 'M. E. W.,' and Tom Mills says whoever wrote it knows you." WHEN POLLY GOES BY. 'T is but poorly I 'm lodged in a little side-street, Which is seldom disturbed by the hurry of feet, For the flood-tide of life long ago ebbed away From its homely old houses, rain-beaten and gray; And I sit with my pipe in the window, and sigh At the buffets of fortune--till Polly goes by. There 's a flaunting of ribbons, a flurry of lace, And a rose in the bonnet above a bright face, A glance from two eyes so deliriously blue The midsummer seas scarcely rival their hue; And once in a while, if the wind 's blowing high, The sound of soft laughter as Polly goes by. Then up jumps my heart and begins to beat fast. "She 's coming!" it whispers. "She 's here! She has passed!" While I throw up the sash and lean breathlessly down To catch the last glimpse of her vanishing gown, Excited, delighted, yet wondering why My senses desert me if Polly goes by. Ah! she must be a witch, and the magical spell She has woven about me has done its work well, For the morning grows brighter, and gayer the air That my landlady sings as she sweeps down the stair; And my poor lonely garret, up close to the sky, Seems something like heaven when Polly goes by. "P. S. Tony has returned to the university. He asked after the health of the 'sunset-haired goddess' yesterday. You 'd better hurry back and take care of me! No, joking aside, don't worry about me, little missionary; I 've outgrown Tony, and I hope I don't need to be reformed oftener than once a year. "Yours ever, EDGAR. "P. S. No. II. I saw you twice after--you know--and I was dumb on both occasions. Of all people in the world I ought to have been able to say something helpful to you in your trouble, I, who lived with you and your dear mother through all those happy months before she left us. It will be just the same when I see you again: I shall never be able to speak, partly, I suppose, because I am a man, or on the road to becoming one. I know this is making you cry; I can see the tears in your eyes across all the distance; but it is better even that you should cry than that you should think me cold or unmindful of your sorrow. Do you know one of the sacred memories of my life? It is that, on that blessed night when your mother asked me to come and live under her roof, she said she should be glad to feel that in any sudden emergency you and she would, have a near friend to lean upon. There was a 'royal accolade,' if you like! I felt in an instant as if she had bestowed the order of knighthood upon me, and as if I must live more worthily in order to deserve her trust. How true it is, Polly, that those who believe in us educate us! "Do you remember (don't cry, dear!) that night by the fireside,--the night when we brought her out of her bedroom after three days of illness,--when we sat on either side of her, each holding a hand while she told us the pretty romance of her meeting and loving your father? I slipped the loose wedding ring up and down her finger, and stole a look at her now and then. She was like a girl when she told that story, and I could not help thinking it was worth while to be a tender, honorable, faithful man, to bring that look into a woman's face after eighteen years. Well, I adored her, that is all I can say; and I can't _say_ even that, I have to write it. Don't rob me, Polly, of the right she gave me, that of being a 'near friend to lean upon.' I am only afraid, because you, more than any one else, know certain weaknesses and follies of mine, and, indeed, pulled me out of the pit and held me up till I got a new footing. I am afraid you will never have the same respect for me, nor believe that a fellow so weak as I was could be strong enough to lean upon. Try me once, Polly, just to humor me, won't you? Give me something to do,--something _hard_! Lean just a little, Polly, and see how stiff I 'll be,--no, bother it, I won't be stiff, I'll be firm! To tell the truth, I can never imagine you as 'leaning;' though they say you are pale and sad, and out of sorts with life. You remind me of one of the gay scarlet runners that climb up the slender poles in the garden below my window. The pole holds up the vine at first, of course, but the vine keeps the pole straight; not in any ugly and commonplace fashion, but by winding round, and round about it, and hanging its blossoms in and out and here and there, till the poor, serviceable pole is forgotten in the beauty that makes use of it. "Good-by, little scarlet runner! You will bloom again some day, when the storm that has beaten you down has passed over and the sky is clear and the sun warm. Don't laugh at me, Polly! "Always yours, whether you laugh or not, "EDGAR." "P. S. No. III. I should n't dare add this third postscript if you were near enough to slay me with the lightning of your eye, but I simply wish to mention that a wise gardener chooses young, strong timber for _poles_,--saplings, in fact! _Mr. John Bird is too old for this purpose_. Well seasoned he is, of course, and suitable as a prop for a century-plant, but not for a scarlet runner! I like him, you know, but I 'm sure he 'd crack if you leaned on him; in point of fact, he 's a little cracked now! E. N." The ghost of a smile shone on Polly's April face as she folded Edgar's letter and laid it in its envelope; first came a smile, then a tear, then a dimple, then a sob, then a wave of bright color. "Edgar is growing up so fast," she thought, "I shall soon be afraid to scold him or advise him, and "'What will poor Robin do then, poor thing?' "Upon my word, if I caught him misbehaving nowadays, I believe I should hesitate to remonstrate with him. He will soon be capable of remonstrating with me, at this rate. He is a goose,--oh, there 's no shadow of doubt as to that, but he 's an awfully nice goose." Mrs. Bird's letter ran thus:-- "MY DEAREST POLLYKINS:----We have lived without you just about as long as we can endure it. The boys have returned to school and college. Mr. Bird contemplates one more trip to Honolulu, and brother John and I need some one to coddle and worry over. I have not spoken to you of your future, because I wished to wait until you opened the subject. It is too late for you to begin your professional training this year, and I think you are far too delicate just now to undertake so arduous a work; however, you are young, and that can wait for a bit. As to the story-telling in the hospitals and asylums, I wish you could find courage and strength to go on with that, not for your own sake alone, but for the sake of others. "As I have told you before, the money is set aside for that special purpose, and the work will be carried on by somebody. Of course I can get a substitute if you refuse, and that substitute may, after a little time, satisfy the impatient children, who flatten their noses against the window-panes and long for Mias Pauline every day of their meagre lives. But I fear the substitute will never be Polly! She may 'rattle round in your place' (as somebody said under different circumstances), but she can never fill it! Why not spend the winter with us, and do this lovely work, keeping up other studies if you are strong enough? It will be so sweet for you to feel that out of your own sadness you can comfort and brighten the lives of these lonely, suffering children and these motherless or fatherless ones. It will seem hard to begin, no doubt; but new life will flow in your veins when you take up your active, useful work again. The joyousness that God put into your soul before you were born, my Polly, is a sacred trust. You must not hide it in a napkin, dear, or bury it, or lose it. It was given to you only that you should share it with others. It was intended for the world at large, though it was bestowed upon you in particular. Come, dear, to one who knows all about it,--one whom you are sweet enough to call "YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER." "Mrs. Noble," said Polly, with a sober smile, "the Ancon sails on the 20th, and I am going to sail with her." "So soon? What for, dear?" "I am going to be a banian-tree, if you please," answered Polly. CHAPTER XV. LIFE IN THE BIRDS' NEST. Polly settled down in the Birds' Nest under the protecting wing of Mrs. Bird, and a very soft and unaccustomed sort of shelter it was. A room had been refurnished expressly for the welcome guest, and as Mrs. Bird pushed her gently in alone, the night of her arrival, she said, "This is the Pilgrim Chamber, Polly. It will speak our wishes for us." It was not the room in which Polly had been ill for so many weeks; for Mrs. Bird knew the power of associations, and was unwilling to leave any reminder of those painful days to sadden the girl's new life. As Polly looked about her, she was almost awed by the dazzling whiteness. The room was white enough for an angel, she thought. The straw matting was almost concealed by a mammoth rug made of white Japanese goatskins sewed together; the paint was like snow, and the furniture had all been painted white, save for the delicate silver lines that relieved it. There were soft, full curtains of white bunting fringed with something that looked like thistle-down, and the bedstead had an overhanging canopy of the same. An open fire burned in the little grate, and a big white and silver rattan chair was drawn cosily before it. There was a girlish dressing-table with its oval mirror draped in dotted muslin; a dainty writing-desk with everything convenient upon it; and in one corner was a low bookcase of white satinwood. On the top of this case lay a card, "With the best wishes of John Bird," and along the front of the upper shelf were painted the words: "Come, tell us a story!" Below this there was a rich array of good things. The Grimms, Laboulaye, and Hans Christian Andersen were all there. Mrs. Ewing's "Jackanapes" and Charles Kingsley's "Water-Babies" jostled the "Seven Little Sisters" series; Hawthorne's "Wonder-Book" lay close to Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare;" and Whittier's "Child-Life in Prose and Poetry" stood between Mary Howitt's "Children's Year" and Robert Louis Stevenson's "Child's Garden of Verses." Polly sat upon the floor before the bookcase and gloated over her new treasures, each of which bore her name on the fly-leaf. As her eye rose to the vase of snowy pampas plumes and the pictured Madonna and Child above the bookcase, it wandered still higher until it met a silver motto painted on a blue frieze that finished the top of the walls where they met the ceiling. Polly walked slowly round the room, studying the illuminated letters: "_And they laid the Pilgrim in an upper chamber, and the name of the chamber was Peace_." This brought the ready tears to Polly's eyes. "God seems to give me everything but what I want most," she thought; "but since He gives me so much, I must not question any more: I must not choose; I must believe that He wants me to be happy, after all, and I must begin and try to be good again." She did try to be good. She came down to breakfast the next morning, announcing to Mrs. Bird, with her grateful morning kiss, that she meant to "live up to" her room. "But it's going to be difficult," she confessed. "I shall not dare to have a naughty thought in it; it seems as if it would be written somewhere on the whiteness!" "You can come and be naughty in my bachelor den, Polly," said Mr. Bird, smiling. "Mrs. Bird does n't waste any girlish frills and poetic decorations and mystical friezes on her poor brother-in-law! He is done up in muddy browns, as befits his age and sex." Polly insisted on beginning her work the very next afternoon; but she had strength only for three appointments a week, and Mrs. Bird looked doubtfully after her as she walked away from the house with a languid gait utterly unlike her old buoyant step. Edgar often came in the evenings, as did Tom and Blanche Mills, and Milly Foster; but though Polly was cheerful and composed, she seldom broke into her old flights of nonsense. On other nights, when they were alone, she prepared for her hours of story-telling, and in this she was wonderfully helped by Mr. Bird's suggestions and advice; for he was a student of literature in many languages, and delighted in bringing his treasures before so teachable a pupil. "She has a sort of genius that astonishes me," said he one morning, as he chatted with Mrs. Bird over the breakfast-table. Polly had excused herself, and stood at the farther library window, gazing up the street vaguely and absently, as if she saw something beyond the hills and the bay. Mrs. Bird's heart sank a little as she looked at the slender figure in the black dress. There were no dimples about the sad mouth, and was it the dress, or was she not very white these latter days?--so white that her hair encircled her face with absolute glory, and startled one with its color. "It is a curious kind of gift," continued Mr. Bird, glancing at his morning' papers. "She takes a long tale of Hans Andersen's, for instance, and after an hour or two, when she has his idea fully in mind, she shows me how she proposes to tell it to the younger children at the Orphan Asylum. She clasps her hands over her knees, bends forward toward the firelight, and tells the story with such simplicity and earnestness that I am always glad she is looking the other way and cannot see the tears in my eyes. I cried like a school-girl last night over 'The Ugly Duckling.' She has natural dramatic instinct, a great deal of facial expression, power of imitation, and an almost unerring taste in the choice of words, which is unusual in a girl so young and one who has been so imperfectly trained. I give her an old legend or some fragment of folk-lore, and straight-way she dishes it up for me as if it had been bone of her bone and marrow of her marrow; she knows just what to leave out and what to put in, somehow. You had one of your happy inspirations about that girl, Margaret,--she is a born story-teller. She ought to wander about the country with a lute under her arm. Is the Olivers' house insured?" "Good gracious, Jack! you have a kangaroo sort of mind! How did you leap to that subject? I'm sure I don't know, but what difference does it make, anyway?" "A good deal of difference," he answered nervously, looking into the library (yes, Polly had gone out); "because the house, the furniture, and the stable were burned to the ground last night,--so the morning paper says." Mrs. Bird rose and closed the doors. "That does seem too dreadful to be true," she said. "The poor child's one bit of property, her only stand-by in case of need! Oh, it can't be burned; and, if it is, it must be insured. I 'm afraid a second blow would break her down completely just now, when she has not recovered from the first." Mr. Bird went out and telegraphed to Dr. George Edgerton;-- Is Oliver house burned? What was the amount of insurance, if any? Answer. JOHN BIRD. At four o'clock the reply came:-- House and outbuildings burned. No insurance. Have written particulars. Nothing but piano and family portraits saved. GEORGE EDGERTON. In an hour another message, marked "Collect," followed the first one:-- House burned last night. Defective flue. No carelessness on part of servants or family. Piano, portraits, ice-cream freezer, and wash-boiler saved by superhuman efforts of husband. Have you any instructions? Have taken to my bed. Accept love and sympathy. CLEMENTINE CHADWICK GEEENWOOD. So it was true. The buildings were burned, and there was no insurance. I know you will say there never is, in stories where the heroine's courage is to be tested, even if the narrator has to burn down the whole township to do it satisfactorily. But to this objection I can make only this answer: First, that this house really did burn down; secondly, that there really was no insurance; and thirdly, if this combination of circumstances did not sometimes happen in real life, it would never occur to a story-teller to introduce it as a test for heroes and heroines. "Well," said Mrs. Bird despairingly, "Polly must be told. Now, will you do it, or shall I? Of course you want me to do it! Men never have any courage about these things, nor any tact either." At this moment the subject of conversation walked into the room, hat and coat on, and an unwonted color in her cheeks. Edgar Noble followed behind. Polly removed her hat and coat leisurely, sat down on a hassock on the hearth rug, and ruffled her hair with the old familiar gesture, almost forgotten these latter days. Mrs. Bird looked warningly at the tell-tale yellow telegrams in Mr. Bird's lap, and strove to catch his eye and indicate to his dull masculine intelligence the necessity of hiding them until they could devise a plan of breaking the sad news. Mrs. Bird's glance and Mr. Bird's entire obliviousness were too much for Polly's gravity. To their astonishment she burst into a peal of laughter. "'My lodging is on the cold, cold ground, And hard, very hard is my fare!'" she sang, to the tune of "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms." "So you know all about it, too?" "How did you hear it?" gasped Mrs. Bird. "I bought the evening paper to see if that lost child at the asylum had been found. Edgar jumped on the car, and seemed determined that I should not read the paper until I reached home. He was very kind, but slightly bungling in his attentions. I knew then that something was wrong, but just what was beyond my imagination, unless Jack Howard had been expelled from Harvard, or Bell Winship had been lost at sea on the way home; so I persisted in reading, and at last I found the fatal item. I don't know whether Edgar expected me to faint at sight! I 'm not one of the fainting sort!" "I 'm relieved that you can take it so calmly. I have been shivering with dread all day, and Jack and I have been quarreling as to which should break it to you." "Break it to me!" echoed Polly, in superb disdain. "My dear Fairy Godmother, you must think me a weak sort of person! As if the burning down of one patrimonial estate could shatter my nerves! What is a passing home or so? Let it burn, by all means, if it likes. 'He that is down need fear no fall.'" "It is your only property," said Mr. Bird, trying to present the other side of the case properly, "and it was not insured." "What of that?" she asked briskly. "Am I not housed and fed like a princess at the present moment? Have I not two hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, and am I not earning twenty-five dollars a month with absolute regularity? Avaunt, cold Fear!" "How was it that the house was not insured?" asked Mr. Bird. "I 'm sure I don't know. It was insured once upon a time, if I remember right; when it got uninsured, I can't tell. How do things get uninsured, Mr. Bird?" "The insurance lapses, of course, if the premium is n't regularly paid." "Oh, that would account for it!" said Polly easily. "There were quantities of things that were n't paid regularly, though they were always paid in course of time. You ought to have asked me if we were insured, Edgar,--you were the boy of the house,--insurance is n't a girl's department. Let me see the telegrams, please." They all laughed heartily over Mrs. Greenwood's characteristic message. "Think of 'husband' bearing that aged ice-cream freezer and that leaky boiler to a place of safety!" exclaimed Polly. "'All that was left of them, left of six hundred!' Well, my family portraits, piano, freezer, and boiler will furnish a humble cot very nicely in my future spinster days. By the way, the land did n't burn up, I suppose, and that must be good for something, is n't it?" "Rather," answered Edgar; "a corner lot on the best street in town, four blocks from the new hotel site! It's worth eighteen hundred or two thousand dollars, at least." "Then why do you worry about me, good people? I 'm not a heroine. If I were sitting on the curbstone without a roof to my head, and did n't know where I should get my dinner, I should cry! But I smell my dinner" (here she sniffed pleasurably), "and I think it 's chicken! You see, it's so difficult for me to realize that I 'm a pauper, living here, a pampered darling in the halls of wealth, with such a large income rolling up daily that I shall be a prey to fortune-hunters by the time I am twenty! Pshaw! don't worry about me! This is just the sort of diet I have been accustomed to from my infancy! I rather enjoy it!" Whereupon Edgar recited an impromptu nonsense verse:-- "There 's a queer little maiden named Polly, Who always knows when to be jolly. When ruined by fire Her spirits rise higher. This most inconsistent Miss Polly." CHAPTER XVI. THE CANDLE CALLED PATIENCE. The burning of the house completely prostrated Mrs. Clementine Churchill Chadwick Greenwood, who, it is true, had the actual shock of the conflagration to upset her nervous system, though she suffered no financial loss. Mr. Greenwood was heard to remark that he wished he could have foreseen that the house would burn down, for now he should have to move anyway, and if he had known that a few months before, why-- Here the sentence always ended mysteriously, and the neighbors finished it as they liked. The calamity affected Polly, on the other hand, very much like a tonic. She felt the necessity of "bracing" to meet the fresh responsibilities that seemed waiting for her in the near future; and night and day, in sleeping and waking, resting and working, a plan was formulating itself in the brain just roused from its six months' apathy,--a novel, astonishing, enchanting, revolutionary plan, which she bided her time to disclose. The opportunity came one evening after dinner, when Mrs. Bird, and her brother, Edgar and herself, were gathered in the library. The library was a good place in which to disclose plans, or ask advice, or whisper confidences. The great carved oak mantel held on the broad space above the blazing logs the graven motto, "Esse Quod Opto." The walls were lined with books from floor half-way to ceiling, and from the tops of the cases Plato, Socrates, Marcus Aurelius, and the Sage of Concord looked down with benignant wisdom. The table in the centre was covered with a methodical litter of pamphlets and magazines, and a soft light came from the fire and from two tall, shaded lamps. Mr. Bird, as was his wont, leaned back in his leather chair, puffing delicate rings of smoke into the air. Edgar sat by the centre table, idly playing with a paper-knife. Mrs. Bird sat in her low rocking-chair with a bit of fancy-work, and Polly, on the hearth rug, leaned cosily back against her Fairy Godmother's knees. The clinging tendrils in Polly's nature, left hanging so helplessly when her mother was torn away, reached out more and more to wind themselves about lovely Mrs. Bird, who, notwithstanding her three manly sons, had a place in her heart left sadly vacant by the loss of her only daughter. Polly broke one of the pleasant silences. An open fire makes such delightful silences, if you ever noticed. When you sit in a room without it, the gaps in the conversation make everybody seem dull; the last comer rises with embarrassment and thinks he must be going, and you wish that some one would say the next thing and keep the ball rolling. The open fire arranges all these little matters with a perfect tact and grace all its own. It is acknowledged to be the centre of attraction, and the people gathered about it are only supernumeraries. It blazes and crackles and snaps cheerily, the logs break and fall, the coals glow and fade and glow again, and the dull man can always poke the fire if his wit desert him. Who ever feels like telling a precious secret over a steam-heater? Polly looked away from everybody and gazed straight into the blaze. "I have been thinking over a plan for my future work," she said, "and I want to tell it to you and see if you all approve and think me equal to it. It used to come to me in flashes, after this Fairy Godmother of mine opened an avenue for my surplus energy by sending me out as a story-teller; but lately I have n't had any heart for it. Work grew monotonous and disagreeable and hopeless, and I 'm afraid I had no wish to be useful or helpful to myself or to anybody else. But now everything is different. I am not so rich as I was (I wish, Mr. Bird, you would not smile so provokingly when I mention my riches!), and I must not be idle any longer; so this is my plan, I want to be a story-teller by profession. Perhaps you will say that nobody has ever done it; but surely that is an advantage; I should have the field to myself for a while, at least. I have dear Mrs. Bird's little poor children as a foundation. Now, I would like to get groups of other children together in somebody's parlor twice a week and tell them stories,--the older children one day in the week and the younger ones another. Of course I have n't thought out all the details, because I hoped my Fairy Godmother would help me there, if she approved of my plan; but I have ever so many afternoons all arranged, and enough stories and songs at my tongue's end for three months. Do you think it impossible or nonsensical, Mr. Bird?" "No," said he thoughtfully, after a moment's pause. "It seems on the first hearing to be perfectly feasible. In fact, in one sense it will not be an experiment at all. You have tried your powers, gained self-possession and command of your natural resources; developed your ingenuity, learned the technicalities of your art, so to speak, already. You propose now, as I understand, to extend your usefulness, widen your sphere of action, address yourself to a larger public, and make a profession out of what was before only a side issue in your life. It's a new field, and it 's a noble one, taken in its highest aspect, as you have always taken it. My motto for you, Polly, is Goethe's couplet:-- "'What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.'" "Make way for the story-teller!" cried Edgar. "I will buy season tickets for both your groups, if you will only make your limit of age include me. I am only five feet ten, and I 'll sit very low if you 'll admit me to the charmed circle. Shall you have a stage name? I would suggest 'The Seraphic Sapphira.'" "Now, don't tease," said Polly, with dignity; "this is in sober earnest. What do you think, Fairy Godmother? I 've written to my dear Miss Mary Denison in Santa Barbara, and she likes the idea." "I think it is charming. In fact, I can hardly wait to begin. I will be your business manager, my Pollykins, and we 'll make it a success, if it is possible. If you 'll take me into your confidence and tell me what you mean to do, I will plan the hows and whens and wheres." "You see, dear people," continued Polly, "it is really the only thing that I know how to do; and I have had several months' experience, so that I 'm not entirely untrained. I 'm not afraid any more, so long as it is only children; though the presence of one grown person makes me tongue-tied. Grown-up people never know how to listen, somehow, and they make you more conscious of yourself. But when the children gaze up at you with their shining eyes and their parted lips,--the smiles just longing to be smiled and the tear-drops just waiting to glisten,--I don't know what there is about it, but it makes you wish you could go on forever and never break the spell. And it makes you tremble, too, for fear you should say anything wrong. You seem so close to children when you are telling them stories; just as if a little, little silken thread spun itself out from one side of your heart through each of theirs, until it came back to be fastened in your own again; and it holds so tight, so tight, when you have done your best and the children are pleased and grateful." For days after this discussion Polly felt as if she were dwelling on a mysterious height from which she could see all the kingdoms of the earth. She said little and thought much (oh, that this should come to be written of Polly Oliver!). The past which she had regretted with such passionate fervor still fought for a place among present plans and future hopes. But she was almost convinced in these days that a benevolent Power might after all be helping her to work out her own salvation in an appointed way, with occasional weariness and tears, like the rest of the world. It was in such a softened mood that she sat alone in church one Sunday afternoon at vespers. She had chosen a place where she was sure of sitting quietly by herself, and where the rumble of the organ and the words of the service would come to her soothingly. The late afternoon sun shone through the stained-glass windows, bringing out the tender blue on the Madonna's gown, the white on the wings of angels and robes of newborn innocents, the glow of rose and carmine, with here and there a glorious gleam of Tyrian purple. Then her eyes fell on a memorial window opposite her. A mother bowed with grief was seated on some steps of rough-hewn stones. The glory of her hair swept about her knees. Her arms were empty; her hands locked; her head bent. Above stood a little child, with hand just extended to open a great door, which was about to unclose and admit him. He reached up his hand fearlessly ("and that is faith," thought Polly), and at the same time he glanced down at his weeping mother, as if to say, "Look up, mother dear! I am safely in." Just then the choir burst into a grand hymn which was new to Polly, and which came to her with the force of a personal message:-- "The Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain; His blood-red banner streams afar-- Who follows in His train? Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain, Who patient bears his cross below, He follows in His train." Verse after verse rang in splendid strength through the solemn aisles of the church, ending with the lines:-- "O God, to us may strength be given To follow in His train!" Dr. George's voice came to Polly as it sounded that gray October afternoon beside the sea; "When the sun of one's happiness is set, one lights a candle called 'Patience,' and guides one's footsteps by that." She leaned her head on the pew in front of her, and breathed a prayer. The minister was praying for the rest of the people, but she needed to utter her own thought just then. "Father in heaven, I will try to follow; I have lighted my little candle, help me to keep it burning! I shall stumble often in the darkness, I know, for it was all so clear when I could walk by my darling mother's light, which was like the sun, so bright, so pure, so strong! Help me to keep the little candle steady, so that it may throw its beams farther and farther into the pathway that now looks so dim." * * * * * Polly sank to sleep that night in her white bed in the Pilgrim Chamber; and the name of the chamber was Peace indeed, for she had a smile on her lips,--a smile that looked as if the little candle had in truth been lighted in her soul, and was shining through her face as though it were a window. CHAPTER XVII. POLLY LAUNCHES HER SHIPS. There were great doings in the Birds Nest. A hundred dainty circulars, printed in black and scarlet on Irish linen paper, had been sent to those ladies on Mrs. Bird's calling-list who had children between the ages of five and twelve, that being Polly's chosen limit of age. These notes of invitation read as follows:-- "Come, tell us a story!" THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. Mrs. Donald Bird requests the pleasure of your company from 4.30 to 5.30 o'clock on Mondays or Thursdays from November to March inclusive. FIRST GROUP: Mondays. Children from 5 to 8 years. SECOND GROUP: Thursdays. " " 8 " 12 years. Each group limited in number to twenty-four. Miss Pauline Oliver will tell stories suitable to the ages of the children, adapted to their prevailing interests, and appropriate to the special months of the year. These stories will be chosen with the greatest care, and will embrace representative tales of all classes,--narrative, realistic, scientific, imaginative, and historical. They will be illustrated by songs and black-board sketches. Terms for the Series (Twenty Hours), Five Dollars. R.S.V.P. Polly felt an absolute sense of suffocation as she saw Mrs. Bird seal and address the last square envelope. "If anybody does come," she said, somewhat sadly, "I am afraid it will be only that the story hour is at your lovely house." "Don't be so foolishly independent, my child. If I gather the groups, it is only you who will be able to hold them together. I am your manager, and it is my duty to make the accessories as perfect as possible. When the scenery and costumes and stage-settings are complete, you enter and do the real work, I retire, and the sole responsibility for success or failure rests upon your shoulders; I should think that would be enough to satisfy the most energetic young woman. I had decided on the library as the scene of action; an open fire is indispensable, and that room is delightfully large when the centre-table is lifted out: but I am afraid it is hardly secluded enough, and that people might trouble you by coming in; so what do you think of the music-room upstairs? You will have your fire, your piano, plenty of space, and a private entrance for the chicks, who can lay their wraps in the hall as they pass up. I will take the large Turkish rug from the red guest-chamber,--that will make the room look warmer,--and I have a dozen other charming devices which I will give you later as surprises." "If I were half as sure of my part as I am of yours, dear Fairy Godmother, we should have nothing to fear. I have a general plan mapped out for the stories, but a great deal of the work will have to be done from week to week, as I go on. I shall use the same programme in the main for both groups, but I shall simplify everything and illustrate more freely for the little ones, telling the historical and scientific stories with much more detail to the older group. This is what Mr. Bird calls my 'basic idea,' which will be filled out from week to week according to inspiration. For November, I shall make autumn, the harvest, and Thanksgiving the starting-point. I am all ready with my historical story of 'The First Thanksgiving,' for I told it at the Children's Hospital last year, and it went beautifully. "I have one doll dressed in Dutch costume, to show how the children looked that the little Pilgrims played with in Holland; and another dressed like a Puritan maiden, to show them the simple old New England gown. Then I have two fine pictures of Miles Standish and the Indian chief Massasoit. "For December and January I shall have Christmas and winter, and frost and ice and snow, with the contrasts of eastern and Californian climates." "I can get the Immigration Bureau to give you a percentage on that story, Polly," said Uncle Jack Bird, who had strolled in and taken a seat. "Just make your facts strong enough, and you can make a handsome thing out of that idea." "Don't interrupt us, Jack," said Mrs. Bird; "and go directly out, if you please. You were not asked to this party." "Where was I?" continued Polly. "Oh yes,--the contrast between Californian and eastern winters; and January will have a moral story or two, you know,--New Year's resolutions, and all that. February will be full of sentiment and patriotism,--St. Valentine's Day and Washington's Birthday,--I can hardly wait for that, there are so many lovely things to do in that month. March will bring in the first hint of spring. The winds will serve for my science story; and as it chances to be a presidential year, we will celebrate Inauguration Day, and have some history, if a good many subscribers come in." "Why do you say 'if,' Polly? Multitudes of names are coming in. I have told you so from the beginning." "Very well, then; when a sufficient number of names are entered, I should like to spend ten dollars on a very large sand-table, which I can use with the younger group for illustrations. It is perfectly clean work, and I have helped Miss Denison and her children to do the loveliest things with it. She makes geography lessons,--plains, hills, mountains, valleys, rivers, and lakes; or the children make a picture of the story they have just heard. I saw them do 'Over the River and through the Wood to Grandfather's House we go,' 'Washington's Winter Camp at Valley Forge,' and 'The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.' I have ever so many songs chosen, and those for November and December are almost learned without my notes. I shall have to work very hard to be ready twice a week!" "Too hard, I fear," said Mrs. Bird anxiously. "Oh, no; not a bit too hard! If the children are only interested, I shall not mind any amount of trouble. By the way, dear Mrs. Bird, you won't let the nurses or mothers stand in the doorways? You will please see that I am left quite alone with the children, won't you?" "Certainly; no mothers shall be admitted, if they make you nervous; it is the children's hour. But after two or three months, when you have all become acquainted, and the children are accustomed to listening attentively, I almost hope you will allow a few nurses to come in and sit in the corners,--the ones who bring the youngest children, for example; it would be such a means of education to them. There 's another idea for you next year,--a nurses' class in story-telling." "It would be rather nice, would n't it?--and I should be older then, and more experienced. I really think I could do it, if Miss Denison would help me by talks and instructions. She will be here next year. Oh, how the little plan broadens out!" "And, Polly, you have chosen to pay for your circulars, and propose to buy your sand-table. This I agree to, if you insist upon it; though why I shouldn't help my godchild I cannot quite understand. But knowing you were so absorbed in other matters that you would forget the frivolities, and remembering that you have been wearing the same two dresses for months, I have ventured to get you some pretty gowns for the 'story hours,' and I want you to accept them for your Christmas present. They will serve for all your 'afternoons' and for our home dinners, as you will not be going out anywhere this winter." "Oh, how kind you are, Mrs. Bird! You load me with benefits, and how can I ever repay you?" "You do not have to repay them to me necessarily, my child; you can pass them over, as you will be constantly doing, to all these groups of children, day after day. I am a sort of stupid, rich old lady who serves as a source of supply. My chief brilliancy lies in devising original methods of getting rid of my surplus in all sorts of odd and delightful ways, left untried, for the most part, by other people. I 've been buying up splendid old trees in the outskirts of certain New England country towns,--trees that were in danger of being cut down for wood. Twenty-five to forty dollars buys a glorious tree, and it is safe for ever and ever to give shade to the tired traveler and beauty to the landscape. Each of my boys has his pet odd scheme for helping the world to 'go right.' Donald, for instance, puts stamps on the unstamped letters displayed in the Cambridge post-office, and sends them spinning on their way. He never receives the thanks of the careless writers, but he takes pleasure in making things straight. Paul writes me from Phillips Academy that this year he is sending the nine Ruggles children (a poor family of our acquaintance) to some sort of entertainment once every month. Hugh has just met a lovely girl who has induced him to help her maintain a boarding establishment for sick and deserted cats and dogs; and there we are!" "But I 'm a young, strong girl, and I fear I 'm not so worthy an object of charity as a tree, an unstamped letter, an infant Ruggles, or a deserted cat! Still, I know the dresses will be lovely, and I had quite forgotten that I must be clothed in purple and fine linen for five months to come. It would have been one of my first thoughts last year, I am afraid; but lately this black dress has shut everything else from my sight." "It was my thought that you should give up your black dress just for these occasions, dear, and wear something more cheerful for the children's sake. The dresses are very simple, for I 've heard you say you can never tell a story when you are 'dressed up,' but they will please you, I know. They will be brought home this evening, and you must slip them all on, and show yourself to us in each." They would have pleased anybody, even a princess, Polly thought, as she stood before her bed that evening patting the four pretty new waists, and smoothing with childlike delight the folds of the four pretty skirts. It was such an odd sensation to have four dresses at a time! They were of simple and inexpensive materials, as was appropriate; but Mrs. Bird's exquisite taste and feeling for what would suit Polly's personality made them more attractive than if they had been rich or expensive. There was a white China silk, with belt and shoulder-knots of black velvet; a white Japanese crepe, with purple lilacs strewed over its surface, and frills of violet ribbon for ornament; a Christmas dress of soft, white camel's hair, with bands of white-fox fur round the slightly pointed neck and elbow-sleeves; and, last of all, a Quaker gown of silver-gray nun's cloth, with a surplice and full undersleeves of white crêpe-lisse. "I 'm going to be vain, Mrs. Bird!" cried Polly, with compunction in her voice. "I 've never had a real beautiful, undyed, un-made-over dress in my whole life, and I shall never have strength of character to own four at once without being vain!" This speech was uttered through the crack of the library door, outside of which Polly stood, gathering courage to walk in and be criticised. "Think of your aspiring nose, Sapphira!" came from a voice within. "Oh, are you there too, Edgar?" "Of course I am, and so is Tom Mills. The news that you are going to 'try on' is all over the neighborhood! If you have cruelly fixed the age limit so that we can't possibly get in to the performances, we are going to attend all the dress rehearsals. Oh, ye little fishes! what a seraphic Sapphira! I wish Tony were here!" She was pretty, there was no doubt about it, as she turned around like a revolving wax figure in a show-window, and assumed absurd fashion-plate attitudes; and pretty chiefly because of the sparkle, intelligence, sunny temper, and vitality that made her so magnetic. Nobody could decide which was the loveliest dress, even when she had appeared in each one twice. In the lilac and white crepe, with a bunch of dark Parma violets thrust in her corsage, Uncle Jack called her a poem. Edgar asserted openly that in the Christmas toilet he should like to have her modeled in wax and put in a glass case on his table; but Mrs. Bird and Tom Mills voted for the Quaker gray, in which she made herself inexpressibly demure by braiding her hair in two discreet braids down her back. "The dress rehearsal is over. Good-night all!" she said, as she took her candle. "I will say 'handsome is as handsome does' fifty times before I go to sleep, and perhaps--I only say perhaps--I may be used to my beautiful clothes in a week or two, so that I shall be my usual modest self again." "Good-night, Polly," said the boys; "we will see you to-morrow." "'Pauline,' if you please, not 'Polly.' I ceased to be Polly this morning when the circulars were posted. I am now Miss Pauline Oliver, story-teller by profession." CHAPTER XVIII. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR: REPORTED IN A LETTER BY AN EYE-WITNESS. It was the last Monday in March, and I had come in from my country home to see if I could find my old school friend, Margaret Crosby, who is now Mrs. Donald Bird, and who is spending a few years in California. The directory gave me her address, and I soon found myself on the corner of two beautiful streets and before a very large and elegant house. This did not surprise me, as I knew her husband to be a very wealthy man. There seemed to be various entrances, for the house stood with its side to the main street; but when I had at last selected a bell to ring, I became convinced that I had not, after all, gone to the front door. It was too late to retreat, however, and very soon the door was opened by a pretty maid-servant in a white cap and apron. "You need n't have rung, 'm; they goes right in without ringing to-day," she said pleasantly. "Can I see Mrs. Bird?" I asked. "Well, 'm," she said hesitatingly, "she 's in Paradise." "Lovely Margaret Crosby dead! How sudden it must have been," I thought, growing pale with the shock of the surprise; but the pretty maid, noticing that something had ruffled my equanimity, went on hastily:-- "Excuse me, 'm. I forgot you might be a stranger, but the nurses and mothers always comes to this door, and we 're all a bit flustered on account of its bein' Miss Pauline's last 'afternoon,' and the mothers call the music-room 'Paradise,' 'm, and Mr. John and the rest of us have took it up without thinkin' very much how it might sound to strangers." "Oh, I see," I said mechanically, though I did n't see in the least; but although the complicated explanation threw very little light on general topics, it did have the saving grace of assuring me that Margaret Bird was living. "Could you call her out for a few minutes?" I asked. "I am an old friend, and shall be disappointed not to see her." "I 'm sorry, 'm, but I could n't possibly call her out; it would be as much as my place is worth. Her strict orders is that nobody once inside of Paradise door shall be called out." "That does seem reasonable," I thought to myself. "But," she continued, "Mrs. Bird told me to let young Mr. Noble up the stairs so 't he could peek in the door, and as you 're an old friend I hev n't no objections to your goin' up softly and peekin' in with him till Miss Pauline 's through,--it won't be long, 'm." My curiosity was aroused by this time, and I came to the conclusion that "peekin' in the door" of Paradise with "young Mr. Noble" would be better than nothing; so up I went, like a thief in the night. The room was at the head of the stairs, and one of the doors was open, and had a heavy portiere hanging across it. Behind this was young Mr. Noble, "peekin'" most greedily, together with a middle-aged gentleman not described by the voluble parlor maid. They did n't seem to notice me; they were otherwise occupied, or perhaps they thought me one of the nurses or mothers. I had heard the sound of a piano as I crossed the hall, but it was still now. I crept behind young Mr. Noble, and took a good "peek" into Paradise. It was a very large apartment, one that looked as if it might have been built for a ball-room; at least, there was a wide, cushioned bench running around three sides of it, close to the wall. On one side, behind some black and gold Japanese screens, where they could hear and not be seen, sat a row of silent, capped and aproned nurse-maids and bonneted mammas. Mrs. Bird was among them, lovely and serene as an angel still, though she has had her troubles. There was a great fireplace in the room, but it was banked up with purple and white lilacs. There was a bowl of the same flowers on the grand piano, and a clump of bushes sketched in chalk on a blackboard. Just then a lovely young girl walked from the piano and took a low chair in front of the fireplace. Before her there were grouped ever so many children, twenty-five or thirty, perhaps. The tots in the front rows were cosy and comfortable on piles of cushions, and the seven or eight year olds in the back row were in seats a little higher. Each child had a sprig of lilac in its hand. The young girl wore a soft white dress with lavender flowers scattered all over it, and a great bunch of the flowers in her belt. She was a lovely creature! At least, I believe she was. I have an indistinct remembrance that her enemies (if she has any) might call her hair red; but I could n't stop looking at her long enough at the time to decide precisely what color it was. And I believe, now that several days have passed, that her nose turned up; but at the moment, whenever I tried to see just how much it wandered from the Grecian outline, her eyes dazzled me and I never found out. As she seated herself in their midst, the children turned their faces expectantly toward her, like flowers toward the sun. "You know it 's the last Monday, dears," she said; "and we 've had our good-by story." "Tell it again! Sing it again!" came from two kilted adorers in the back row. "Not to-day;" and she shook her head with a smile. "You know we always stop within the hour, and that is the reason we are always eager to come again; but this sprig of lilac that you all hold in your hands has something to tell; not a long story, just a piece of one for another good-by. I think when we go home, it we all press the flowers in heavy books, and open the books sometimes while we are away from each other this summer, that the sweet fragrance will come to us again, and the faded blossom will tell its own story to each one of us. And this is the story," she said, as she turned her spray of lilac in her fingers. * * * * * There was once a little lilac-bush that grew by a child's window. There was no garden there, only a tiny bit of ground with a few green things in it; and because there were no trees in the crowded streets, the birds perched on the lilac-bush to sing, and two of them even built a nest in it once, for want of something larger. It had been a very busy lilac-bush all its life: drinking up moisture from the earth and making it into sap; adding each year a tiny bit of wood to its slender trunk; filling out its leaf-buds; making its leaves larger and larger; and then--oh, happy, happy time!--hanging purple flowers here and there among its branches. It always felt glad of its hard work when Hester came to gather some of its flowers just before Easter Sunday. For one spray went to the table where Hester and her mother ate together; one to Hester's teacher; one to the gray stone church around the corner, and one to a little lame girl who sat, and sat, quite still, day after day, by the window of the next house. But one year--this very last year, children--the lilac-bush grew tired of being good and working hard; and the more it thought about it, the sadder and sorrier and more discouraged it grew. The winter had been dark and rainy; the ground was so wet that its roots felt slippery and uncomfortable; there was some disagreeable moss growing on its smooth branches; the sun almost never shone; the birds came but seldom; and at last the lilac-bush said, "I will give up: I am not going to bud or bloom or do a single thing for Easter this year! I don't care if my trunk does n't grow, nor my buds swell, nor my leaves grow larger! If Hester wants her room shaded, she can pull the curtain down; and the lame girl can"--_do without_, it was going to say, but it did n't dare--oh, it did n't dare to think of the poor little lame girl without any comforting flowers; so it stopped short and hung its head. Six or eight weeks ago Hester and her mother went out one morning to see the lilac-bush. "It does n't look at all as it ought," said Hester, shaking her head sadly. "The buds are very few, and they are all shrunken. See how limp and flabby the stems of the leaves look!" "Perhaps it is dead," said Hester's mother, "or perhaps it is too old to bloom." "I like that!" thought the lilac-bush. "I 'm not dead and I 'm not dying, though I 'd just as lief die as to keep on working in this dark, damp, unpleasant winter, or spring, or whatever they call it; and as for being past blooming, I would just like to show her, if it was n't so much trouble! How old does she think I am, I wonder? There is n't a thing in this part of the city that is over ten years old, and I was n't planted first, by any means!" And then Hester said, "My darling, darling lilac-bush! Easter won't be Easter without it; and lame Jenny leans out of her window every day as I come from school, and asks, 'Is the lilac budding?'" "Oh dear!" sighed the little bush. "I wish she would n't talk that way; it makes me so nervous to have Jenny asking questions about me! It starts my sap circulating, and I shall grow in spite of me!" "Let us see what we can do to help it," said Hester's mother. "Take your trowel and dig round the roots first." "They 'll find a moist and sticky place and be better able to sympathize with me," thought the lilac. "Then put in some new earth, the richest you can get, and we 'll snip off all the withered leaves and dry twigs, and see if it won't take a new start." "I shall have to, I believe, whether I like it or not, if they make such a fuss about me!" thought the lilac-bush. "It seems a pity if a thing can't stop growing and be let alone and die if it wants to!" But though it grumbled a trifle at first, it felt so much better after Hester and her mother had spent the afternoon caring for it, that it began to grow a little just out of gratitude,--and what do you think happened? "George Washington came and chopped it down with his little hatchet," said an eager person in front. "The lame girl came to look at it," sang out a small chap in the back row. No, (the young girl answered, with an irrepressible smile), it was a cherry-tree that George Washington chopped, Lucy; and I told you, Horatio, that the poor lame girl could n't walk a step. But the sun began to shine,--that is the first thing that happened. Day after day the sun shone, because everything seems to help the people and the things that help themselves. The rich earth gave everything it had to give for sap, and the warm air dried up the ugly moss that spoiled the beauty of its trunk. Then the lilac-bush was glad again, and it could hardly grow fast enough, because it knew it would be behind time, at any rate; for of course it could n't stand still, grumbling and doing nothing for weeks, and get its work done as soon as the other plants. But it made sap all clay long, and the buds grew into tiny leaves, and the leaves into larger ones, and then it began to group its flower-buds among the branches. By this time it was the week before Easter, and it fairly sat up nights to work. Hester knew that it was going to be more beautiful than it ever was in its life before (that was because it had never tried so hard, though of course Hester could n't know that), but she was only afraid that it would n't bloom soon enough, it was so very late this spring. But the very morning before Easter Sunday, Hester turned in her sleep and dreamed that a sweet, sweet fragrance was stealing in at her open window. A few minutes later she ran across her room, and lo! every cluster of buds on the lilac-bush had opened into purple flowers, and they were waving in the morning sunshine as if to say, "We are ready, Hester! We are ready, after all!" And one spray was pinned in the teacher's dress,--it was shabby and black,--and she was glad of the flower because it reminded her of home. And one spray stood in a vase on Hester's dining-table. There was never very much dinner in Hester's house, but they did not care that day, because the lilac was so beautiful. One bunch lay on the table in the church, and one, the loveliest of all, stood in a cup of water on the lame girl's window-sill; and when she went to bed that night she moved it to the table beside her head, and put her thin hand out to touch it in the dark, and went to sleep smiling. And each of the lilac flowers was glad that the bush had bloomed. * * * * * The children drew a deep breath. They smoothed their flower-sprays gently, and one pale boy held his up to his cheek as if it had been a living thing. "Tell it again," cried the tomboy. "Is it true?" asked the boy in kilts. "I think it is," said the girl gently. "Of course, Tommy, the flowers never tell us their secrets in words; but I have watched that lilac-bush all through the winter and spring, and these are the very blossoms you are holding to-day. It seems true, doesn't it?" "Yes," they said thoughtfully. "Shall you press yours, Miss Polly, and will it tell you a story, too, when you look at it?" asked one little tot as they all crowded about her for a good-by kiss. Miss Polly caught her up in her arms, and I saw her take the child's apron and wipe away a tear as she said, "Yes, dear, it will tell me a story, too,--a long, sad, sweet, helpful story!" 
21228	----	White Lilac, by Amy Walton ________________________________________________________________ Mrs White had had several children before the birth of this one, but they had all died. This makes her quite determined to make sure that this one survives. She was telling a visitor that she thought of calling the baby Annie, in honour of the visitor, but she had just been saying how much she loved white lilacs, and her husband had brought a branch of it over from a nearby village. So the visitor said, call her Lilac White, as there were already too many Annie Whites in the village. Unfortunately the father dies shortly after, and the mother has to bring the child up on her own. Now she is twelve, and a pretty child. A visiting artist asks if he may put her in one of his pictures. Lilac goes off with her cousin Agnetta, who believes she needs a new hair-do. Needless to say, the result is not attractive to the artist, who now refuses to put her in the picture. Other characters in the story are Uncle Joshua, who is a good and well-loved man, and Peter, probably in his late teens, who is a farm worker, well-intentioned but clumsy. A big event in the village is May Day, and there is rivalry among the girls about which of them shall be Queen of the May. It is Lilac. Yet that very day her mother is taken ill and dies. She is taken to their home by a farmer and his wife, and taught the dairymaid arts such as butter and cheese making. In those days a girl such as Lilac would hope to be taken into domestic service and trained up to such high levels as house-keeper or cook. Lilac has some opportunities--will she or won't she take them up? A lovely book that takes us back to long-gone days in the pastoral England of the 1850s. NH ________________________________________________________________ WHITE LILAC, BY AMY WALTON CHAPTER ONE. A BUNCH OF LILAC. "What's in a name?"--_Shakespeare_. Mrs James White stood at her cottage door casting anxious glances up at the sky, and down the hill towards the village. If it were fine the rector's wife had promised to come and see the baby, "and certainly," thought Mrs White, shading her eyes with her hand, "you might call it fine--for April." There were sharp showers now and then, to be sure, but the sun shone between whiles, and sudden rays darted through her little window strong enough to light up the whole room. Their searching glances disclosed nothing she was ashamed of, for they showed that the kitchen was neat and well ordered, with bits of good substantial furniture in it, such as a long-bodied clock, table, and dresser of dark oak. These polished surfaces smiled back again cheerfully as the light touched them, and the row of pewter plates on the high mantelshelf glistened so brightly that they were as good as so many little mirrors. But beside these useful objects the sunlight found out two other things in the room, at which it pointed its bright finger with special interest. One of these was a large bunch of pure white lilac which stood on the window sill in a brown mug, and the other was a wicker cradle in which lay something very much covered up in blankets. After a last lingering look down the hill, where no one was in sight, Mrs White shut her door and settled herself to work, with the lilac at her elbow, and the cradle at her foot. She rocked this gently while she sewed, and turned her head now and then, when her needle wanted threading, to smell the delicate fragrance of the flowers. Her face was grave, with a patient and rather sad expression, as though her memories were not all happy ones; but by degrees, as she sat there working and rocking, some pleasant thought brought a smile to her lips and softened her eyes. This became so absorbing that presently she did not see a figure pass the window, and when a knock at the door followed, she sprang up startled to open it for her expected visitor. "I'd most given you up, ma'am," she said as the lady entered, "but I'm very glad to see you." It was not want of cordiality but want of breath which caused a beaming smile to be the only reply to this welcome. The hill was steep, the day was mild, and Mrs Leigh was rather stout. She at once dropped with a sigh of relief, but still smiling, into a chair, and cast a glance full of interest at the cradle, which Mrs White understood as well as words. Bending over it she peeped cautiously in amongst the folds of flannel. "She's so fast, it's a sin to take her up, ma'am," she murmured, "but I _would_ like you to see her." Mrs Leigh had now recovered her power of speech. "Don't disturb her for the world," she said, "I'm not going away yet. I shall be glad to rest a little. She'll wake presently, I dare say. What is it," she continued, looking round the room, "that smells so delicious? Oh, what lovely lilac!" as her eye rested on the flowers in the window. Mrs White had taken up her sewing again. "I always liked the laylocks myself, ma'am," she said, "partic'ler the white ones. It were a common bush in the part I lived as a gal, but there's not much hereabouts." "Where did you get it?" asked Mrs Leigh, leaning forward to smell the pure-white blossoms; "I thought there was only the blue in the village." "Why, no more there is," said Mrs White with a half-ashamed smile; "but Jem, he knows I'm a bit silly over them, and he got 'em at Cuddingham t'other day. You see, the day I said I'd marry him he gave me a bunch of white laylocks--and that's ten years ago. Sitting still so much more than I'm used lately, with the baby, puts all sorts of foolishness into my head, and when you knocked just now it gave me quite a start, for the smell of the laylocks took me right back to the days when we were sweetheartin'." "How _is_ Jem?" asked Mrs Leigh, glancing at a gun which stood in the chimney corner. "He's _well_, ma'am, thank you, but out early and home late. There's bin poaching in the woods lately, and the keepers have a lot of trouble with 'em." "None of _our_ people, I _hope_?" said the rector's wife anxiously. "Oh dear, no, ma'am! A gipsy lot--a cruel wild set, to be sure, from what Jem says, and fight desperate." There was a stir amongst the blankets in the cradle just then, and presently a little cry. The baby was _awake_. Very soon she was in Mrs Leigh's arms, who examined the tiny face with great interest, while the mother stood by, silent, but eager for the first expression of admiration. "What a beautifully fair child!" exclaimed Mrs Leigh. "Everyone says that as sees her," said Mrs White with quiet triumph. "She features my mother's family--they all had such wonderful white skins. But," anxiously, "you don't think she looks weakly, do you, ma'am?" "Oh, no," answered Mrs Leigh in rather a doubtful tone. She stood up and weighed the child in her arms, moving nearer the window. "She's a little thing, but I dare say she's not the less strong for that." "It makes me naturally a bit fearsome over her," said Mrs White; "for, as you know, ma'am, I've buried three children since we've bin here. Ne'er a one of 'em all left me. It seems when I look at this little un as how I _must_ keep her. I don't seem as if I _could_ let her go too." "Oh, she'll grow up and be a comfort to you, I don't doubt," said Mrs Leigh cheerfully. "Fair-complexioned children are very often wonderfully healthy and strong. But really," she continued, looking closely at the baby's face, "I never saw such a skin in my life. Why, she's as white as milk, or snow, or a lily, or--" She paused for a comparison, and suddenly added, as her eye fell on the flowers, "or that bunch of lilac." "You're right, ma'am," agreed Mrs White with a smile of intense gratification. "And if I were you," continued Mrs Leigh, her good-natured face beaming all over with a happy idea, "I should call her `Lilac'. That would be a beautiful name for her. Lilac White. Nothing could be better; it seems made for her." Mrs White's expression changed to one of grave doubt. "It do _seem_ as how it would fit her," she said; "but that's not a Christian name, is it, ma'am?" "Well, it would make it one if you had her christened so, you see." "I was thinking of making so bold as to call her `Annie', and to ask you to stand for her, ma'am." "And so I will, with pleasure. But don't call her Annie; we've got so many Annies in the parish already it's quite confusing--and so many Whites too. We should have to say `Annie White on the hill' every time we spoke of her. I'm always mixing them up as it is. _Don't_ call her Annie, Mrs White, Lilac's far better. Ask your husband what he thinks of it." "Oh! Jem, he'll think as I do, ma'am," said Mrs White at once; "it isn't _Jem_." "Who is it, then? If you both like the name it can't matter to anyone else." "Well, ma'am," said Mrs White hesitatingly, as she took her child from Mrs Leigh, and rocked it gently in her arms, "they'll all say down below in the village, as how it's a fancy sort of a name, and maybe when she grows up they'll laugh at her for it. I shouldn't like to feel as how I'd given her a name to be made game of." But Mrs Leigh was much too pleased with her fancy to give it up, and she smilingly overcame this objection and all others. It was a pretty, simple, and modest-sounding name, she said, with nothing in it that could be made laughable. It was short to say, and above all it had the advantage of being uncommon; as it was, so many mothers had desired the honour of naming their daughters after the rector's wife, that the number of "Annies" was overwhelming, but there certainly would not be two "Lilac Whites" in the village. In short, as Mrs White told Jem that evening, Mrs Leigh was "that set" on the name that she had to give in to her. And so it was settled; and wonderfully soon afterwards it was rumoured in the village that Mrs James White on the hill meant to call her baby "Lilac." This could not matter to anyone else, Mrs Leigh had said, but she was mistaken. Every mother in the parish had her opinion to offer, for there were not so many things happening, that even the very smallest could be passed over without a proper amount of discussion when neighbours met. On the whole they were not favourable opinions. It was felt that Mrs White, who had always held herself high and been severe on the follies of her friends, had now in her turn laid herself open to remark by choosing an outlandish and fanciful name for her child. Lilies, Roses, and even Violets were not unknown in Danecross, but who had ever heard of Lilac? Mrs Greenways said so, and she had a right to speak, not only because she lived at Orchards Farm, which was the biggest in the parish, but because her husband was Mrs White's brother. She said it at all times and in all places, but chiefly at "Dimbleby's", for if you dropped in there late in the afternoon you were pretty sure to find acquaintances, eager to hear and tell news; and this was specially the case on Saturday, which was shopping day. Dimbleby's was quite a large shop, and a very important one, for there was no other in the village; it was rather dark, partly because the roof was low-pitched, and partly because of the wonderful number and variety of articles crammed into it, so that it would have puzzled anyone to find out what Dimbleby did not sell. The air was also a little thick to breathe, for there floated in it a strange mixture, made up of unbleached calico, corduroy, smockfrocks, boots, and bacon. All these articles and many others were to be seen piled up on shelves or counters, or dangling from the low beams overhead; and, lately, there had been added to the stock a number of small clocks, stowed away out of sight. Their hasty ceaseless little voices sounded in curious contrast to the slowness of things in general at Dimbleby's: "Tick-tack, tick-tack,--Time flies, time flies", they seemed to be saying over and over again. Without effect, for at Dimbleby's time never flew; he plodded along on dull and heavy feet, and if he had wings at all he dragged them on the ground. You had only to look at the face of the master of the shop to see that speed was impossible to him, and that he was justly known as the slowest man in the parish both in speech and action. This was hardly considered a failing, however, for it had its advantages in shopping; if he was slow himself, he was quite willing that others should be so too, and to stand in unmoved calm while Mrs Jones fingered a material to test its quality, or Mrs Wilson made up her mind between a spot and a sprig. It was therefore a splendid place for a bit of talk, for he was so long in serving, and his customers were so long in choosing, that there was an agreeable absence of pressure, and time to drink a cup of gossip down to its last drop of interest. "I don't understand myself what Mary White would be at," said Mrs Greenways. She stood waiting in the shop while Dimbleby thoughtfully weighed out some sugar for her; a stout woman with a round good-natured face, framed in a purple-velvet bonnet and nodding flowers; her long mantle matched the bonnet in stylishness, and was richly trimmed with imitation fur, but the large strong basket on her arm, already partly full of parcels, was quite out of keeping with this splendid attire. The two women who stood near, listening with eager respect to her remarks, were of very different appearance; their poor thin shawls were put on without any regard for fashion, and their straight cotton dresses were short enough to show their clumsy boots, splashed with mud from the miry country lanes. The edge of Mrs Greenways' gown was also draggled and dirty, for she had not found it easy to hold it up and carry a large basket at the same time. "I thought," she went on, "as how Mary White was all for plain names, and homely ways, and such-like." "She _do say_ so," said the woman nearest to her, cautiously. "Then, as I said to Greenways this morning, `It's not a consistent act for your sister to name her child like that. Accordin' to her you ought to have names as simple and common as may be.' Why, think of what she said when I named my last, which is just a year ago. `And what do you think of callin' her?' says she. `Why,' says I, `I think of giving her the name of Agnetta.' `Dear me!' says she; `whyever do you give your girls such fine names? There's your two eldest, Isabella and Augusta; I'd call this one Betsy, or Jane, or Sarah, or something easy to say, and suitable.'" "_Did_ she, now?" said both the listeners at once. "And it's not only that," continued Mrs Greenways with a growing sound of injury in her voice, "but she's always on at me when she gets a chance about the way I bring my girls up. `You'd a deal better teach her to make good butter,' says she, when I told her that Bella was learning the piano. And when I showed her that screen Gusta worked-- lilies on blue satting, a re'lly elegant thing--she just turned her head and says, `I'd rather, if she were a gal of mine, see her knit her own stockings.' Those were her words, Mrs Wishing." "Ah, well, it's easy to talk," replied Mrs Wishing soothingly, "we'll be able to see how she'll bring up a daughter of her own now." "I'm not saying," pursued Mrs Greenways, turning a watchful eye on Mr Dimbleby's movements, "that Mary White haven't a perfect right to name her child as she chooses. I'm too fair for that, I _hope_. What I do say is, that now she's picked up a fancy sort of name like Lilac, she hasn't got any call to be down on other people. And if me and Greenways likes to see our girls genteel and give 'em a bit of finishing eddication, and set 'em off with a few accomplishments, it's our own affair and not Mary White's. And though I say it as shouldn't, you won't find two more elegant gals than Gusta and Bella, choose where you may." During the last part of her speech Mrs Greenways had been poking and squeezing her parcel of sugar into its appointed corner of her basket; as she finished she settled it on her arm, clutched at her gown with the other hand, and prepared to start. "And now, as I'm in a hurry, I'll say good night, Mrs Pinhorn and Mrs Wishing, and good night to you, Mr Dimbleby." She rolled herself and her burden through the narrow door of the shop, and for a moment no one spoke, while all the little clocks ticked away more busily than ever. "She's got enough to carry," said Mrs Pinhorn, breaking silence at last, with a sideway nod at her neighbour. "She have _so_," agreed Mrs Wishing mildly; "and I wonder, that I do, to see her carrying that heavy basket on foot--she as used to come in her spring cart." Mrs Pinhorn pressed her lips together before answering, then she said with meaning: "They're short of hands just now at Orchards Farm, and maybe short of horses too." "You don't say so!" said Mrs Wishing, drawing nearer. "My Ben works there, as you know, and he says money's scarce there, very scarce indeed. One of the men got turned off only t'other day." "Lor', now, to think of that!" exclaimed Mrs Wishing in an awed manner. "An' her in that bonnet an' all them artificials!" "There's a deal," continued Mrs Pinhorn, "in what Mrs White says about them two Greenways gals with their fine-lady ways. It 'ud a been better to bring 'em up handy in the house so as to help their mother. As it is, they're too finnicking to be a bit of use. You wouldn't see either of _them_ with a basket on their arm, they'd think it lowering themselves. And I dare say the youngest 'll grow up just like 'em." "There's a deal in what Mrs Greenways's just been saying too," remarked the woman called Mrs Wishing in a hesitating voice, "for Mrs James White _is_ a very strict woman and holds herself high, and `Lilac' is a fanciful kind of a name; but _I_ dunno." She broke off as if feeling incapable of dealing with the question. "I can't wonder myself," resumed Mrs Pinhorn, "at Mrs Greenways being a bit touchy. You heard, I s'pose, what Mrs White up and said to her once? You didn't? Well, she said, `You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and you'll never make them girls ladies, try all you will,' says she. `Useless things you'll make 'em, fit for neither one station or t'other.'" "That there's plain speaking!" said Mrs Wishing admiringly. Mr Dimbleby had not uttered a word during this conversation, and was to all appearance entirely occupied in weighing out, tying up parcels, and receiving orders. In reality, however, he had not lost a word of it, and had been getting ready to speak for some time past. Neither of the women, who were well acquainted with him, was at all surprised when he suddenly remarked: "It were Mrs Leigh herself as had to do with the name of Mrs James White's baby." "Re'lly, now?" said Mrs Wishing doubtfully. "An' it were Mrs Leigh herself as I heard it from," continued Dimbleby ponderously, without noticing the interruption. "Well, that makes a difference, don't it now?" said Mrs Pinhorn. "Why ever didn't you name that afore, Mr Dimbleby?" "And," added Dimbleby, grinding on to the end of his speech regardless of hindrance, like a machine that has been wound up; "and Mrs Leigh herself is goin' to stand for the baby." "Lor'! I do wish Mrs Greenways could a heard that," said Mrs Pinhorn; "that'll set Mrs White up more than ever." "It will so," said Mrs Wishing; "she allers did keep herself _to_ herself did Mrs White. Not but what she's a decent woman and a kind. Seems as how, if Mrs Leigh wished to name the child `Lilac', she couldn't do no other than fall in with it. But _I_ dunno." "And how does the name strike you, Mr Snell?" said Mrs Pinhorn, turning to a newcomer. He was an oldish man, short and broad-shouldered, with a large head and serious grey eyes. Not only his leather apron, but the ends of his stumpy fingers, which were discoloured and brown, showed that he was a cobbler by trade. When Mrs Pinhorn spoke to him, he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, took off his hat, and passed his hand over his high bald forehead. "What name may you be alludin' to, ma'am?" he enquired very politely. "The name `Lilac' as Mrs James White's goin' to call her child." "Lilac--eh! Lilac White. White Lilac," repeated the cobbler musingly. "Well, ma'am, 'tis a pleasant bush and a homely; I can't wish the maid no better than to grow up like her name." "Why, you wouldn't for sure wish her to grow up homely, would you now, Mr Snell?" said Mrs Wishing with a feeble laugh. "I _would_, ma'am," replied Mr Snell, turning rather a severe eye upon the questioner, "I _would_. For why? Because to be homely is to make the common things of home sweet and pleasant. She can't do no better than that." Mrs Wishing shrank silenced into the background, like one who has been reproved, and the cobbler advanced to the counter to exchange greetings with Mr Dimbleby, and buy tobacco. The women's voices, the sharp ticking of the clocks, and the deeper tones of the men kept up a steady concert for some time undisturbed. But suddenly the door was thrown violently back on its hinges with a bang, and a tall man in labourer's clothes rushed into their midst. Everyone looked up startled, and on Mrs Wishing's face there was fear as well as surprise when she recognised the newcomer. "Why, Dan'l, my man," she exclaimed, "what is it?" Daniel was out of breath with running. He rubbed his forehead with a red pocket handkerchief, looked round in a dazed manner at the assembled group, and at length said hoarsely: "Mrs Greenways bin here?" "Ah, just gone!" said both the women at once. "There's trouble up yonder--on the hill," said Daniel, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and speaking in a strange, broken voice. "Mary White's baby!" exclaimed Mrs Pinhorn. "Fits!" added Mrs Wishing; "they all went off that way." "Hang the baby," muttered Daniel. He made his way past the women, who had pressed up close to him, to where the cobbler and Dimbleby stood. "I've fetched the doctor," he said, "and she wants the Greenways to know it; I thought maybe she'd be here." "What is it? Who's ill?" asked the cobbler. "Tain't anyone that's ill," answered Daniel; "he's stone dead. They shot him right through the heart." "Who? Who?" cried all the voices together. "I found him," continued Daniel, "up in the woods; partly covered up with leaves he was. Smiling peaceful and stone dead. He was always a brave feller and done his dooty, did James White on the hill. But he won't never do it no more." "Poachers!" exclaimed Dimbleby in a horror-struck voice. "Poachers it was, sure enough," said Daniel; "an' he's stone dead, James White is. They shot him right through the heart. Seems a pity such a brave chap should die like that." "An' him such a good husband!" said Mrs Wishing. "An' the baby an' all as we was just talking on," said Mrs Pinhorn; "well, it's a fatherless child now, anyway." "The family ought to allow the widder a pension," said Mr Dimbleby, "seeing as James White died in their service, so to speak." "They couldn't do no less," agreed the cobbler. The idea of fetching Mrs Greenways seemed to have left Daniel's mind for the present: he had now taken a chair, and was engaged in answering the questions with which he was plied on all sides, and in trying to fix the exact hour when he had found poor James White in the woods. "As it might be here, and me standing as it might be there," he said, illustrating his words with the different parcels on the counter before him. It was not until all this was thoroughly understood, and every imaginable expression of pity and surprise had been uttered, that Mrs Pinhorn remembered that the "Greenways ought to know. And I don't see why," she added, seizing her basket with sudden energy, "I shouldn't take her up myself; I'm goin' that way, and she's a slow traveller." "An' then Dan'l can go straight up home with me," said Mrs Wishing, "and we can drop in as we pass an' see Mrs White, poor soul. She hadn't ought to be alone." Before nightfall everyone knew the sad tidings. James White had been shot by poachers, and Daniel Wishing had found him lying dead in the woods. As the days went on, the excitement which stirred the whole village increased rather than lessened, for not even the oldest inhabitant could remember such a tragical event. Apart from the sadness of it, and the desolate condition of the widow, poor Jem's many virtues made it impressive and lamentable. Everyone had something to say in his praise, no one remembered anything but good about him; he was a brave chap, and one of the right sort, said the men, when they talked of it in the public-house; he was a good husband, said the women, steady and sober, fond of his wife, a pattern to others. They shook their heads and sighed mournfully; it was strange as well as pitiful that Jem White should a been took. "There might a been _some_ as we could mention as wouldn't a been so much missed." Then came the funeral; the bunch of white lilac, still fresh, which he had brought from Cuddingham, was put on Jem's newly-made grave, and his widow, passing silently through the people gathered in the churchyard, toiled patiently back to her lonely home. They watched the solitary figure as it showed black against the steep chalky road in the distance. "Yon's an afflicted woman," said one, "for all she carries herself so high under it." "She's the only widder among all the Whites hereabouts," remarked Mrs Pinhorn. "We needn't call her `Mrs White on the hill' no longer, poor soul." "It's a mercy she's got the child," said another neighbour, "if the Lord spares it to her." "The christening's to be on Sunday," added a third. "I do wonder if she'll call it that outlandish name _now_." There was not much time to wonder, for Sunday soon came, and the Widow White, as she was to be called henceforth, was at the church, stern, sad, and calm, with her child in her arms. It was an April morning, breezy and soft; the uncertain sunshine darted hither and thither, now touching the newly turned earth of Jem's grave, and now peering through the church window to rest on the tiny face of his little daughter in the rector's arms at the font. All the village had come to see, for this christening was felt to be one of more than common interest, and while the service went on there was not one inattentive ear. Foremost stood Mrs Greenways, her white handkerchief displayed for immediate use, and the expression in her face struggling between real compassion and an eager desire to lose nothing that was passing; presently she craned her neck forward a little, for an important point was reached-- "Name this child," said the rector. There was such deep silence in the church that the lowest whisper would have been audible, and Mrs Leigh's voice was heard distinctly in the farthest corner, when she answered "Lilac." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Not that it matters," said Mrs Greenways on her way home afterwards, "what they call the poor little thing--Lilac White, or White Lilac, or what you will, for she'll never rear it, never. It'll follow its father before we're any of us much older. You mark my words, Greenways: I'm not the woman to discourage Mary White by naming it to her now she's so deep in trouble, but you mark my words, she'll _never_ rear that child." CHAPTER TWO. THE COUSINS. "For the apparel oft proclaims the man."--Shakespeare. But Mrs Greenways was wrong. Twelve more springs came and went, cold winds blew round the cottage on the hill, winter snow covered it, summer sun blazed down on its unsheltered roof, but the small blossom within grew and flourished. A weak tender-looking little plant at first, but gathering strength with the years until it became hardy and bold, fit to face rough weather as well as to smile in the sunshine. It was twelve years since James White's death, twelve years since he had brought the bunch of lilac from Cuddingham which had given his little daughter her name--that name which had once sounded so strangely in Mrs White's ears. It had come to mean so much to her now, so many memories of the past, so much sweetness in the present, that she would not have changed it for the world, and indeed no one questioned its fitness, for as time went on it seemed to belong naturally to the child; it was even made more expressive by putting the surname first, so that she was often called "White Lilac." For the distinguishing character of her face was its whiteness--"A wonderful white skin", as her mother had said, which did not tan, or freckle, or flush with heat, and which shone out in startling contrast amongst the red and brown cheeks of her school companions. This small white face was set upon a slender neck, and a delicately-formed but upright little figure, which looked all the straighter and more like the stalk of a flower, because it was never adorned with any flounces or furbelows. Lilac was considered in the village to be very old-fashioned in her dress; she wore cotton frocks, plain in the skirt with gathers all round the waist, long pinafores or aprons, and sunbonnets. This attire was always spotless and freshly clean, but garments of such a shape and cut were lamentably wanting in fashion to the general eye, and were the subject of constant ridicule. Not in the hearing of the widow, for most people were a good deal in awe of her, but Lilac herself heard quite enough about her clothes to be conscious of them and to feel ashamed of looking "different." And this was specially the case at school, for there she met Agnetta Greenways every day, and Agnetta was the object of her highest admiration; to be like her in some way was the deep and secret longing in her mind. It was, she knew well, a useless ambition, but she could not help desiring it, Agnetta was such a beautiful object to look upon, with her red cheeks and the heavy fringe of black hair which rested in a lump on her forehead. On Sundays, when she wore her blue dress richly trimmed with plush, a long feather in her hat, and a silver bangle on her arm, Lilac could hardly keep her intense admiration silent; it was a pain not to speak of it, and yet she knew that nothing would have displeased her mother so much, who was never willing to hear the Greenways praised. So she only gazed wistfully at her cousin's square gaily-dressed figure, and felt herself a poor washed-out insignificant child in comparison. This was very much Agnetta's own view of the case; but nevertheless there were occasions when she was glad of this insignificant creature's assistance, for she was slow and stupid at her lessons, books were grief and pain to her, and Lilac, who was intelligent and fond of learning, was always ready to help and explain. This service, given most willingly, was received by Agnetta as one to whom it was due, and indeed the position she held among her schoolfellows made most of them eager to call her friend. She lived at Orchards Farm, which was the biggest in the parish; her two elder sisters had been to a finishing school, and one of them was now in a millinery establishment in London, where she wore a silk dress every day. This was sufficient to excuse airs of superiority in anyone. It was natural, therefore, to repay Lilac's devotion by condescending patronage, and to look down on her from a great height; nevertheless it was extremely agreeable to Agnetta to be worshipped, and this made her seek her cousin's companionship, and invite her often to Orchards Farm. There she could display her smart frocks, dwell on the extent of her father's possessions, on her sister Bella's stylishness, on the last fashion Gusta had sent from London, while Lilac, meek and admiring, stood by with wonder in her eyes. Orchards Farm was the most beautiful place her imagination could picture, and to live there must be, she thought, perfect happiness. There was a largeness about it, with its blossoming fruit trees, its broad green meadows, its barns and stacks, its flocks of sheep and herds of cattle; even the shiny-leaved magnolia which covered part of the house seemed to Lilac to speak of peace and plenty. It was all so different from her home; the bare white cottage on the hillside where no trees grew, where all was so narrow and cold, and where life seemed to be made up of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing. She looked longingly down from this sometimes to the valley where the farm stood. But other eyes, and Mrs White's in particular, saw a very different state of things when they looked at Orchards Farm. She knew that under this smiling outside face lay hidden care and anxiety; for her brother, Farmer Greenways, was in debt and short of money. Folks shook their heads when it was mentioned, and said: "What could you expect?" The old people remembered the prosperous days at the farm, when the dairy had been properly worked, and the butter was the best you could get anywhere round. There was the pasture land still, and a good lot of cows, but since the Greenways had come there the supply of butter was poor, and sometimes the whole quantity sent to market was so carelessly made that it was sour. Whose fault was it? Mrs Greenways would have said that Molly, the one overworked maid servant, was to blame; but other people thought differently, and Mrs White was as usual outspoken in her opinions to her sister-in-law: "It 'ull never be any different as long as you don't look after the dairy yourself, or teach Bella to do it. What does Molly care how the butter turns out?" But Bella tossed her head at the idea of working, as she expressed it, "like a common servant", or indeed at working at all. She considered that her business in life was to be genteel, and to be properly genteel was to do nothing useful. So she studied the fashion books which Gusta sent from London, made up wonderful costumes for herself, curled her hair in the last style, and read the stories about dukes and earls and countesses which came out in the _Family Herald_. The smart bonnets and dresses which Mrs Greenways and her daughters wore on Sundays in spite of hard times and poor crops and debt were the wonder of the whole congregation, and in Mrs White's case the wonder was mixed with scorn. "Peter's the only one among 'em as is good for anything," she sometimes said, "an' he's naught but a puzzle-headed sort of a chap." Peter was the farmer's only son, a loutish youth of fifteen, steady and plodding as his plough horses and almost as silent. It was April again, bright and breezy, and all the cherry trees at the farm were so white with bloom that standing under them you could scarcely see the sky. The grass in the orchard was freshly green and sprinkled with daisies, amongst which families of fluffy yellow ducklings trod awkwardly about on their little splay feet, while the careful mother hens picked out the best morsels of food for them. This food was flung out of a basin by Agnetta Greenways, who stood there squarely erect uttering a monotonous "Chuck, chuck, chuck," at intervals. Agnetta did not care for the poultry, or indeed for any of the creatures on the farm; they were to her only troublesome things that wanted looking after, and she would have liked not to have had anything to do with them. Just now, however, there was a week's holiday at the school, and she was obliged to use her leisure in helping her mother, much against her will. Agnetta had a stolid face with a great deal of colour in her cheeks; her hair was black, but at this hour it was so tightly done up in curl papers that the colour could hardly be seen. She wore an old red merino dress which had once been a smart one, but was now degraded to what she called "dirty work", and was covered with patches and stains. Her hands and wrists were very large, and looked capable of hard work, as indeed did the whole person of Agnetta from top to toe. "Chuck, chuck, chuck," she repeated as she threw out the last spoonful; then, raising her eyes, she became aware of a little figure in the distance, running towards her across the field at the bottom of the orchard. "Lor'!" she exclaimed aloud, "if here isn't Lilac White!" It was a slight little figure clothed in a cotton frock which had once been blue in colour, but had been washed so very often that it now approached a shade of green; over it was a long straight pinafore gathered round the neck with a string, and below it appeared blue worsted stockings, and thick, laced boots. Her black hair was brushed back and plaited in one long tail tied at the end with black ribbon, and in her hand she carried a big sunbonnet, swinging it round and round in the air as she ran. As she came nearer the orchard gate, it was easy to see that she had some news to tell, for her small features worked with excitement, and her grey eyes were bright with eagerness. Agnetta advanced slowly to meet her with the empty basin in her hand, and unlatched the gate. "Whatever's the matter?" she asked. Lilac could not answer just at first, for she had been running a long way, and her breath came in short gasps. She came to a standstill under the trees, and Agnetta stared gravely at her with her mouth wide open. The two girls formed a strong contrast to each other. Lilac's white face and the faded colour of her dress matched the blossoms and leaves of the cherry trees in their delicacy, while about the red-cheeked Agnetta there was something firm and positive, which suggested the fruit which would come later. "I came--" gasped Lilac at last, "I ran--I thought I must tell you--" "Well," said Agnetta, still staring at her in an unmoved manner, "you'd better fetch your breath, and then you'll be able to tell me. Come and sit down." There was a bench under one of the trees near where she had been feeding the ducks. The two girls sat down, and presently Lilac was able to say: "Oh, Agnetta, the artist gentleman wants to put me in a picture!" "Whatever do you mean, Lilac White?" was Agnetta's only reply. Her slightly disapproving voice calmed Lilac's excitement a little. "This is how it was," she continued more quietly. "You know he's lodging at the `Three Bells?' and he comes an' sits at the bottom of our hill an' paints all day." "Of course I know," said Agnetta. "It's a poor sort of an object he's copyin', too--Old Joe's tumble-down cottage. I peeped over his shoulder t'other day--'taint much like." "Well, I pass him every day comin' from school, and he always looks up at me eager without sayin' nothing. But this morning he says, `Little gal,' says he, `I want to put you into my picture.'" "Lor'!" put in Agnetta, "whatever can he want to paint _you_ for?" "So I didn't say nothing," continued Lilac, "because he looked so hard at me that I was skeert-like. So then he says very impatient, `Don't you understand? I want you to come here in that frock and that bonnet in your hand, and let me paint you, copy you, take your portrait. You run and ask Mother.'" "I never did!" exclaimed Agnetta, moved at last. "Whatever can he want to do it for? An' that frock, an' that silly bonnet an' all! He must be a crazy gentleman, I should say." She gave a short laugh, partly of vexation. "But that ain't all," continued Lilac; "just as I was turning to go he calls after me, `What's yer name?' And when I told him he shouts out, `_What_!' with his eyes hanging out ever so far." "Well, I dare say he thought it was a silly-sounding sort of a name," observed Agnetta. "He said it over and over to hisself, and laughed right out--`Lilac White! White Lilac!' says he. `What a subjeck! What a name! Splendid!' An' then he says to me quieter, `You're a very nice little girl indeed, and if Mother will let you come I'll give you sixpence for every hour you stand.' So then I went an' asked Mother, and she said yes, an' then I ran all the way here to tell you." Lilac looked round as she finished her wonderful story. Agnetta's eyes were travelling slowly over her cousin's whole person, from her face down to the thick, laced boots on her feet, and back again. "I can't mek out," she said at length, "whatever it is that he wants to paint you for, and dressed like that! Why, there ain't a mossel of colour about you! Now, if you had my Sunday blue!" "Oh, Agnetta!" exclaimed Lilac at the mention of such impossible elegance. "And," pursued Agnetta, "a few artificials in yer hair, like the ladies in our _Book of Beauty_, that 'ud brighten you up a bit. Bella's got some red roses with dewdrops on 'em, an' a caterpillar just like life. She'd lend you 'em p'r'aps, an' I don't know but what I'd let you have my silver locket just for once." "I'm afraid he wouldn't like that," said Lilac dejectedly, "because he said quite earnest, `_Mind_ you bring the bonnet'." She saw herself for a moment in the splendid attire Agnetta had described, and gave a little sigh of longing. "I must go back," she said, getting up suddenly, "Mother'll want me. There's lots to do at home." "I'll go with you a piece," said Agnetta; "we'll go through the farmyard way so as I can leave the basin." This was a longer way home for Lilac than across the fields, but she never thought of disputing Agnetta's decision, and the cousins left the orchard by another gate which led into the garden. It was not a very tidy garden, and although some care had been bestowed on the vegetables, the flowers were left to come up where they liked and how they liked, and the grass plot near the house was rank and weedy. Nevertheless it presented a gay and flourishing appearance with its masses of polyanthus in full bloom, its tulips, and Turk's head lilies, and lilac bushes. There was one particular bed close to the gate which had a neater appearance than the rest, and where the flowers grew in a well-ordered manner as though accustomed to personal attention. The edges of the turf were trimly clipped, and there was not a weed to be seen. It had a mixed border of forget-me-not and London pride. "How pretty your flowers grow!" said Lilac, stopping to look at it with admiration. "Oh, that's Peter's bed," said Agnetta carelessly, snapping off some blossoms. "He's allays mucking at it in his spare time--not that he's got much, there's so much to do on the farm." The house was now in front of them, and a little to the left the various, coloured roofs of the farm buildings, some tiled with weather-beaten bricks, some thatched, some tarred, and the bright yellow straw ricks standing here and there. Between these buildings and the house was a narrow lane, generally ankle-deep in mud, which led into the highroad. Lilac was very fond of the farmyard and all the creatures in it. She stopped at the gate and looked over at a company of small black pigs routing about in the straw. "Oh, Agnetta!" she exclaimed, "you've got some toiny pigs; what peart little uns they are!" "I can't abide pigs," said Agnetta with a toss of her curl-papered head; "no more can't Bella, we neither of us can't. Nasty, vulgar, low-smelling things." Lilac felt that hers must be a vulgar taste as Agnetta said so, but still she _did_ like the little pigs, and would have been glad to linger near them. It was often puzzling to her that Agnetta called so many things common and vulgar, but she always ended by thinking that it was because she was so superior. "Here, Peter!" exclaimed Agnetta suddenly. A boy in leather leggings and a smock appeared at the entrance of the barn, and came tramping across the straw towards them at her call. "Just take this into the kitchen," said his sister in commanding tones. "Now," turning to Lilac, "we can go t'other way across the fields. The lane's all in a muck." Peter slouched away with the basin in his hand. He was a heavy-looking youth, and so shy that he seldom raised his eyes from the ground. "No one 'ud think," said Agnetta as the girls entered the meadow again, "as Peter was Bella's and Gusta's and my brother. He's so dreadful vulgar-lookin' dressed like that. He might be a common ploughboy, and his manners is awful." "Are they?" said Lilac. "Pa won't hear a word against him," continued Agnetta, "cause he's so useful with the farm work. He says he'd rather see Peter drive a straight furrow than dress himself smart. But Bella and me we're ashamed to be seen with him, we can't neither of us abide commoners." Common! there was the word again which seemed to mean so many things and yet was so difficult to understand. Common things were evidently vulgar. The pigs were common, Peter was common, perhaps Lilac herself was common in Agnetta's eyes. "And yet," she reflected, lifting her gaze from the yellow carpet at her feet to the flowering orchards, "the cherry blossoms and the buttercups are common too; would Agnetta call them vulgar?" She had not long to think about this, for her cousin soon introduced another and a very interesting subject. "Who's goin' to be Queen this year, I wonder?" she said; "there'll be a sight of flowers if the weather keeps all on so fine." "It'll be you, Agnetta, for sure," answered Lilac; "I know lots who mean to choose you this time." "I dessay," said Agnetta with an air of lofty indifference. "Don't you want to be?" asked Lilac. The careless tone surprised her, for to be chosen Queen of the May was not only an honour, but a position of importance and splendour. It meant to march at the head of a long procession of children, in a white dress, to be crowned with flowers in the midst of gaiety and rejoicing, to lead the dance round the maypole, and to be first throughout a day of revelry and feasting. To Lilac it was the most beautiful of ceremonies to see the Queen crowned; to join in it was a delight, but to be chosen Queen herself would be a height of bliss she could hardly imagine. It was impossible therefore, to think her cousin really indifferent, and indeed this was very far from the case, for Agnetta had set her heart on being Queen, and felt tolerably sure that she should get the greatest number of votes this year. "I don't know as I care much," she answered; "let's sit down here a bit." They sat down one each side of a stile, with their faces turned towards each other, and Agnetta again fixed her direct gaze critically on her cousin's figure. Lilac twirled her sunbonnet round somewhat confusedly under these searching glances. "It's a pity you wear your hair scrattled right off your face like that," said Agnetta at last; "it makes you look for all the world like Daisy's white calf." "Does it?" said Lilac meekly; "Mother likes it done so." "I know something as would improve you wonderful, and give you a bit of style--something as would make the picture look a deal better." "Oh, what, Agnetta?" "Well, it's just as simple as can be. It's only to take a pair of scissors and cut yer hair like mine in front so as it comes down over yer face a bit. It 'ud alter you ever so. You'd be surprised." Lilac started to her feet, struck with the immensity of the idea. A fringe! It was a form of elegance not unknown amongst the school-children, but one which she had never thought of as possible for herself. There was Agnetta's stolid rosy face close to her, as unmoved and unexcited as if she had said nothing unusual. "Oh, Agnetta, _could_ I?" gasped Lilac. "Whyever not?" said her cousin calmly. Lilac sat down again. "I dursn't," she said. "I couldn't ever bear to look Mother in the face." "Has she ever told you not?" "N-no," answered Lilac hesitatingly; "leastways she only said once that the girls made frights of themselves with their fringes." "Frights indeed!" said Agnetta scornfully; "anyhow," she added, "it 'ull grow again if she don't like it." So it would. That reflection made the deed seem a less daring one, and Lilac's face at once showed signs of yielding, which Agnetta was not slow to observe. Warming with her subject, she proceeded to paint the improvement which would follow in glowing colours, and in this she was urged by two motives--one, an honest desire to smarten Lilac up a little, and the other, to vex and thwart her aunt, Mrs White; to pay her out, as she expressed it, for sundry uncomplimentary remarks on herself and Bella. "And supposing," was Lilac's next remark, "as how I _was_ to make up my mind, I couldn't never do it for myself. I should be scared." This difficulty the energetic Agnetta was quite ready to meet. _She_ would do it. Lilac had only to run down to the farm early next morning, and, after she was made fashionable, she could go straight on to the artist. "And won't he just be surprised!" she added with a chuckle. "I don't expect he'll hardly know you." "You're _quite_ sure it'll make me look better?" said Lilac wistfully. She had the utmost faith in her cousin, but the step seemed to her such a terribly large one. "Ain't I?" was Agnetta's scornful reply. "Why, Gusta says all the ladies in London wears their hair like that now." After this last convincing proof, for Gusta's was a name of great authority, Lilac resisted no longer, and soon discovered, by the striking of the church clock, that it was getting very late. She said good-bye to Agnetta, therefore, and, leaving her to make her way back at her leisure, ran quickly on through the meadows all streaked and sprinkled with the spring flowers. After these came the dusty high-road for a little while, and then she reached the foot of the steep hill which led up to her home. The artist gentleman was there as usual, a pipe in his mouth, and a palette on his thumb, painting busily: as she hurriedly dropped a curtsy in passing, Lilac's heart beat quite fast. "Me in a picture with a fringe!" she said to herself; "how I do hope as Mother won't mind!" That afternoon, when she sat quietly down to her sewing, this great idea weighed heavily upon her. It would be the very first step she had ever taken without her mother's approval, and away from the influence of Agnetta's decided opinion it seemed doubly alarming--a desperate and yet an attractive deed. Now and then for a moment she thought it would be better to tell her mother, but when she looked up at the grave, rather sad face, bent closely over some needlework, she lacked courage to begin. It seemed far removed from such trifles as fringes and fashions; and though, as Lilac knew well, it could have at times a smile full of love upon it, just now its expression was thoughtful, and even stern. She kept silence, therefore, and stitched away with a mind as busy as her fingers, until it was time to boil the kettle and get the tea ready. This was just done when Mrs Wishing, who lived still farther up the hill, dropped in on her way home from the village. She was an uncertain, wavering little woman, with no will of her own, and a heavy burden in the shape of a husband, who, during the last few years, had taken to fits of drinking. The widow White acknowledged that she had a good deal to bear from Dan'l, and when times were very bad, often supplied her with food and firing from her own small store. But she did not do so without protest, for in her opinion the fault was not entirely on Dan'l's side. "Maybe," she said, "if he found a clean hearth and a tidy bit o' supper waitin' at home, he'd stay there oftener. An' if he worked reg'lar, and didn't drink his wages, you'd want for nothin', and be able to put by with only just the two of you to keep. But I can't see you starve." Mrs Wishing fluttered in at the door, and, as she thought probable, was asked to have a dish of tea. Lilac bustled round the kitchen and set everything neatly on the table, while her mother, glancing at her now and then, stood at the window sewing with active fingers. "Well, you're always busy, Mrs White," said the guest plaintively as she untied her bonnet strings. "I will say as you're a hard worker yourself, whatever you say about other folks." "An' I hope as when the time comes as I can't work that the Lord 'ull see fit to take me," said Mrs White shortly. "Dear, dear, you've got no call to say that," said Mrs Wishing, "you as have got Lilac to look to in your old age. Now, if it was me and Dan'l, with neither chick nor child--" She shook her head mournfully. Mrs White gave her one sharp glance which meant "and a good thing too", but she did not say the words aloud; there was something so helpless and incapable about Mrs Wishing, that it was both difficult and useless to be severe with her, for the most cutting speeches could not rouse her from the mild despair into which she had sunk years ago. "I dessay you're right, but _I_ dunno," was her only reply to all reproaches and exhortations, and finding this, Mrs White had almost ceased them, except when they were wrung from her by some unusual example of bad management. "An' so handy as she is," continued Mrs Wishing, her wandering gaze caught for a moment by Lilac's active little figure, "an' that's all your up-bringing, Mrs White, as I was saying just now to Mrs Greenways." Mrs White, who was now pouring out the tea, looked quickly up at the mention of Mrs Greenways. She would not ask, but her very soul longed to know what had been said. "She was talkin' about Lilac as I was in at Dimbleby's getting a bunch of candles," continued Mrs Wishing, "sayin' how her picture was going to be took; an' says she, `It's a poor sort of picture as she'll make, with a face as white as her pinafore. Now, if it was Agnetta,' says she, `as has a fine nateral bloom, I could understand the gentleman wantin' to paint _her_.'" "I s'pose the gentleman knows best himself what he wants to paint," said Mrs White. "Lor', of course he do," Mrs Wishing hastened to reply; "and, as I said to Mrs Greenways, `Red cheeks or white cheeks don't make much differ to a gal in life. It's the upbringing as matters.'" Mrs White looked hardly so pleased with this sentiment as her visitor had hoped. She was perfectly aware that it had been invented on the spot, and that Mrs Wishing would not have dared to utter it to Mrs Greenways. Moreover, the comparison between Lilac's paleness and Agnetta's fine bloom touched her keenly, for in this remark she recognised her sister-in-law's tongue. The rivalry between the two mothers was an understood thing, and though it had never reached open warfare, it was kept alive by the kindness of neighbours, who never forgot to repeat disparaging speeches. Mrs White's opinions of the genteel uselessness of Bella and Gusta were freely quoted to Mrs Greenways, and she in her turn was always ready with a thrust at Lilac which might be carried to Mrs White. When the widow had first heard of the artist's proposal, her intense gratification was at once mixed with the thought, "What'll Mrs Greenways think o' that?" But she did not express this triumph aloud. Even Lilac had no idea that her mother's heart was overflowing with pleasure and pride because it was _her_ child, _her_ Lilac, whom the artist wished to paint. So now, though she bit her lip with vexation at Mrs Wishing's speech, she took it with outward calmness, and only replied, with a glance at her daughter: "Lilac never was one to think much about her looks, and I hope she never will be." Both the look and the words seemed to Lilac to have special meaning, almost as though her mother knew what she intended to do to-morrow; it seemed indeed to be written in large letters everywhere, and all that was said had something to do with it. This made her feel so guilty, that she began to be sure it would be very wrong to have a fringe. Should she give it up? It was a relief when Mrs Wishing, leaving the subject of the picture for one of nearer interest, proceeded to dwell on Dan'l and his failings, so that Lilac was not referred to again. This well-worn topic lasted for the rest of the visit, for Dan'l had been worse than usual. He had "got the neck of the bottle", as Mrs Wishing expressed it, and had been in a hopeless state during the last week. Her sad monotonous voice went grinding on over the old story, while Lilac, washing up the tea things, carried on her own little fears, and hopes, and wishes in her own mind. No one watching her would have guessed what those wishes were: she looked so trim and neat, and handled the china as deftly as though she had no other thought than to do her work well. And yet the inside did not quite match this proper outside, for her whole soul was occupied with a beautiful vision--herself with a fringe like Agnetta! It proved so engrossing that she hardly noticed Mrs Wishing's departure, and when her mother spoke she looked up startled. "Yon's a poor creetur as never could stand alone and never will," she said. "It was the same when she was a gal--always hangin' on to someone, always wantin' someone else to do for her, and think for her. Well! empty sacks won't never stand upright, and it's no good tryin' to make 'em." Lilac made no reply, and Mrs White, seizing the opportunity of impressing a useful lesson, continued: "Lor'! it seems only the other day as Hepzibah was married to Daniel Wishing. A pretty gal she was, with clinging, coaxing ways, like the suckles in the hedge, and everyone she come near was ready to give her a helping hand. And at the wedding they all said, `There, now, she's got the right man, Hepzibah has. A strong, steady feller, and a good workman an' all, and one as'll look after her an' treat her kind.' But I mind what I said to Mrs Pinhorn on that very day: `I hope it may be so,' I says, `but it takes an angel, and not a man, to bear with a woman as weak an' shiftless as Hepzibah, and not lose his temper.' And now look at 'em! There's Dan'l taken to drink, and when he's out of himself he'll lift his hand to her, and they're both of 'em miserable. It does a deal o' harm for a woman to be weak like that. She can't stand alone, and she just pulls a man down along with her." The troubles of the Wishings were very familiar to Lilac's ears, and, though she took her knitting and sat down on her little stool close to her mother, she did not listen much to what she was saying. Mrs White, quite ignorant that her words of wisdom were wasted, continued admonishingly: "So as you grow up, Lilac, and get to a woman, that's what you've got to learn--to trust to yourself; you won't always have a mother to look to. And what you've got to do now is, to learn to do your work jest as well as you can, and then afterwards you'll be able to stand firm on yer own two feet, and not go leaning up against other folk, or be beholden to nobody. That's a good thing, that is. There's a saying, `Heaven helps them as helps themselves'. If that poor Hepzibah had helped herself when she was a gal, she wouldn't be such a daundering creetur now, and Dan'l, he wouldn't be a curse instead of a blessin'." When Lilac went up to her tiny room in the roof that night, her head felt too full of confusing thoughts to make it possible to go to bed at once. She knelt on a box that stood in the window, fastened back the lattice, and, leaning on the sill, looked out into the night. The greyness of evening was falling over everything, but it was not nearly dark yet, so that she could see the windings of the chalky road which led down to the valley, and the church tower, and even one of the gable windows in Orchards Farm, where a light was twinkling. Generally this last object was a most interesting one to her, but to-night she did not notice outside things much, for her mind was too busy with its own concerns. She had, for the first time in her life, something quite new and strange to think of, something of her own which her mother did not know; and though this may seem a very small matter to people whose lives are full of events, to Lilac it was of immense importance, for until now her days had been as even and unvaried as those of any daisy that grows in a field. But to-morrow, two new things were to happen--she was to have her hair cut, and to have her picture painted. "A poor sort of picture," Mrs Greenways had said it would be, and, no doubt, Lilac agreed in her own mind Agnetta would make a far finer one--Agnetta, who had red cheeks, and a fringe already, and could dress herself so much smarter. Would a fringe really improve her? Agnetta said so. And yet--her mother--was it worth while to risk vexing her? But it would grow. Yes, but in the picture it would never grow. The more she thought, the more difficult it was to see her way clear; as the evening grew darker and more shadowy, so her reflections became dimmer and more confused; at last they were suddenly stopped altogether, for a bat which had come forth on its evening travels flapped straight against her face under the eaves. Thoroughly roused, Lilac drew in her head, shut her window, and was very soon fast asleep in bed. Night is said to bring counsel, and perhaps it did so in some way, although she slept too soundly to dream, for punctually at eleven o'clock the next morning she was at the meeting-place appointed by Agnetta at the farm. This was a loft over the cows' stables, the only place when, at that hour, they could be sure of no interruption. "The proper place 'ud be my bedroom," Agnetta had said, "where there's a mirror an' all; but it's Bella's too, you see, an' just now she's making a new bonnet, and she's forever there trying it on. But I'll bring the scissors and do it in a jiffy." And here was Agnetta armed with the scissors, and a certain authority of manner she always used with her cousin. "Tek off yer bonnet and undo yer plaits," she said, opening and shutting the bright scissors with a snap, as though she longed to begin. Lilac stood with her back against a truss of hay, rather shrinking away, for now that the moment had really come she felt frightened, and all her doubts returned. She had the air of a pale little victim before her executioner. "Come," said Agnetta, with another snap. "Oh, Agnetta, do you really think they'll like it?" faltered Lilac. "What I really think is that you're a ninny," said the determined Agnetta; "an' I'm not agoin' to wait here while you shilly-shally. Is it to be off or on?" "Oh off, I suppose," said Lilac. With trembling fingers she took off her bonnet, and unfastened her hair from its plait. It fell like a dark silky veil over her shoulders. "Lor'!" said Agnetta, "you have got a lot of it." She stood for a second staring at her victim open-mouthed with the scissors upraised in one hand, then advanced, and grasping a handful of the soft hair drew it down over Lilac's face. "Oh, Agnetta," cried an imploring voice behind the screen thus formed, "you'll _be_ careful! You won't tek off too much." "Come nearer the light," said Agnetta. Still holding the hair, she drew her cousin towards the wide open doors of the loft. "Now," she said, "I can see what I'm at, an' I shan't be a minute." The steel scissors struck coldly against Lilac's forehead. It was too late to resist now. She held her breath. Grind, grind, snip! they went in Agnetta's remorseless fingers, and some soft waving lengths of hair fell on the ground. It certainly did not take long; after a few more short clips and snips Agnetta had finished, and there stood Lilac fashionably shorn, with the poor discarded locks lying at her feet. It was curious to see how much Agnetta's handiwork had altered her cousin's face. Lilac's forehead was prettily shaped, and though she had worn her hair "scrattled" off it, there were little waving rings and bits which were too short to be "scrattled", and these had softened its outline. But now the pure white forehead was covered by a lump of hair which came straight across the middle of it, and the small features below looked insignificant. The expression of intelligent modesty which had made Lilac look different from other girls had gone; she was just an ordinary pale-faced little person with a fringe. "There!" exclaimed Agnetta triumphantly as she drew a small hand-glass from her pocket; "now you'll see as how I was right. You won't hardly know yerself." Lilac took it, longing yet fearing to see herself. From the surface of the glass a stranger seemed to return her glance--someone she had never seen before, with quite a different look in her eyes. Certainly she was altered. Was it for the better? She did not know, and before she could tell she must get more used to this new Lilac White. At present she had more fear than admiration for her. "Clump! clump!" came the sound of heavy feet up the loft ladder. Lilac let the glass fall at her side, and turned a terrified gaze on Agnetta. "Oh, what's that?" she cried. "Let me hide--don't let anyone see me!" Agnetta burst into a loud laugh. "Well, you _are_ a ninny, Lilac White. Are you goin' to hide from everyone now you've got a fringe? You as are goin' to have your picture took. An' after all," she added, as a face and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. "It's only Peter." Peter's rough head and blunt, uncouth features were framed by the square opening in the floor of the loft. There they remained motionless, for the sight of Agnetta and Lilac where he had been prepared to find only hay and straw brought him to a standstill. His face and the tips of his large ears got very red as he saw Lilac's confusion, and he went a step lower down the ladder, but his eyes were still above the level of the floor. "Well," said Agnetta, still giggling, "we'll hear what Peter thinks of it. Don't she look a deal better with her hair cut so, Peter?" Peter's grey-green eyes, not unkindly in expression, fixed themselves on his cousin's face. In her turn Lilac gazed back at them, half-frightened, yet beseeching mutely for a favourable opinion; it was like looking into a second mirror. She waited anxiously for his answer. It came at last, slowly, from Peter's invisible mouth. "No," he said, "I liked it best as it wur afore." As he spoke the head disappeared, and they heard him go clumping down the ladder again. The words fell heavily on Lilac's ears. "Best as it wur afore." Perhaps everyone would think so too. She looked dismally first at the locks of hair on the ground and then at Agnetta's unconcerned face. "Well, you've no call to mind what _he_ says anyhow," said the latter cheerfully. "He don't know what's what." "I most wish," said Lilac, as she turned to leave the loft, "that I hadn't done it." As she spoke, the distant sound of the church clock was heard. There was only just time to get to the foot of the hill, and she said a hurried good-bye to Agnetta, tying on her bonnet as she ran across the fields. She generally hated the sun-bonnet, but to-day for the first time she found a comfort in its deep brim, which sheltered this new Lilac White a little from the world. She almost hoped that the artist would change his mind and let her keep it on, instead of holding it in her hand. CHAPTER THREE. "UNCLE JOSHUA." "Let each be what he is, so will he be good enough for man himself, and God."--_Lavater_. Whilst all this was going on at the farm, Mrs White had been busy as usual in the cottage on the hill--her mind full of Lilac, and her hands full of the Rectory washing. It was an important business, for it was all she and her child had to depend on beside a small pension allowed her by Jem's late employers; but quite apart from this she took a pride in her work for its own sake. She felt responsible not only for the unyielding stiffness of the Rector's round collars, but also for the appearance of the choristers' surplices; and any failure in colour or approach to limpness was a real pain to her, and made it difficult to fix her attention on the service. This happened very seldom, however; and when it did, was owing to an unfortunate drying day or other accident, and never to want of exertion on her own part. There was nothing to complain of in the weather this morning--a bright sun and a nice bit of wind, and not too much of it. Mrs White wrung out the surplices in a very cheerful spirit, and her grave face had a smile on it now and then, for she was thinking of Lilac. Lilac sweetened all her life now, much in the same way that the bunch of flowers from which she took her name had sweetened the small room with its fragrance twelve years ago. As she grew up her mother's love grew too, stronger year by year; for when she looked at her she remembered all the happiness that her life had known--when she spoke her name, it brought back a thousand pleasant memories and kept them fresh in her mind. And she looked forward too, for Lilac's sake, and saw in years to come her proudest hope fulfilled--her child grown to be a self-respecting useful woman, who could work for herself and need be beholden to no one. She had no higher ambition for her; but this she had set her heart on, she should not become lazy, vain, helpless, like her cousins the Greenways. That was the pitfall from which she would strain every muscle to hold Lilac back. There were moments when she trembled for the bad influence of example at Orchards Farm. She knew Lilac's yielding affectionate nature and her great admiration for her cousins, and kept a watchful eye for the first unsatisfactory signs. But there were none. No one could accuse Lilac of untidy ways, or want of thoroughness in dusting, sweeping, and all branches of household work, and even Mrs White could find no fault. "After all," she said to herself, "it's natural in young things to like to be together, and there's nothing worse nor foolishness in Agnetta and Bella." So she allowed the visits to go on, and contented herself by many a word in season and many a pointed practical lesson. The Greenways were seldom mentioned, but they were, nevertheless, very often in the minds of both mother and daughter. This morning she was thinking of a much more pleasant subject. "How was the artist gentleman getting along with Lilac's picture? He must be well at it now," she thought, looking up at the loud-voiced American clock, "an' her looking as peart and pretty as a daisy. White-faced indeed! I'd rather she were white-faced than have great red cheeks like a peony bloom. What will he do with the picture afterwards?" Joshua Snell, through reading the papers so much, knew most things, and he had said that it would p'r'aps be hung up with a lot of others in a place in London called an exhibition, where you could pay money and go to see 'em. "If he's right," concluded Mrs White, wringing out the last surplice, "I do really think as how I must give Lilac a jaunt up to London, an' we'll go and see it. The last holiday as ever I had was fifteen years back, an' that was when Jem and me, we went--Why, I do believe," she said aloud, "here she is back a'ready!" There was a sound of running feet, which she had heard too often to mistake, then the click of the latch, and then Lilac herself rushed through the front room. "Mother, Mother," she cried, "he won't paint me!" Mrs White turned sharply round. Lilac was standing just inside the entrance to the back kitchen, with her bonnet on, and her hands clasped over her face. To keep her bonnet on a moment after she was in the house struck her mother at once as something strange and unusual, and she stared at her for an instant in silence, with her bands held up dripping and pink from the water. "Whatever ails you, child?" she said at length. "What made him change his mind?" "He said as how I was the wrong one," murmured Lilac under her closed hands. "The _wrong_ one!" repeated her mother. "Why, how could he go to say such a thing? You told him you was Lilac White, I s'pose. There's ne'er another in the village." "He didn't seem as if he knew me," said Lilac. "He looked at me very sharp, and said as how it was no good to paint me now." "Why ever not? You're just the same as you was." "I ain't," said Lilac desperately, taking away her hands from her face and letting them fan at her side. "I ain't the same. I've cut my hair!" It was over now. She stood before her mother a disgraced and miserable Lilac. The black fringe of hair across her forehead, the bonnet pushed back, the small white face quivering nervously. But though she knew it would displease her mother, she had very little idea that she had done the thing of all others most hateful to her. A fringe was to Mrs White a sort of distinguishing mark of the Greenways family, and of others like it. Not only was it ugly and unsuitable in itself, but it was an outward sign of all manner of unworthy qualities within. Girls who wore fringes were in her eyes stamped with three certain faults: untidiness, vanity, and love of dressing beyond their station. Beginning with these, who could tell to what other evils a fringe might lead? And now, her own child, her Lilac whom she had been so proud of, and thought so different from others, stood before her with this abomination on her brow. Bitterest of all, it was the influence of the Greenways that had triumphed, and not her own. All her care and toil had ended in this. It had all been in vain. If Lilac "took pattern" by her cousins in one way she would in another--"a straw can tell which way the wind blows." She would grow up like Bella and Agnetta. Swiftly all this rushed into Mrs White's mind, as she stood looking with surprise and horror at Lilac's altered face. Finding her voice as she arrived at the last conclusion, she asked coldly: "What made yer do it?" Lilac locked her hands tightly together and made no answer. She would not say anything about Agnetta, who had meant kindly in what she had done. "I know," continued her mother, "without you sayin' a word. It was one of them Greenways. But I did think as how you'd enough sense and sperrit of yer own to stand out agin' their foolishness--let alone anything else. It's plain to me now that you don't care for yer mother or what she says. You'll fly right in her face to please any of them at Orchards Farm." Still Lilac did not speak, and her silence made Mrs White more and more angry. "An' what do you think you've got by it?" she continued scornfully. "Do those silly things think it makes 'em look like ladies to cut their hair so and dress themselves up fine? Then you can tell 'em this from me: Vulgar they are, and vulgar they'll be all their lives long, and nothing they can do to their outsides will change 'em. But they might a left you alone, Lilac, for you're but a child; only I did think as you'd a had more sense." Lilac was crying now. This scolding on the top of much excitement and disappointment was more than she could bear, but still she felt she must defend the Greenways from blame. "It was my fault," she sobbed. "I thought as how it would look nicer." "The many and many times," pursued Mrs White, drying her hands vigorously on a rough towel, "as I've tried to make you understand what's respectable and right and fitting! And it's all been no good. Well, I've done. Go to your Greenways and let them teach you, and much profit may you get. I've done with you--you don't look like my child no longer." She turned her back and began to bustle about with the linen, not looking towards Lilac again. In reality her eyes were full of tears and she would have given worlds to cry heartily with the child, for to use those hard words to her was like bruising her own flesh. But she was too mortified and angry to show it, and Lilac, after casting some wistful glances at the active figure, turned and went slowly out of the room with drooping head. Pulling her bonnet forward so that her forehead and the dreadful fringe were quite hidden, she wandered down the hill, hardly knowing or caring where she went. All the world was against her. No one would ever look pleasantly at her again, if even her mother frowned and turned away. One by one she recalled what they had all said. First, Peter: "I liked it best as it wur afore." Then the artist--he had been quite angry. "You stupid little girl," he had said, "you've made yourself quite commonplace. You're no use whatever. Run away." And now Mother--that was worst of all: "You don't look like my child." Lilac's tears fell fast when she remembered that. How very hard they all were upon her! She strayed listlessly onwards, and presently came to a sudden standstill, for she found that she was getting near the bottom of the hill, where the artist was no doubt still sitting. That would never do. At her right hand there branched off a wide grass-grown lane, one of the ancient roads of the Romans which could still be traced along the valley. It was seldom used now, for it led nowhere in particular; but here and there at long distances there were some small cottages in it, and in one of these lived the cobbler, Joshua Snell. Now, Uncle Joshua, as she called him, though he was no relation to her, was a great friend of Lilac's, and the thought of him darted into her forlorn little mind like a ray of comfort. He would perhaps look kindly at her in spite of her fringe. There was no one else to do it except Agnetta, and to reach her the artist must be passed, which was impossible. Lilac could not remember that Joshua had ever been cross to her, even in the days when she had played with his bits of leather and mislaid his tools--those old days when she was a tiny child, and Mother had left her with him "to mind" when she went out to work. And besides being kind he was wise, and would surely find some way to help her in her present distress. Perhaps even he would speak to Mother, who thought a deal of what he said, and that would make her less angry. A little cheered by these reflections Lilac turned down the lane, quickened her pace, and made straight for the cobbler's cottage. It was a very small abode, with such a deep thatch and such tiny windows that it looked all roof. At right angles there jutted out from it an extra room, or rather shed, and in this it was possible, by peering closely through a dingy pane of glass, to make out the dim figure of Joshua bending over his work. This dark little hole, in which there was just space enough for Joshua, his boots and tools and leather, had no door from without, but could only be approached through the kitchen. As he sat at work he could see the fire and the clock without getting up, which was very convenient, and he was proud of his work-shed, though in the winter it was both chilly and dark. Joshua lived quite alone. He had come to Danecross twenty years ago from the north, bringing with him a wife, a collection of old books, and a clarionet. The wife, whose black bonnet still hung behind the kitchen door, had now been dead ten years, and he had only the books and the clarionet to bear him company. But these companions kept him from being dull and lonely, and gave him besides a position of some importance in the village. For by dint of reading his books many times over, and pondering on them as he sat and cobbled, he had gained a store of wisdom, or what passed for such, and a great many long words with which he was fond of impressing the neighbours. He was also considered a fine reader, and quite a musical genius; for although he now only played the clarionet in private, there had been a time, he told them, when he had performed in a gallery as one of the church choir. It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon, and he sat earnestly intent on making a good job of a pair of boots which had been brought to him to sole. He was also anxious to make the most of the bright spring sunshine, a stray beam of which had found its way in at his little window and helped him greatly by its cheerful presence. All at once a shadow flitted across it, and glancing up he saw a well-known figure run hurriedly in at the cottage door. "It's White Lilac," he said to himself with a smile but without ceasing his work, for Lilac was a frequent visitor, and he could not afford to waste his time in welcoming his guests. He did not even look round, therefore, but listened for her greeting white his hammer kept up a steady tack, tack, tack. It did not come. Joshua stopped his work, raised his head, and listened more intently. The kitchen was as perfectly silent as though it were empty. "I cert'nly did see her," said he, almost doubting his eyesight; "maybe she's playing off a game." He got up and looked cautiously round the entrance, quite expecting Lilac to jump out from some hiding-place with a laugh; but a very different sight met his eyes. Lilac had thrown herself into a large chair which stood on the hearth, her head was bent, her face buried in her hands, and she was crying bitterly. "My word!" exclaimed Joshua, suddenly arrested on the threshold. He rubbed his hands in great perplexity on his leather apron. It was quite a new thing to see Lilac in tears, and they fell so fast that she could neither control herself nor tell him the cause of her distress. In vain he tried to coax and comfort her: she would not even raise her head nor look at him. Joshua looked round the room as if for counsel and advice in this difficulty, and fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the tall clock for some moments; then he winked at it, and said softly, as though speaking in confidence: "Best let her have her cry out; then she'll tell me." "See here," he continued, turning to Lilac and using his ordinary voice. "You've come to get Uncle's tea ready for him, I know, and make him some toast; that's what you've come for. An' I've got a job as I must finish afore tea-time, 'cause the owner's coming for 'em. So I'll go and set to and do it, and you'll get the tea ready like a handy maid as you are, and then we'll have it together, snug and cosy." When he had settled himself to his work again, and the sound of his hammer mingled with the ticking of the tall clock as though they were running a race, Lilac raised her head and rubbed her wet eyes. There was something very soothing and peaceful in Uncle Joshua's cottage, and his kind voice seemed to carry comfort with it. She had a strong hope that he would help her in some way, though she could not tell how, for he had never failed to find a remedy for all the little troubles she had brought to him from her earliest years. Her faith in him, therefore, was entire, and even if he had proposed to make her hair long again at once, she would have believed it possible, because he knew so much. Gradually, as she remembered this, she ceased crying altogether, and began to move about the room to prepare the tea, a business to which she was well used, for she had always considered it an honour to get Uncle Joshua's tea and make toast for him. The kettle already hung on its chain over the fire, and gave out a gentle simmering sound; by the time the toast was ready the water would boil. Lilac got the bread from the corner cupboard and cut some stout slices. Uncle liked his toast thick. Then she knelt on the hearth, and shielding her face with one hand chose out the fiercest red hollows of the fire. It was an anxious process, needing the greatest attention; for Lilac prided herself on her toast, and it was a matter of deep importance that it should be a fine even brown all over--neither burnt, nor smoked, nor the least blackened. While she was making it she was happy again, and quite unconscious of the fringe, for the first time since she had felt Agnetta's cold scissors on her brow. It was soon quite ready on a plate on the hearth, so that it might keep hot. Uncle Joshua was ready also, for he came in just then from his shed, carrying his completed job in his hand: a pair of huge hobnailed boots, which he placed gently on the ground as though they were brittle and must be handled with care. "Them's Peter Greenways' boots," he said, looking at them with some triumph, "and a good piece of work they be!" It was a great relief to Lilac that neither then nor during the meal did Uncle Joshua look at her with surprise, or appear to notice that there was anything different about her. Everything went on just as usual, just as it had so often done before. She sat on one side of the table and poured out the tea, and Uncle Joshua in his high-backed elbow chair on the other, with his red-and-white handkerchief over his knees, his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, and a well-buttered slice of toast in his hand. He never talked much during his meals; partly because he was used to having them alone, and partly because he liked to enjoy one thing at a time thoroughly. He was fond of talking and he was fond of eating, and he would not spoil both by trying to do them together. So to-night, as usual, he drank endless cups of tea in almost perfect silence, and at last Lilac began to wish he would stop, for although she feared she yet longed for his opinion. She felt more able to face it now that she had eaten something, for without knowing it she had been hungry as well as miserable, and had quite forgotten that she had had no dinner. She watched Uncle Joshua nervously. Would he ask for more tea. No. He wiped his mouth with the red handkerchief, looked straight at Lilac, and suddenly spoke: "And how's the picture going forrard then?" After this question it was easy to tell the whole story, from its beginning to its unlucky end. During its progress the cobbler listened with the deepest attention, gave now a nod, and now a shake of the head or a muttered "Humph!" and when it was finished he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, and said: "And so he wouldn't paint you--eh? and Mother was angry?" "She's dreadful angry," sighed Lilac. "Did you think it 'ud please her, now?" asked Uncle Joshua. "N-no," answered Lilac hesitatingly; "but I never thought as how she'd make so much fuss. And after all no one don't like it. Do you think as how it looks _very_ bad, Uncle?" The cobbler put his spectacles carefully straight and studied Lilac's face with earnest attention. "What I consider is this here," he said as he finished his examination and leant back in his chair. "It makes you look like lots of other little gells, that's what it does. Not so much like White Lilac as you used to. I liked it best as it wur afore." "Peter, he said that too," said Lilac. "No one likes it except Agnetta." "Ah! And what made Agnetta and all of 'em cut their hair that way?" asked Uncle Joshua. "Because Gusta Greenways told Bella as how all the ladies in London did it," answered Lilac simply. "That's where it is," said Uncle Joshua. "My little maid, there's things as is fitting and there's things as isn't fitting. Perhaps it's fitting for London ladies to wear their hair so. Very well, then let them do it. But why should you and Agnetta and the rest copy 'em? You're not ladies. You're country girls with honest work to do, and proud you ought to be of it. As proud every bit as the grandest lady as ever was, who never put her hand to a useful thing in her life. I'm not saying you're better than her. She's got her own place, an' her own lessons to learn, an' she's got to do the best she can with her life. But you're different, because your life's different, an' you'll never look like her whatever you put on your outside. If a thing isn't fit for what it's intended, it'll never look well. Now, here's Peter's boots--I call 'em handsome." He lifted one of them as he spoke and put it on the table, where it seemed to take up a great deal of room. Lilac looked at it with a puzzled air; she saw nothing handsome in it. It was enormously thick and deeply wrinkled across the toes, which were turned upwards as though with many and many a weary tramp. "I call 'em handsome," pursued Joshua. "Because for why? Because they're fit for ploughin' in the stiffest soil. Because they'll keep out wet and never give in the seams. They're fit for what they're meant to do. But now you just fancy," he went on, raising one finger, "as how I'd made 'em of shiny leather, and put paper soles to 'em, and pointed tips to the toes. How'd they look in a ploughed field or a muddy lane? Or s'pose Peter he went and capered about in these 'ere on a velvet carpet an' tried to dance. How'd he look?" The idea of the loutish Peter capering anywhere, least of all on a velvet carpet, made Lilac smile in spite of Uncle Joshua's great gravity. "Why, he'd look silly," he continued; "as silly as a country girl, who's got to scrub an' wash an' make the butter, dressed out in silks an' fandangoes. She ought to be too proud of being what she is, to try and look like what she isn't. Give me down that big brown book yonder an' I'll read you something fine about that." Lilac reached the book from the shelf with the greatest reverence; it was the only one amongst Joshua's collection that she often begged to look at, because it was full of curious pictures. It was Lavater's Physiognomy; having found the passage he wanted, Joshua read it very slowly aloud: "In the mansion of God there are to his glory vessels of wood, of silver, and of gold. All are serviceable, all profitable, all capable of divine uses, all the instruments of God: but the wood continues wood, the silver silver, the gold gold. Though the golden should remain unused, still they are gold. The wooden may be made more serviceable than the golden, but they continue wood. Let each be what he is, so will he be sufficiently good, for man himself, and God. The violin cannot have the sound of the flute, nor the trumpet of the drum." He had just finished the last line, and still held one knotty brown finger raised to mark the important words, when there was a low knock at the door, and immediately afterwards it opened a little way and a head appeared, covered by a rusty-black wideawake. It was the second time that day that Lilac had seen it, for it was Peter Greenways' head. In a moment all the events of the unlucky morning came back to her, and his gruffly unfavourable opinion. Why had he come? This awkward Peter was always turning up when he was not wanted, and thrusting that large uncouth head in at unexpected places. She turned her back towards the door in much vexation, and Peter himself remained stationary, with his eyes fixed where he had first directed them--on his own boot, which still stood on the table by Joshua's elbow. His first intention had evidently been to come in, but suddenly seized with shyness he was now unable to move. "Why, Peter, lad," said the cobbler, "come in then; the boots is ready for you." Thus invited Peter slowly opened the door a very little wider and squeezed himself into the room. He was indeed a very awkward-looking youth, and though he was broad-shouldered and strongly made, he was so badly put together that he did not seem to join properly anywhere, and moved with effort as though he were walking in a heavy clay soil. Everything about Peter, and even the colour of his clothes, made you think of a ploughed field, and he generally kept his eyes fastened on the ground as though following the course of a furrow. This was a pity, for his eyes were the only good features in his broad red face, and had the kindly faithful expression seen in those of some dogs. As he stood there, ill at ease, with his enormous hands opening and shutting nervously, Lilac thought of Agnetta's speech: "Peter's so common." If to be common was to look like Peter, it was a thing to be avoided, and she was dismayed to hear Uncle Joshua say: "Well, now, if you're not just in time to go home with Lilac here, seein' as how we've done our tea, and her mother'll be looking for her." "Oh, Uncle, I'd rather not," said Lilac hastily. Then she added, "I want you to play me a tune before I go." Joshua was always open to a compliment about his playing. "Ah!" he said, "you want a tune, do you? Well, and p'r'aps Peter he'd like to hear it too." As he spoke he gave the boots to Peter, who was now engaged in dragging up a leather purse from some great depth beneath his gaberdine. This effort, and the necessity of replying, flushed his face to a deeper red than ever, but he managed to say huskily as he counted some coin into Joshua's hand: "No, thank you, Mr Snell. Can't stop tonight." Nevertheless it was some moments before he could go away: he stood clasping his boots and staring at Joshua. "The money's all right, my lad," said the latter. "Well," said Peter, "I must be goin'." But he did not move. "Well, good night, Peter," said Joshua, encouragingly. "Good night, Mr Snell." "Good night, Peter," said Lilac at length, nodding to him, and this seemed to rouse him, for with sudden energy he hurled himself towards the door and disappeared. "Yon's an honest lad and a fine worker," remarked the cobbler, "but he do seem a bit tongue-tied now and then." And now, after the tune was played, there was no longer any excuse to put off going home. For the first time in her life Lilac dreaded it, for instead of a smile of welcome she had only a frown of displeasure to expect from her mother. It was such a new thing that she shrank from it with fear, and found it almost as difficult to say goodbye as Peter had done. If only Uncle Joshua would go with her! Her face looked so wistful that he guessed her unspoken desire. "Now I shouldn't wonder," he said, carefully thrusting the clarionet into its green baize bag, "as how you'd like me to go up yonder with you. And it do so happen as how I've got a job to take back to Dan'l Wishing, so I shall pass yours without goin' out of my way." Accordingly, the door of the cottage being locked, the pair set out together a few moments later, Lilac walking very soberly by the cobbler's side, with one hand in his. Joshua's hand was rough with work, so that it felt like holding the bough of a gnarled elm tree, but it was so full of kindness that there was great comfort and support in it. How would Mother receive them? Lilac hardly dared to look up when they got near the gate and saw her standing there, and hardly dared to believe her own ears when she heard her speak. For what she said was: "Run in, child, and get yer tea. I've put it by." She stayed a long time at the gate talking to Uncle Joshua, and Lilac, watching them through the window, felt little doubt that they were talking of her. When her mother came in, and was quite kind and gentle, and behaved just as usual, she felt still more sure that it was Uncle Joshua's wonderful wisdom that had done it all. But if she could have heard the conversation she would have been surprised, for they dwelt entirely on the cobbler's rheumatics and the chances of rain, and said no word of either Lilac or her fringe. Mrs White had had time to repent of her harsh words, and when the hours went by, and Lilac did not come back, she had pictured her receiving comfort and encouragement from the Greenways--the very people she wished her to avoid. Now she had driven her to them. "I could bite my tongue out for talking so foolish," she said to herself as she ran out to the gate, over and over again. When at last she saw the two well-known figures approaching, she could only just restrain herself from rushing out to meet Lilac and covering her with kisses. The relief was almost too great to bear. In her own home, therefore, Lilac heard nothing further on the unlucky subject. But this was not by any means the case in the village, where nothing was too small to be important. The fact of the Widow White's Lilac wearing a fringe was quite enough to talk of, and more than enough to stare at, for it was something new. Unfortunately everyone knew Lilac, and Lilac knew everyone, so there was no escape. Her acquaintances would draw up in front of her and gaze steadily for an instant, after which the same remarks always came: "My! you have altered yerself. I shouldn't never have known you, I do declare! And so you didn't have yer picter done after all?" Lilac wished she could hide somewhere until her hair had grown long again. And worst of all, when Mrs Leigh next saw her in school, she looked quite startled and said: "I'm so sorry you've cut your hair, Lilac; it looked much nicer before." It was the same thing over and over again, no one approved the change but Agnetta, and Lilac's faith in her cousin was by this time a little bit shaken. She should not be so ready, she thought, the next time to believe that Agnetta must know best. One drop of comfort in all this was that the artist gentleman no longer sat painting at the bottom of the hill. He had packed up all his canvases and brushes and gone off to the station, so that Lilac saw him no more. She was very glad of this, for she felt that it would have been almost impossible to pass him every day and to see his keen disapproving glance fixed upon her. Slowly the picture that was to have been painted was forgotten, and Lilac White's fringe became a thing of custom. There were more important matters near at hand; May Day was approaching, an event of interest and excitement to both young and old. CHAPTER FOUR. WHO WILL BE QUEEN? "When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight."--_Shakespeare_. On the top of the ridge of hills which rose behind Mrs White's cottage there was a great beech wood, which could be reached in two ways. One was by following a rough stony road which got gradually steeper and was terribly hard for both man and beast, and the other was to take a chalky track which led straight across the rounded shoulder of the downs. This last was considerably shorter, and by active people was always preferred to the road, although in summer it was glaring and unshaded. But the scramble was soon over, and in the deep quiet shelter of the woods it was cool on the hottest day, for the trees held their leaves so thickly over your head that it was better than any roof. The sun could not get through to scorch or dazzle, but it lit up the flickering sprays on the low boughs, so that looking through them you saw a silvery shimmering dance always going on. In the valley there had not perhaps been a breath of air, but up here a little ruffling breeze had its home, and was ready to fan you gently and hospitably directly you arrived. Under your feet a red-and-brown carpet of last year's leaves was spread, stirred now and then with sudden mysterious rustlings as the small wild creatures darted away at the sound of your step. These and the birds shared the woods in almost complete solitude, disturbed now and again by the woodcutters, or boys from the village. But there was one day in the year when this quiet kingdom was strangely invaded, when its inhabitants fled to their most retired corners and peeped out with terrified eyes upon a very altered scene--and this was the first of May. Then everything was changed for a little while. Instead of the notes of the birds there were human voices calling to each other, laughing, singing, shouting, and the music of a band; instead of great silent spaces, there were many brightly-coloured figures which ran and danced. In the midst, where a clearing had been made and the oldest trees stood solemnly round, there appeared the slim form of a maypole decked with gay ribbons; near it a throne covered with hawthorn boughs, on which, dressed in white with garland and sceptre, was seated the Queen of the May. There with great ceremony she was crowned by her court, and afterwards led the dance round the maypole. Songs and feasting followed until the sun went down, and then the gay company marched away to the sounds of "God save the Queen." Quietness reigned in the woods again, and once more the wild creatures which lived there could roam and fly at their pleasure until next May Day. Now this holiday, which was fast approaching again, was not only looked forward to with interest and excitement by the children, but was an event of importance to everyone in the village. The very oldest made shift somehow to get up to the woods and join in the rejoicing, and the most careworn and sorrowful managed to struggle out of their gloom for that one day, and to leave behind the dulness of their daily toil. Many, coming from distant parts of the parish, met for the only time throughout the year in the woods on May Day, and found the keenest pleasure in comparing the growth of their children, and talking of their neighbours' affairs. It was a source of pride and satisfaction, too, to fathers as well as mothers, to point out some child in the procession so bedecked with flowers that the real Johnnie was hardly visible, and say with a grin of delight: "Why, it's our Johnnie, I do declare! Shouldn't never a known him." As the time came round again, therefore, it was more or less in everyone's mind in some way. For one thing: Would it be fine? That affected everyone's comfort, for a cold wet May Day could be nothing but a miserable failure. Mr Dimbleby at the shop had his own anxieties, for it was his business to provide tea, bread and butter, and cake for the whole assembly, and to get it all up to the top of the hill--no small matter. To do this it was necessary to keep his mind steadily fixed on May Day for a whole week beforehand, and not to allow it to relax for an instant. The drum-and-fife band, who felt themselves the pride and ornament of the occasion, had to practise new tunes and polish up "God save the Queen" to a great pitch of perfection, and the children thought themselves busier than anyone. Not only had they to wonder who would be Queen, but they must meet in the Vicarage garden and learn how to dance round the maypole, singing at the same time. Not only must they present themselves at all sorts of odd hours to have some wonderful costume "tried on" by Miss Ellen and Miss Alice, but above all they had to gather the flowers for the wreaths and garlands. Sometimes, if the season were cold and backward, it was difficult to get enough; but this year, as Lilac had noticed with delight, it had been so bright and mild that the meadows were thick with blossoms and there was no fear of any scarcity. She was always amongst the children chosen "to gather"; and there was more in this office than might at first appear, for there were good gatherers and bad gatherers. It might be done carelessly and in a half-hearted manner, or with full attention and earnest effort, and these results were evident when each child brought her own collection to the school room on May morning. The contents of the baskets were very different, for some showed plainly that as little trouble as possible had been taken. These flowers were picked anyhow, with short stalks or long stalks, in bud or too fully blown, faded or fresh, just as they happened to grow and could be most easily got. Others, again, you could see at the first glance, had been gathered with care and thought, the finest specimens chosen just at the right stage of blossoming, and tied in neat bunches with the stalks all of one length. You might be sure that the flowers in these baskets were quite as good at the bottom as those on the top. Now, Lilac White was a gatherer on whom you might depend, and the ladies at the Rectory who made the wreaths, and dressed the Queen, and arranged the festivities, considered her their best support in the matter of flowers. For, by reason of having had her eye upon them for weeks beforehand, she knew every spring where the finest grew, whether they were early or late, and whether they would be ready for the great occasion. When they had to be gathered she spared no trouble, but would get up at any hour so that they might be picked before the sun scorched them, walk any distance or climb the steepest hills to get the very finest possible. She was always appealed to when any question arose about the flowers. "We must ask Lilac White whether the king-cups are out," Miss Ellen would say; and Lilac was always able to tell. She filled, therefore, a very pleasant and important post at these times, and took great pride in it; but her Cousin Agnetta looked at this part of the affair differently. To her there was neither pleasure nor profit in "mucking" about in the damp fields, as she said, getting her feet wet, and spoiling her frock in stooping about after the flowers. She wished Mrs Leigh would let them wear artificials, which were quite as pretty to look at, and did not fade or get messy, and were no bother at all. You could wear 'em time after time. Agnetta felt quite sure she should be Queen this year, and although she did not like the trouble beforehand she looked forward to the event itself very much indeed. There were many agreeable things about it: the white dress, the crown, the crowd of people looking on, and the fact of being first amongst her companions. It was a little vexing that Lilac was quicker to learn the steps of the dance Miss Ellen was teaching them, and could sing the May-Day song better than she could. Agnetta always sang out of tune, and tumbled over her own feet in the dance; but she consoled herself by remembering how well she should look as Queen dressed all in white, with her red cheeks and frizzy black hair. Meanwhile the Queen was not yet chosen, but would be voted for in the school a week beforehand. Who would be chosen? It was a question which occupied a good many minds just then, and amongst them one which was not supposed to trouble itself about such matters, or to have anything to do with merry-making. This was Peter Greenways' mind. He was so dull and silent, and worked so very hard all the year, that it was an ever fresh surprise to see him appear with the rest on May Day, and came natural to say, "What, you here, Peter!" although he had never missed a single occasion. He expressed no pleasure, and showed no outward sign of enjoyment; but he always went, to the great vexation of his sisters, who were heartily ashamed of him. His face was red, his figure was loutish--it was impossible to smarten him up or make him look like other folks; he continued, in spite of all their efforts, to be just plain Peter--"dreadful vulgar" in his appearance. And the worst of it was, that you could not overlook him in the crowd. This might have been the case if he had been allowed to wear his ordinary working-clothes, but Peter in his "best" was an object which seemed to stand out from all others, and to be present wherever the eye turned. On the day which was to decide the important question, Peter had been ploughing in a part of his father's land called the High Field. All the rest lay level on the plain round about the farm, but this one field was on the shoulder of the downs, so that from it you looked far over the distant valley, with its little clusters of villages dotted here and there. Immediately below was the grey church of Danecross, the rectory, the school-house, and a group of cottages all nestling sociably together; farther on, Orchards Farm peeped out from amongst the trees, which were still white with blossom, and above all this came the cold serious outline of the chalk hills, broken here and there by the beech woods. Peter never felt so happy as when he was looking at this from the High Field, with his dinner in his pocket and the prospect of a long day's work before him. It was so far away from all that disturbed and worried; no one to scold, no one to call him clumsy, no one to look angrily at him, no sounds of dispute. Only the voice of the wind, which blew so freshly up here and seemed to cheer him on, and the song of the larks high above his head, and for companions his good beasts with no reproof in their patient eyes, but only obedience and kindness. Peter was master in the High Field. No one could do a better day's work or drive a straighter furrow, and he was proud of it, and proud of his team--three iron-greys, with white manes and tails, called "Pleasant", "Old Pleasant", and "Young Pleasant." Yet though he did his ploughing well, it by no means occupied all his mind. As he trudged backwards and forwards with bent head, and hands grasping the handles, with now and then a shout to his horses, and now and then a pause for rest, his thoughts were free as the wind, flying about to an sorts of subjects. For this silent Peter had always something to wonder about. He never asked questions now as he had done at school: he had been laughed at so much then, that he knew well enough by this time that he only wondered so much because he was more stupid than other folks; it must be so, for the most common things which he saw every day, and which wise people took as a matter of course, were enough to puzzle him and fill his mind with wonder. The stars, the flowers, the sunset, the sound of the wind, the very pebbles turned up by the ploughshare, gave him strange feelings which he did not understand and which he carefully hid. They would have been explained, he knew, if he had expressed them, by the sentence, "Peter's not all there"; and he was sometimes quite inclined to think that this was really the case. To-day his thoughts had been fixed on the approaching holiday, and on all the delights of the past one. It was to him a most beautiful and even solemn occasion, and he could recall the very smallest detail of it from year to year: even the uncertain squeaks and flourishes of the drum and fife band were something to be remembered with pleasure. As his eye rested on the school-house, a small red dot in the distance, he wondered if they had settled on the Queen yet, and whether Agnetta would be chosen. "She'll be rarely vexed if she ain't," he thought seriously. So the day went by, and after five o'clock had sounded from the church tower Peter and his beasts left off work and went leisurely down the hill towards home; two of the Pleasants in front with their harness clanking and flapping loosely about them, and their master following, seated sideways on the back of the third. Peter had done a long day's work and was hungry, but he did not go into the house till he had seen his horses attended to by Ben Pinhorn, who was in the yard when they arrived. Even after this he was further delayed, for as he was crossing the lane which separated the farm buildings from the house an ugly cat ran to meet him, rubbed against his legs, and mewed. "Jump, then, Tib," said Peter encouragingly; and Tib jumped, arriving with outspread claws on the front of his waistcoat and thence to his shoulder. Thus accompanied he went to the kitchen window and tapped softly, which signal brought Molly the servant girl with a saucer of skim milk. "There's your supper, Tib," said Peter as he set it on the ground, and stood looking heavily down at the cat till she had lapped up the last drop. And in this there was reason; for Sober the sheepdog, lying near, had his eye on the saucer, and only waited for Tib to be undefended to advance and finish the milk himself. Being now quite ready for his own refreshment Peter made his way through the back kitchen into the general living-room of the family, which also, much to Bella's disgust, had the appearance of a kitchen. It was large and comfortable, with three windows in it, looking across the garden to the orchard, but, alas! it had a great fireplace and oven, where cooking often went on, and an odious high settle sticking out from one corner of the chimney. This was enough to deprive it of all gentility, without mentioning the long deal table at which in former times the farmer had been used to dine with his servants. They were banished now to the back kitchen, but this was the only reform Bella and Gusta had been able to make. Nothing would induce their father to sit in the parlour, where there was a complete set of velvet-covered chairs, a sofa, a piano, a photograph-book, and a great number of anti-macassars and mats. All these elegances were not enough to make him give up his warm corner in the settle, where he could stretch out his legs at his ease and smoke his pipe. Mrs Greenways herself, though she was proud of her parlour, secretly preferred the kitchen, as being more handy and comfortable, so that except on great occasions the parlour was left in chilly loneliness. When Peter entered there were only his mother and Bella in the room. The latter stood at the table with a puzzled frown on her brow, and a large pair of scissors in her hand; before her were spread paper patterns, fashion-books, and some pieces of black velveteen, which she was eyeing doubtfully, and, placing in different ways so that it might be cut to the best advantage. Bella was considered a fine young woman. She had a large frame like all the Greenways, and nature had given her a waist in proportion to it. She had, however, fought against nature and conquered, for her figure now resembled an hour-glass--very wide at the top, and suddenly very small in the middle. Like Agnetta she had a great deal of colour, frizzy black hair, and a good-natured expression, but her face was just now clouded by some evident vexation. "Lor', Bella," said her mother, turning round from the hearth, "put away them fal-lals--do. Here's Peter wanting his tea, and your father'll be along from market directly." Bella did not answer, partly because her mouth was full of pins, and Mrs Greenways continued: "You might hurry and get the tea laid just for once. I'm clean tired out." "Where's Molly?" muttered Bella indistinctly. "Molly indeed!" exclaimed her mother impatiently. "It's Molly here and Molly there. One 'ud think she had a hundred legs and arms for all you think she can do. Molly's scrubbing out the dairy, which she ought to a done this morning." "It won't run to it after all!" exclaimed Bella, dashing her scissors down on the table; "not by a good quarter of a yard." "An' you've been and wasted pretty nigh all the afternoon over it," said Mrs Greenways. "I do wish Gusta wouldn't send you them patterns, that I do." "I've cut up the skirt of my velveteen trying to fashion it," said Bella, looking mournfully at the plate in Myra's Journal, "so now I'm ever so much worse off than I was afore. Lor', Peter!" she added, as her eye fell on her brother, "do go and take off that horrid gaberdine and them boots. You look for all the world like Ben Pinhorn, there ain't a pin to choose between you." "You oughtn't to speak so sharp," said her mother, as Peter slouched out of the room. "I know what it is to feel spent like that after a day's work. You just come in and fling down where you are and as you are, boots or no boots." As she spoke the rattle of wheels was heard outside, and then the click of a gate. "There now!" she exclaimed, starting up; "there _is_ yer father. Back already, and a fine taking he'll be in to see all this muss about and no tea ready. He's short enough always when he's bin to market, without anything extry to vex him." She swept Bella's scraps, patterns, and books unceremoniously into a heap, and directly afterwards the tramp of heavy feet sounded in the passage, and the farmer entered. His first glance as he threw himself on the settle was at the table, where Bella was hurriedly clearing away her confused mass of working materials. "Be off with all that rubbish and let's have tea," he said crossly. "Why can't it be ready when I come in?" "You're a bit earlier than usual, Richard," said his wife; "but you'll have it in no time now. The kettle's on the boil." She made anxious signs to Bella to quicken her movements, for she saw that the farmer was in a bad humour. Things had not gone well at market. "And what did you see at Lenham?" she asked, as she began to put the cups and saucers on the table. "Nawthing," answered Mr Greenways, staring at the fire. "What did you hear then?" persisted his wife. "Nawthing," was the answer again. Mother and daughter exchanged meaning looks. The farmer jerked his head impatiently round. "What I want to see is summat to eat, and what I want to hear is no more questions till I've got it. So there!" He thrust out his legs, pushed his hands deep down in his pockets, and with his chin sunk on his breast sat there a picture of moody discontent. After a good deal of clatter and bustle, and calls for Molly, the tea was ready at last--a substantial meal, but somewhat untidily served--and Peter, having changed the offensive gaberdine for a shiny black cloth coat, having joined them, the party sat down. It was a very silent one, for no one dared to address another remark to the farmer until he had satisfied his appetite, which took some time. At last, however, as he handed his cup to his wife to be refilled, he asked: "Who made the butter this week?" "Why, Molly, as always makes it," answered Mrs Greenways. "Wasn't it good. I thought it looked beautiful." "Well, all I know is," said the farmer moodily, "that Benson told me to-day that if this lot was like the last he wouldn't take no more." "Lor', Richard, you don't really mean it!" said Mrs Greenways, setting down the teapot with a thump. "Whatever shall we do if Benson won't take the butter?" "You can't expect him to take it if it ain't good," answered the farmer. "I don't blame him; he's got to sell it again." "It's that there good-for-nothing Molly," said Mrs Greenways. "I'm always after her about the dairy, yet if my head's turned a minute she'll forget to scald her pans, and that gives the butter a sour taste." "All I know is, it's a hard thing, that with good pasture and good cows, and three women indoors, the butter can't be made so as it's fit to sell," said Mr Greenways, hitting the table with his fist. "What's the use of Bella and Agnetta, I should like to know?" Bella tossed her head and smiled. "Lor', Pa, how you talk!" she said mincingly. "They've never been taught nothing of such things," said Mrs Greenways; "and besides, Agnetta's got her schooling yet awhile." "Fancy me," said Bella with a giggle, "making the butter with my sleeves tucked up like Molly. I hope I'm above that sort of thing. I didn't go to Lenham finishing school to _learn_ that." "I can't find out what it was you did learn there," growled her father, "except to look down on everything useful. I'll not have Agnetta sent there, I know. Not if I had the money, I wouldn't. It's bad enough to have bad seasons and poor crops to do with out-of-doors, without having a set of dressed-up lazy hussies in the house, who mar more than they make. Where to turn for money I don't know, and there's going on for three years' rent owing to Mr Leigh." He got up as he spoke and left the room, followed by Peter. Bella continued her tea placidly. Father was always cross on market days, and it did not impress her in the least to be called lazy; she was far more interested in the fate of her velveteen dress than in the quality of the butter. But this was not the case with Mrs Greenways. To hear that Benson had threatened not to take the butter was a real as well as a new trouble, and alarmed her greatly. The rent owing and the failing crops were such a very old story that she had ceased to heed it much, but what would happen if the butter was not sold? The dairy was one of their largest sources of profit, and, as the farmer had said, the pasture was good and the cows were good. There was no fault out-of-doors. Whose fault was it? Molly's without doubt. "But then," reflected Mrs Greenways, "she have got a sight to do, and you can't hurry butter; you must have care and time." She sighed as she glanced at Bella's strong capable form. Perhaps it would have been better after all, as Mrs White had so often said, to bring up her girls to understand household matters, instead of being stylishly idle. "I did it for their good," thought poor Mrs Greenways; "and anyhow, it's too late to alter 'em now. They'd no more take to it than ducks to flying." She was startled out of these reflections by the sudden entrance of Agnetta, who burst into the room with a hot excited face, and flung her bag of books into a corner. "Well," said Bella, looking calmly at her, "I s'pose you're to be Queen, ain't you?" "No!" exclaimed Agnetta angrily, "I ain't Queen; and it's a shame, so it is." "Why, whoever is it, then?" asked Bella, open-mouthed. "They've been and chosen Lilac White; sneaking little thing!" said Agnetta. "Well, now, surely, I am surprised," said her mother. "I made sure they'd choose you, Agnetta; being the oldest, and the best lookin', and all. I do call it hard." "It's too bad," continued Agnetta, thus encouraged; "after I've been such a friend to her, and helped her cut her hair. It's ungrateful. She might have told me." "Why, I don't suppose she knew it, did she?" said Bella. "She went all on pretending she wanted me Queen," said Agnetta, "as innocent as you please. And she must a known there were a lot meant to vote for her. I call it mean." "Never you mind, Agnetta," said her mother soothingly; "come and get yer tea, and here's a pot of strawberry jam as you're fond of. She'll never make half such a good Queen as you, and I dessay you'll look every bit as fine now, when you're dressed." "I don't want no strawberry jam," said Agnetta sullenly, kicking at the leg of the table. "Mercy me!" said poor Mrs Greenways with a sigh, "everything do seem to go crossways today." CHAPTER FIVE. MAY DAY. "But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May!" --_Tennyson_. Agnetta had been quite wrong in saying that Lilac had any idea of being Queen. At the school that afternoon, when amidst breathless silence the Mistress had counted up the votes and said: "Lilac White is chosen Queen", it had been such a surprise to her that she had stood as though in a dream. Her companions nudged her on either side. "It's you that's Queen," they whispered; and at length she awoke to the wonderful fact that it was not Agnetta or anyone else who had the most votes, but she herself, Lilac White. She was Queen! Looking round, still half-puzzled to believe such a wonderful thing, she saw a great many pleased faces, and heard Mrs Leigh say: "I think you have chosen very well, and I am glad Lilac will be Queen this year." It was, then, really true. "How pleased Mother'll be!" was her first thought; but her second was not so pleasant, for her eye fell on Agnetta. It was the only sullen face there; disappointment and vexation were written upon it, and there was no answering glance of sympathy from the downcast eyes. Lilac was an impulsive child, and affection for her friend made her forget everything else for the moment. She left her place, went up to Mrs Leigh, who was talking to the schoolmistress, and held one arm out straight in front of her. "Well, Lilac," said Mrs Leigh kindly, "what is it?" "Please, ma'am," said Lilac, dropping a curtsy, "if they don't mind, I'd rather Agnetta Greenways was Queen." "Oh, that's quite out of the question," said Mrs Leigh decidedly; "when the Queen's been once chosen it can't be altered. Why, I should have thought you would have been pleased." Lilac hung her head, and went back to her place rather abashed. She was pleased, and she did not like Mrs Leigh to think she did not care. Her whole heart was full of delight at receiving such an honour, but at the same time it was hard for Agnetta, who had so set her mind on being Queen. If only she could be Queen too! That being impossible, Lilac had done her best in offering to give it up, and it was disappointing to find that her friend, far from being grateful, was cross and sulky with her and quite out of temper. When the other children crowded round Lilac with pleased faces Agnetta held back, and had not one kind word to say, but refusing an advances flung herself away from her companions and rushed home full of wrath. Lilac looked after her wistfully; it hurt her to think that Agnetta could behave so. "After all," she said to herself, "I couldn't help them choosing me, and I did offer to give it up." Everyone else was glad that she was Queen, and ready with a smile and a nod when they met her. If Agnetta had only been pleased too Lilac's happiness would have been perfect, but that was just the one thing wanting. However, even with this drawback there was a great deal of pleasure to look forward to, and when she went to the Rectory to have the white dress fitted on she was almost as excited as though it was really a royal robe. "It's a pity about the fringe, Lilac," said Miss Ellen as she pinned and arranged the long train; "it's not nearly so becoming." Then seeing the excited face suddenly downcast she added: "Never mind; I dare say the crown will partly hide it." Her arrangements finished, she called her sister, and they both surveyed Lilac gravely, who, a little abashed by such business-like observation, stood before them shyly in her straight white gown, with the train fastened on her shoulders. "I think she'll do very nicely," said Miss Alice, "when she gets the flowers on. They make all the difference. What will she wear?" Miss Ellen's opinion was decided on that point. "It ought to be white lilac, and plenty of it," she said, "nothing would suit the Queen so well." Then came a difficulty: there was none nearer than Cuddingham. Could it be got in time? Lilac was doubtful, for Cuddingham was a long way off, but she promised to do her best, and Miss Ellen's last words to her were: "Bring moon daisies if you can't get it, but remember I should like white lilac much the best." Lilac herself thought the moon daisies would be prettier, with their bright yellow middles; but Miss Ellen's word was law, and as she had set her heart on white lilac, some way of going to Cuddingham must be found since it was too far to walk. There were only two days now to the great event, and during them Lilac did her best to make her wants known everywhere. In vain, however. No one was going to or coming from that place; always the same disappointing answers: "Cuddingham! No, thank goodness; I was there last week. I don't want to see that hill again yet a while." Or, "Well now, if I'd known yesterday I might a suited you." And so on. Lilac began to despair. She thought of Orchards Farm, but she had not courage to ask any favour there while Agnetta was so vexed with her. Even Uncle Joshua, who had always helped her at need, had nothing to suggest now, and did not even seem to think it of much importance. He dropped in to see Mrs White on the evening before May Day, and with her usual faith in him Lilac at once began to place her difficulty before him. But for once he was not ready to listen, and she was obliged to wait impatiently while he carried on a long conversation with her mother. They had a great deal to talk of, and it was most uninteresting to Lilac, for it was all about things of the past in which she had had no share. She might have liked it at another time, but just now she was full of the present, and she became more and more impatient as Uncle Joshua went on. He had to call back the first celebration of May Day which he "minded", and the smallest event connected with it; and when he had done Mrs White took up the tale, dwelling specially on Jem's musical talent, and how he had been the very soul of the drum-and-fife band. "They're all at sixes and sevens now, to my thinking," she said. "Jem, he kep' 'em together and made 'em do their best." "Aye, that's where it is," said the cobbler with an approving nod; "that's what we've all on us got to do." His eye rested as he spoke on Lilac's eager face, and seizing the opportunity of a pause she rushed in with what she had so much on her mind: "Oh, Uncle Joshua! to-morrow's the day, and I can't get no white lilac for Miss Ellen to make my garland with. What shall I do?" But Joshua was in a moralising mood, and though Lilac's question gave him another subject to discourse on, he was more bent on hearing himself talk than in getting over her difficulty. He raised one finger and began to speak slowly, and when Mrs White saw that, she paused with the kettle in her hand and stood quite still to listen. Joshua was going to say something "good." "It don't matter a bit," he said, "what you make your garland of. Flowers is all perishin' things and they'll be dead next day, and wear what you will, they won't make you into a real Queen. But there's things as will always make folks bow down when they see 'em, May Day or no May Day, and them's the things you ought to seek for, early and late till you find 'em. You take a lot of pains to get flowers to deck your outsides, but you don't care much for the plants I'm thinking of; you leave 'em to chance, and so sometimes they're choked out by the weeds. An' yet they're worth takin' trouble for, and if you once get 'em to take root and grow they're fit to crown the finest Queen as ever was; and they won't die either, but the more you use 'em the fresher and sweeter they'll be. There's Love now; you can't understand anyone, not the smallest child, without that. There's Truth; you can't do anything with folks unless they trust you. There's Obedience; you can't rule till you know how to serve. There's three plants for you, and there's a whole lot more, but that's enough for you to bear in mind, and I must be going along." Joshua departed much satisfied with his eloquence, leaving Mrs White equally impressed. "Lor'!" she exclaimed, "there's a gifted man. It's every bit as good as being in church to hear him. And I hope, Lilac, as how you'll lay it to heart and mind it when you get to be a woman." But Lilac did not feel in the least inclined to lay it to heart. She was vexed with Uncle Joshua, who had not been the least help in her perplexity; for once he had failed her, and she was glad he had gone away so that she could think over a plan for to-morrow. It was of no use evidently to reckon on white lilac any longer, the only thing to be done now was to get up very early the next morning and pick the best moon daisies she could find for Miss Ellen. This determination was so strong within her when she fell asleep, that she woke with a sudden start next morning as the daylight was just creeping through her lattice. Had she overslept herself? No, it was beautifully early, it must be an hour at least before her usual time. She dressed herself quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb her mother in the next room, and then pushing open her tiny window gave an anxious look at the weather. Would it be fine? At present a thin misty grey veil was spread over everything, but she could see the village below, which looked fast, fast asleep, with no smoke from its chimneys and nothing stirring. There was such a stillness everywhere that it seemed wrong to make a noise, as though you were in church. And the birds felt it too, for they twittered in a subdued manner, keeping back their full burst of song to greet someone who would come presently. Lilac knew who that was. She knew as well as the birds that very soon the sun would thrust away the misty veil and show his beaming face to the valley. It would be fine. It was May Day, and she was Queen! She drew a deep breath of delight, went downstairs on tiptoe, found a basket and a knife, tied on her bonnet, and unlatched the door; but there she stopped short, checked on the threshold by a sight so surprising that for a moment she could not move. For at her feet, on the doorstep, lying there purely white as though it had fallen from the clouds, was a great mass of white lilac. There were branches and branches of it, so that the air was filled with its gentle delicate scent, and it was so fresh that all its leaves were moist with dew. Someone had been up earlier even than herself. The question was--who? Uncle Joshua of course; he had not failed after all, though how even such a very clever man could have got to Cuddingham and back since last night was more than Lilac could tell. That did not matter. There it was, and what a fine lot of it! "He must have brought away nigh a whole bush," she said to herself. "Miss Ellen will be rare and pleased, surely." She gathered up the sweet-smelling boughs at last, and put them into one of her mother's washing-baskets. There was no need to pick moon daisies now, and as she swept and dusted the room and lit the fire she gave many looks of admiration at her treasure, and many grateful thoughts to Uncle Joshua. Mrs White also had no doubt that he had managed it somehow; and she was so moved by the fact of his kindness, and by Lilac being Queen, and by a hundred past memories, that her usual composure left her, and she threw her apron over her head and had a good cry. "There!" she said when it was over, "I can't think what makes me so silly. But Jem he would a been proud to have seen you--he always liked the laylocks." But now came the question as to how it was to be carried down the hill to the school room. Lilac could not lift the great basket, and it was at last found best to pile up the branches in her long white pinafore, which she held by the two corners. When all was ready she looked seriously across the fragrant burden, which reached up to her chin, and said: "You'll be sure and be up there in time, won't you, Mother, or you won't see me crowned?" "No fear," said Mrs White as she held the gate open. "Mind and walk steady or you'll drop some, and you can't pick it up if you do." Lilac nodded. She was almost too excited to speak. If it felt like this to be Queen of the May, she wondered what it must be like to be a real Queen! It was a glorious morning. The mist had gone, the sun had come, and all the birds were singing their best tunes to welcome him. To Lilac they sounded more than usually gay, as though they were telling each other all sorts of pleasant things. "The sun is here--it is May Day--Lilac is Queen." All the trees too, as they bent in the breeze, seemed to talk together with busy murmurs and whisperings: they tossed their heads and threw up their hands as if in surprise at some news, and then bowed low and gracefully before her, for what they had heard was--"Lilac White is Queen!" Her heart danced so to listen to them that it was quite difficult to keep her feet to a measured step, but when she reached the turn of the hill something made her feel that she must look back. She turned slowly round. There was Mother waving her hand at the gate. When they next met it would be up in the woods, and Lilac would wear crown and garland. She could not wave her hand or even nod in return, but she made a sort of little curtsy and went on her way. At the bottom of the hill she met Mrs Wishing, who, bent nearly double by a heavy bundle, was crawling up from the village. "Well, you look happy anyhow, Lilac White," she said mournfully. "And you haven't forgotten to bring enough flowers with you either." "I can't stop," said Lilac, "I've got to go and put these on Father first. It's so far for Mother to come." She gave a movement of her chin towards the primrose wreath which Mrs White had added at the last moment to the heap of flowers. "Ah! well," sighed Mrs Wishing, "in the midst of life we are in death. I haven't much heart for junketing myself, but I shall be up yonder this afternoon if I'm spared." Lilac passed quickly on, nodding and smiling in return to the greetings which met her. At the door of the shop stood Mr Dimbleby, his face heavier than usual with importance, and a little farther on she saw her Uncle Greenways' wagon and team waiting in charge of Ben, who leant lazily against one of the horses. Mr Greenways always lent a wagon on May Day so that the very old people and small children might drive up the worst part of the hill. Certainly it was there in plenty of time, for it would not be wanted till the afternoon; but it is always well not to be hurried on such occasions, and many of the people had to walk from outlying hamlets. Lilac laid her primroses on her father's grave, and turned back towards the school-house just as the clock struck twelve. There were now many other little figures hurrying in the same direction with businesslike step, and all carrying flowers. Primroses, daisies, buttercups, cowslips, and honeysuckle were to be seen, but there was nothing half so beautiful as the heap of white lilac. Agnetta saw it as she passed into the school room, and gave an astonished stare and a sniff of displeasure: she had only brought a basket of small daisies, and had taken no trouble about them, so that her offering was not noticed or praised at all. Then Lilac advanced, and dropping her little curtsy stood silently in front of Miss Ellen and Miss Alice holding out her pinafore to its widest extent. There were exclamations of admiration and surprise from everyone, and Agnetta stamped her foot with vexation to hear them. "It's _exquisite_!" said Miss Ellen at last. "Where did you get such a beautiful lot of it?" "Please, ma'am, I don't know," said Lilac. "I found it on the doorstep." Agnetta's wrath grew higher every moment. No one paid her any attention, and here was her insignificant cousin Lilac the centre of everyone's interest. She overheard a whisper of Miss Alice's: "She'll make far the loveliest Queen we've ever had." What could it be they admired in Lilac? Agnetta stood with a pout on her lips, idle, while all round the busy work and chatter went on. "Now, Agnetta," said Miss Ellen, bustling up to her, "there's plenty to do. Get me some twine and some wire, and if you're very careful you may help me with the Queen's sceptre." It was a hateful office, but there was no help for it, and Agnetta had to humble herself in the Queen's service for the rest of the morning. To kneel on the floor, pick off small sprays from the bunches of lilac, and hand them up to Miss Ellen as she wove them into garland and sceptre. While she did it her heart was hot within her, and she felt that she hated her cousin. The work went on quickly but very silently inside the schoolroom. There was no time to talk, for the masses of flowers which covered table, benches, and floor had all to be changed into wreaths and garlands before one o'clock, for the Queen and her court. Outside it was not so quiet. An eager group had gathered there long ago, composed of the drum-and-fife band, which broke out now and then into fragments of tunes, the boy with the maypole on his shoulder, and bearers of sundry bright flags and banners. To these the time seemed endless, and they did their best to shorten it by jokes and laughter; it was only the close neighbourhood of the schoolmaster which prevented the boldest from climbing up to the high window and hanging on by his hands to see how matters were going on within. But at last the latch clicked, the door opened wide: there stood the smiling little white Queen with her gaily dressed court crowding at her back. There was a murmur of admiration, and the band, gazing open-mouthed, almost forgot to strike up "God save the Queen." For there was something different about this Queen to any they had seen before. She was so delicately white, so like a flower herself, that looking out from the blossoms which surrounded her she might have been the spirit of a lilac bush suddenly made visible. The white lilac covered her dress in delicate sprays, it bordered the edge of her long train, it twined up the tall sceptre in her hand, it was woven into the crown which was carried after her. At present the Queen's head was bare, for she would not be crowned till she reached her throne in the woods. Then the procession began its march, band playing, banners fluttering bravely in the wind, through the village first, so that all those who could not get up the hill might come to their doors and windows to admire. Then leaving the highroad it came to the steep ascent, and here the wind blowing more freshly almost caught away the Queen's train from the grasp of her two little pages. The band, in spite of gallant struggles, became short of breath, so that the music was wild and uncertain; and the smaller courtiers straggled behind unable to keep up with the rest. It made its way, however, notwithstanding these difficulties, and from the top of the hill where crowds of people had now gathered it was watched by eager and interested eyes. First it looked in the distance like a struggling piece of patchwork on the hillside, then it took shape and they could make out the maypole and the flags, then, nearer still, the sounds of the three tunes which the band played over and over again were wafted to their ears, and at last the small white figure of the Queen herself could plainly be distinguished from the rest. It did not take long after this to reach level ground, and as the procession moved along with recovered breath and dignity to the music of "God save the Queen", it was followed by admiring remarks from all sides: "See my Johnnie! Him in the pink cap. Bless his 'art, how fine he looks!" Or "There's Polly Ann with the wreath of daisies!" "Well now," said Mrs Pinhorn, "I will say Lilac looks as peart and neat as a little bit of waxworks." "She wants colour, to my thinking," said Mrs Greenways, to whom this was addressed. The Greenways stood a little aloof from the general crowd, dressed with great elegance. Bella rather looked down on the whole affair. "It's so mixed," she said; "but we have to go, because Papa don't wish to offend Mr Leigh." "I call that a real pretty sight," said Joshua Snell, turning to his neighbour, who happened to be Peter Greenways. "They've dressed her up very fitting in all them lilac blooms. But wherever did they get such a sight of 'em?" Peter had been forced into a shiny black suit of clothes, a stiff collar, and a bright blue necktie, that he might not disgrace the stylish appearance of his mother and sisters. In this attire he felt even less at his ease than usual, and his arms hung before him as helplessly as those of a stuffed figure. Perhaps it was owing to this state of discomfort that he made no other answer to Joshua's remark than a nervous grin. "I don't see the Widder White anywheres," continued Joshua, looking round; "but there's such a throng one can't tell who's who." Lilac, too, had been looking in vain for her mother amongst the groups of people she had passed through, and as she took her seat on the hawthorn-covered throne she gazed wistfully to right and left. No, Mother was not there. Plenty of well-known faces, but not the one she wanted most to see. "She _promised_ to be in time," she said to herself, "and now she'll miss the crowning." It was a dreadful pity, for Lilac could only be Queen once in her life, and it seemed to take away the best part of the pleasure for Mother not to be there. She had been looking forward to it for so long. What could have kept her away? The Queen's eyes filled with tears of disappointment, and through them the form of Peter Greenways seemed to loom unnaturally large, his face redder than ever above his blue neckcloth, his mouth and eyes wide open. Lilac checked her tears and remembered her exalted position. She must not cry now; but directly the crowning and the dance were over she resolved to search for her mother, and if she were not there to go home and see what had prevented her coming. This determination enabled her to bear her honours with becoming dignity, and to put aside her private anxiety for the time like other royal personages. She danced round the maypole with her court, and led the May-Day song as gaily as if her pleasure had been quite perfect. But it was not; for all the while she was wondering what could possibly have become of her mother. At last, her public duties over, the Queen found herself at liberty. The crowd had dispersed now, and was broken up into little knots of people chatting together and waiting for the next excitement--tea-time. Through these Lilac passed with always the same question: "Have you seen Mother?" Sometimes in the distance she fancied she saw a shawl of a pattern she knew well, but having pursued it, it turned out to belong to someone quite different. She had just made up her mind to go home, when one of her companions ran up to her with an excited face: "Come along," she cried; "they're just agoin' to start the races." Lilac hesitated. "I can't," she said; "I've got to go and look after Mother." "Well, it'll be on your way," said the other; "and you needn't stop no longer nor you like. Come along." She seized Lilac's arm and they ran on together to the flat piece of ground on the edge of the wood, where the races were to take place. The steep side of the down descended abruptly from this, and Lilac knew that by taking that way, which was quite an easy one to her active feet, she could very quickly reach home. So she stayed to look first at one race and then at another, and they all proved so amusing that the more she saw the more she wanted to see, though she still said to herself: "I'll go after this one." She was laughing at the struggling efforts of the boys in a sack race, when suddenly, amidst the noise of cheers and shouting which surrounded her, she heard her own name spoken in an urgent entreating voice: "Lilac--Lilac White!" "Who is it wants me!" she said, starting up and trying to force her way through the crowd. "I'm here; what is it?" The people stood back to let her pass. "It's Mrs Leigh wants you," said a woman. "She's standing back yonder." It was strange to see Mrs Leigh's beaming face look so grave and troubled, and it gave Lilac a sense of fear when she reached her. "Is Mother here, ma'am?" was her first question. "Does she want me, please?" Mrs Leigh did not answer quite at once, then she said very seriously: "Your mother is at home, Lilac. You must go with me at once. She is ill." Self-reproach darted through Lilac's heart. Why had she put off going home? But she must do the best she could now, and she said at once: "Hadn't I best send someone for the doctor first, ma'am?" "He is there," answered Mrs Leigh. "He was sent for some time ago; Daniel Wishing went." The next thing was to get back to Mother as quickly as possible, and Lilac turned without hesitation to the way she had meant to take-- straight down the side of the hill. But Mrs Leigh stopped aghast. "You're not going down there, surely?" she said. "It's as nigh again as going round, ma'am," said Lilac eagerly; "and it's not to say difficult if you do it sideways." Mrs Leigh still hesitated. It was very steep; the smooth turf was slippery. There was not even a shrub or anything to cling to, and a slip would certainly end in an awkward tumble. At another time she would have turned from it with horror, but she looked at Lilac's upturned anxious face and was touched with pity. "After all," she said, grasping her umbrella courageously, "if you can help me a little, perhaps it won't be so bad as it looks." So they started, hand in hand, Lilac a little in front carefully leading the way; but she was soon sorry that they had not gone round by the road. This was a short distance for herself, but it proved a long one now that she had Mrs Leigh with her. A slip, a stop, a slide, another stop--it was a very slow progress indeed. As they went jerking along the flowers fell off Lilac's dress one by one and left a white track behind her. She had taken off her crown and held it in her hand; its blossoms were drooping already, and its leaves folded up and limp. How short a time it was since they had been fresh and fair, and she had marched up the hill so bravely, full of delight. Now, poor little discrowned Queen, she was leaving her kingdom of mirth and laughter behind her with every step, and coming nearer to the shadowy valley where sadness waited. After many a sigh and gasp Mrs Leigh and her guide reached the bottom in safety. They were on comparatively level ground now, with gently sloping fields in front of them and the sharp shoulder of the hill rising at their back. There, within a stone's throw stood the Wishings' cottage, and a little farther on Lilac's own home. How quiet, how very still it all looked! Now and then there floated in the calm air a shout or a sudden burst of laughter from the distant merry-makers, but here, below, it was all utterly silent. The two little white cottages had no light in their windows, no smoke from their chimneys, no sign of life anywhere. "Mother's let the fire out," said Lilac. Mrs Leigh came to a sudden standstill. "Lilac," she said, "my poor child--" Lilac looked up frightened and bewildered. Mrs Leigh's eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak. She took Lilac's hand in hers and held it tightly. "My poor child," she repeated. "Oh, please, ma'am," cried Lilac, "let's be quick and go to Mother. What ails her?" "Nothing ails her," said Mrs Leigh solemnly; "nothing will ever ail her any more. You must be brave for her sake, and remember that she loves you still; but you will not hear her speak again on earth." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The revels on the hill broke up sooner than usual that night, and those who had to pass the cottage on their way home trod softly and hushed their children's laughter. For ill news travels fast, and before nightfall there was no one who did not know that the Widow White was dead. And thus Lilac's May-Day reign held in its short space the greatest happiness and the greatest sorrow of her life. Joy and smiles and freshly-blooming flowers in the morning; sadness and tears and a withered crown at night. CHAPTER SIX. ALONE. "The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear?"--_Proverbs_. A few days after this Lilac sat on her little stool in her accustomed corner, listening in a dreamy way to the muffled voices of Mrs Pinhorn and Mrs Wishing. They spoke low, not because they did not wish her to hear, but because, having just come from her mother's funeral, they felt it befitted the occasion. As they talked they stitched busily at some "black" which they were helping her to make, only pausing now and then to glance round at her as though she were some strange animal, shake their heads, and sigh heavily. Lilac had not cried much since her mother's death, and was supposed by the neighbours to be taking it wonderful easy-like. For the twentieth time Mrs Wishing was entering slowly and fully into every detail connected with it--of all the doctor had said of its having been caused by heart disease, of all she had said herself, of all Mr Leigh had said; and if she paused a moment Mrs Pinhorn at once asked another question. For it was Mrs Wishing, who, running in as usual to borrow something, had found Mrs White on May morning sitting peacefully in her chair, quite dead. "And it do strike so mournful," she repeated, "to think of the child junketing up on the hill, and May Queen an' all, an' that poor soul an alone." "It's a thing one doesn't rightly understand, that is," said Mrs Pinhorn, "why both Lilac's parents should have been took so sudden." She gave a sharp glance round the room--"I suppose," she added, "the Greenways'll have the sticks. There's a goodish few, and well kep'. Mary White was always one for storing her things." "I never heard of no other kin," said Mrs Wishing. "Lilac's lucky to get a home like Orchards Farm. But there! Some is born lucky." The conversation continued in the same strain until Mrs Wishing discovered that she must go home and get Dan'l's supper ready. "An' it's time I was starting too," added Mrs Pinhorn. "I've got a goodish bit to walk." They both looked hesitatingly at Lilac. "You'll come alonger me and sleep, won't you, dearie?" said Mrs Wishing coaxingly. "It's lonesome for you here." But Lilac shook her head. "I'd rather bide here, thank you," was all she said; and after trying many forms of persuasion the two women left her unwillingly and took their way. Lilac stood at the open door and watched them out of sight, but she was not thinking of them at all, though she still seemed to hear Mrs Wishing's words: "It's lonesome for you here." Her head felt strange and dizzy, almost as though she had been stunned, and it was stranger still to find that she could not cry although Mother was dead. She knew it very well, everyone had talked of it to her. Mr Leigh had spoken very kind, and Mrs Leigh had given her a black frock, and all the neighbours at the church that morning had groaned and cried and pitied her; but Lilac herself had hardly shed a tear, though she felt it was expected of her, and saw that people were surprised to see her so quiet. She tried every now and then to get it into her head, and to understand it, but she could not. It seemed to be someone else that folks spoke of, and not Mother. As she stood by the open door, each thing her eye rested on seemed to have something to do with her and to promise her return. There was the hill she had toiled up so often: surely she would come again with a tired footstep, but always a smile for Lilac. There was the little garden and the sweet-peas she had sown, just showing green above the earth: would she never see them bloom? There on the window sill were her knitting-pins and a half-finished stocking: was it possible that Lilac would never hear them click again in her busy fingers? There, most familiar object of all, was the clothes line. Lilac could almost fancy she saw her mother's straight active figure, as she had done scores of times, stretching up her arms to fasten the clothes with wooden pegs, her skirt tucked up, her arms bare, her sunbonnet tilted over her eyes. No--it was quite impossible to feel that she would really never come back; it seemed much more likely that by and by she would walk in at the door and sit down by the window in her high-backed Windsor chair, and take up the unfinished knitting. As Lilac was thinking thus, a figure did really appear at the top of the hill, a short square figure with a gaily trimmed hat on its head--her cousin Agnetta. For the first time in all her life Agnetta was feeling not superior to Lilac as usual, but shy of her. She did not know what to say to her nor even whether she should be welcome, for she was conscious of having been very ill-tempered lately. Now that Lilac was in trouble, cast down from her high position as Queen, she no longer felt angry with her, and would even have liked to make herself pleasant--if she could. As she came near, however, and stood staring at her cousin, she felt that somehow there was a great difference in her, something which she could not understand. There was a look in Lilac's small white face which made it impossible to speak to her in the old patronising tone; it was as though she had been somewhere and seen something to which Agnetta was a stranger, and which could never be explained to her. It made her uncomfortable, and almost afraid to say anything; and yet, she remembered, Lilac was very low down in the world now--there was less reason than ever to stand in awe of her. She was only poor little Lilac White, with nothing in the world she could call her own, an orphan, and dependent for a home on Agnetta's father. So after these reflections she took courage and spoke: "Mamma said I was to tell you that she'll be up to-morrow morning to look at the furniture, and you must be ready in the afternoon to come down alonger Ben when he brings the cart." Lilac nodded, and the two girls stood silently on the doorstep for a moment; then Agnetta spoke again: "I s'pose you're glad you're coming to live at the farm, ain't ye?" "No," answered Lilac, "I don't know as I be. I'd rather bide here." Agnetta had recovered her courage with her voice. She stepped uninvited past Lilac into the room and cast a curious look round. "Lor'!" she said, "don't it look mournful! I should think you'd be glad to get away." Lilac did not answer. "What's this?" asked Agnetta, pouncing on the needlework which the two women had left on the table. "It's a frock for me," said Lilac. "Mrs Leigh give it to me." Agnetta held the skirt out at arm's length and looked at it critically. "Well!" she exclaimed with some scorn in her voice, "I should a thought you'd a had it made different now." "Different?" said Lilac enquiringly. "Why, there's no reason you shouldn't have it cut more stylish, is there, now there's no one to mind?" No one to mind! Lilac looked at her cousin with dazed eyes for a moment, as if she hardly understood--then she took the stuff out of her hand. "I'll never have 'em made different," she cried with a sudden flash in her eyes; "I never, never will." And then to Agnetta's great surprise she suddenly burst into tears. Agnetta stood staring at her, puzzled. She was sorry, only what had made Lilac cry just now when she had been quite calm hitherto? "Don't take on so," she ventured to say presently; "and you'll spoil your black. It'll stain dreadful." But Lilac took no more notice than if she had not been there, and soon, feeling that she could do nothing, Agnetta left her and took her way home. She had accomplished something by her visit, though she did not know it, for she had made Lilac feel now that it really was true. Mother would not come back. She was alone in the world. There was no one, as Agnetta had said, "to mind." She began to understand it now, and the clearer it was the harder it was to bear. So she bowed her head on the table, amongst the black stuff in spite of Agnetta's caution, and cried on. And presently another thing, which she had not realised till now, stood out plainly before her. She was to go away to-morrow and live at Orchards Farm. Orchards Farm, which she had always fancied the most beautiful place in the world, and beside which her own home had seemed poor and small! Now all that had changed, and the more she thought of it the more she felt that she did not want to leave the cottage. It had suddenly become dear and precious; for all the things in it, even the meanest and smallest, seemed full of her mother's voice and presence. Orchards Farm was a strange country now, with nothing in it that her mother had loved or that loved her, and to go there would be like going still farther from her. Raising her eyes she looked round at the familiar room, at her mother's chair, at her own little stool, at the plants in the window. They all seemed to say: "Don't go, Lilac. It is better to stay here." Must she go? Then suddenly she caught sight of the lilac crown lying dusty and withered in a corner. It reminded her of a friend. "I'll ask Uncle Joshua," she said to herself; "I'll go early to-morrow morning and ask him. _He'll_ know." Joshua had a very decided opinion on the question placed before him next day: Could Lilac live alone at the cottage and take in the washing as her mother used to do? "I can reach the line quite easy if I stand on a stool," she said anxiously; "and Mrs Wishing, she'd help me wring." "Bless you, my maid," he said, "you're not old enough to make a living, or strong enough, or wise enough yet. The proper place for you is your Uncle Greenways' house, till such time as you come to be older." "Mother, she always said, `Don't be beholden to no one. Stand on your own feet.' That's what she said ever so often," faltered Lilac. The cobbler smiled as he looked at the slight little figure. "Well, you must wait a bit. If Mother could speak to you now, she'd say as I do. And you won't be no farther from her at the farm; wherever and whenever you think of her and mind what she said, and how she liked you to act, that's her voice talking to you still. You listen and do as she bids, and that'll make her happier and you too." Joshua set to work again with feverish haste as he finished. He did not like parting with Lilac, and it was difficult to say goodbye. She lingered, looking wistfully at him. "You'll come and see me down yonder, won't you, Uncle Joshua?" "Why, surely, surely," replied Joshua hastily; "and you'll come and see me. It ain't so far after all. Bless me!" he added with a testy glance at the dusty pane in front of him, "what ails the window this morning? It don't give no light whatever." In a moment Lilac had fetched a duster and rubbed the little window bright and clear. It was a small office she had often performed for the cobbler. "It wasn't, not to say very dirty," she said; "but you'll have to do it yourself next time, Uncle Joshua." When she got back to the cottage, she felt a little comforted by the cobbler's words, although he had not fallen in with her plan. What could she do at once, she wondered, that would please her mother? She looked round the room. It had a forlorn appearance. The doorstep, trodden by so many feet lately, was muddy, there was dust on the furniture, and the floor had not been swept for days. Mother certainly would not like that, and Lilac felt she could not leave it so another minute. With new energy she seized broom, brushes, and pail and went to work, going carefully into all the corners, and doing everything just as she had been taught. Very soon it all looked like itself again, bright and orderly, and with a sigh of satisfaction she went upstairs to put herself "straight" before her aunt came. When there another idea struck her, for the moment she looked at the glass she remembered how Mother had hated the fringe. Surely she could brush it back now that her hair had grown longer. No, brush as hard as she would it fell obstinately over her forehead again. But Lilac was not to be conquered. She scraped it back once more, and tied a piece of ribbon firmly round her head; then she nodded triumphantly at herself in the glass. It was ugly, but anyhow it was neat. She had just finished this arrangement when a noise in the room below warned her of Mrs Greenways' approach, and running downstairs she found her seated breathless in the high-backed chair. One foot was stretched out appealingly in front of her, and she was so fatigued that at first she could only nod speechlessly at Lilac. "I'm fairly spent," she said at last, "with that terr'ble hill. I can't wonder myself that your poor mother was taken so sudden with her heart, though she was always a spare figure." Lilac said nothing; the old feeling came back to her that it was someone else and not Mother who was spoken of. Mrs Greenways looked thoughtfully round the room; her eye rested on each piece of furniture in turn. "They're good solid things, and well kept," she said. "I will say for Mary White as she knew how to keep her things. We can do with a good many of 'em at the farm," she went on after a pause; "but I don't want to be cluttered up with furniture, and the rest we must sell as it stands." Lilac's heart sank. She could not bear to think of any of Mother's things being sold, but she was too much in awe of her aunt to say anything. "So I've come up this morning," pursued Mrs Greenways, producing an old envelope and a stumpy pencil; "just to jot down what I want to keep. And when I've done here, and fetched my breath a little, I'll go upstairs and have a look round." Mrs Greenways made her list, and then with a businesslike air tied pieces of tape on all the things she had chosen. Lilac saw with dismay that her own little stool and the high-backed chair were left out. It was almost like leaving two old friends behind. "Have you packed your clothes?" asked Mrs Greenways. "No, Aunt, not yet," said Lilac. "Well, I shall have to send Ben up with the cart this afternoon for your box, so you may as well come alonger him. And mind this, Lilac. Don't you go bringin' any litter and rubbish with you. Jest your clothes and no more, and your Bible and Prayer Book. And now I'll go upstairs." Mrs Greenways went upstairs, followed meekly by Lilac. She watched passively while her aunt punched all the mattresses, placed a searching finger beneath every sheet and blanket, sat down in the chairs, and finally examined every article of Mrs White's wardrobe. "'Tain't any of it much good to me," she said, holding up a cotton gown to the light. "They're all cut so antiquated, and she was never anything of a figure. You may as well keep 'em, Lilac, and they'll come in for you later." It made Lilac's heart ache sorely to see her mother's clothes in Mrs Greenways' hands turned about and talked over. There was one gown in particular, with a blue spot. Mrs White had worn it on that last May morning when she had stood at the gate, and it seemed almost a part of her. When her aunt dropped it carelessly on the ground after her last remark, Lilac picked it up and held it closely to her. "And her Sunday bonnet now," continued Mrs Greenways discontentedly. "All the ribbons is fresh and it's a good straw, but I don't suppose I shall look anything but a scarecrow in it." She perched it on her head as she spoke, and turned about before the glass. "'Tain't so bad," she murmured, with a glance at Lilac for approval. There was no answer; for to her great surprise Mrs Greenways found that her niece had hidden her face in the blue cotton gown she held to her breast, and was sobbing quietly. Mrs Greenways was a kind-hearted woman in spite of her coarse nature. She could not exactly see what had made Lilac cry just now, but she went up to her and spoke soothingly. "There, there," she said, "it's natural to take on, but you'll be better soon, when you get down to the farm alonger Agnetta. You must think of all you've got to be thankful for. And now I should relish a cup o' tea, for I started away early; so we'll go down and you'll get it for me, I dessay. I brought a little in my pocket in case you should be out of it. I shouldn't wonder if Bella was able to give this a bit of style,"--taking off the bonnet. "She's wonderful clever with her fingers." Mrs Greenways drank her tea, made Lilac take some and eat some bread and butter, which she wished to refuse but dared not. "Now you feel better, don't you?" she said good-naturedly. "And before I start off home, Lilac, I've got a word to say, and that is that I hope you're proper and thankful for all your uncle's going to do for you." "Yes, Aunt," said Lilac. "If it wasn't for him, you know, there'd only be the house for you to go to. Just think o' that! What a disgrace it 'ud be! It's a great expense to have an extry mouth to feed and a growing girl to clothe in these bad times, but we must put up with it." "I can work, Aunt," said Lilac. "I can do lots of things." "Well, I hope you'll do what you can," replied Mrs Greenways. "Because, as you haven't a penny of your own, you ought to do summat in return for your uncle's charity. That's only fair and right, isn't it?" Her mother's words came into Lilac's mind: "Don't be beholden to no one." "I don't mind work, Aunt," she repeated more boldly. "I'd rather work. Mother, she always taught me to." "Well, that's a good thing," said Mrs Greenways. "Because, now you're left so desolate, you've got nothing to look to but your own hands and feet. But as to being any help--you're small and young, you see, and you can't be anything but a burden to us for years to come." A burden! That was a new idea to Lilac. "And so," finished Mrs Greenways, rising, "I hope as how you'll be a good gal, and grateful, and always remember that if it wasn't for us you'd be on the parish, instead of at Orchards Farm." She made her way out of the door, and stopped at the garden gate to call back over her shoulder: "Mind and bring no rubbish along with you. Nothing but clothes." Lilac's tears dropped fast into the painted deal box as she packed her small stock of clothes. But she felt that she must not wait to cry; she must be ready by the time Ben came, and her aunt's visit had been so long that it was already late. When she had finished she went downstairs to take a last look round. There stood all the well-known pieces of furniture, dumb, yet full of speech; they had seen and heard so much that was dear to her, that it seemed cruel to leave them to strangers. Above all she looked wistfully at a small twisted cactus in a pot standing on the window ledge. Mrs White had been fond of it, and had given it much care and attention. Might she venture to take it with her? How pleased Mother had been, she remembered, when the cactus had once rewarded her by producing two bright-red blossoms. That was long ago, and it had never done anything so brilliant again. Content with its one effort it had since remained unadorned, yet as it stood there, with its fat green leaves and little bunches of prickles, it had the air of saying to itself, "I have done it once, and if I liked I could do it a second time." Even now as she bent tenderly over it Lilac thought she could make out the faint beginning of a bud. "I do wish I could take it," she said to herself. "If it was only in bloom maybe they'd like it." But the cactus was very far from blooming, and perhaps had no intention of doing so; in its present condition it would certainly be considered "rubbish" at Orchards Farm. Lilac turned from it with a sigh, and glancing through the window was startled to see that the cart with Ben sitting in it was already at the gate. Ben looked as though he might have been waiting there for some hours, and was content to wait for any length of time. She ran out in alarm. "Oh, Ben!" she cried, "I never heard you. Have you been here long?" "Not I," said Ben; "on'y just come. Missus she give orders as how I was to fetch down some cheers alonger you, so as to lighten the next load a bit." By the time he had slowly stacked the chairs together, and disposed them round Lilac's box in the cart, which cost him much painful thought, there was not much room left. "Now then, missie," he said at length, "that's the lot, ain't it?" "Where am I to sit, Ben?" asked Lilac doubtfully. Ben took off his hat to scratch his head. He had a perfectly round, foolish face, with short dust-coloured whiskers. "That's so," he said. "I clean forgot you was to go too." A corner was at last found amongst the chairs, and Ben having hoisted himself on to the shaft they started slowly on their way. Lilac kept her eyes fixed on the cottage until a turn of the road hid it from her sight. It was just there she had turned to look at Mother on May Day. What a long, long time ago, and what a different Lilac she felt now! Grave and old, with all manner of cares and troubles waiting for her, and no one to mind if she were glad or sorry. No one to want her much or to be pleased at her coming. A burden instead of a blessing. She clung to the hope that Agnetta at least would not think her so, but would welcome her to her new home and be kind to her; but she was the only one of whom she thought without shrinking. Her aunt and uncle, Bella and Peter, above all the last, were people to be afraid of. "Here's the young master," said Ben, suddenly turning his face round to look at her. "He be coming up to fetch the rest of the sticks." Lilac peeped out through the various legs of chairs which surrounded her; towards her, crawling slowly up the hill, came a wagon drawn by three iron-grey horses, and by their side a broad-shouldered, lumbering figure. It was her Cousin Peter. Of course it was Peter, she thought impatiently, turning her head away. No one else would walk up the hill instead of riding in the empty wagon. The descent now becoming easier Ben whipped up his horse, and they soon jolted past Peter and his team. "There's been a sight o' deaths lately in the village," he resumed cheerfully, having once broken the silence. "I dunno as I can ever call to mind so many. The bell's forever agoin'. It's downright mournful." He was kindly disposed towards Lilac, and having hit upon this lucky means of entertaining her he dwelt on it for the rest of the way, fortunately requiring no answering remarks. It seemed long before they reached the farm, and Lilac was cramped and tired in her uneasy position when they had at last driven in at the yard gate. There was no one to be seen; but presently Molly, the servant girl, having spied the arrival from the back kitchen, came and stood at the door. When she discovered Lilac almost hidden by the chairs, she hastened out and held up a broad red hand to help her down from the cart. "You've brought yer house on yer back like a hoddy-dod," she said with a grin. Lilac clambered down with difficulty, and stood by the side of the cart uncertain where to go. A forlorn little figure in her straight black frock, clasping her mother's large old cotton umbrella. She wished she could see Agnetta, but she did not appear. Soon her aunt and Bella came into the yard, but their attention was immediately fixed on the chairs, which Ben had now unloaded and placed in a long row by Lilac's side. "Where were they to go?" asked Molly. In the living-room, Mrs Greenways thought, where they were short of chairs. "In the bedrooms," said Bella contemptuously. "Common-looking things like them." "We could do with 'em in the kitchen," added Molly. The dispute continued for some time, but in the end Bella carried the day, and Mrs Greenways found time to notice the newcomer. "Well, here you are, Lilac," she said. "Come along in, and Agnetta shall show where you've got to sleep." Agnetta led the way up the steep stairs to the top of the house. She had rather a condescending manner as she threw open the door of a small attic in the roof. "This is it," she said; "and Mamma says you've got to keep it clean yerself." "I'd rather," said Lilac hastily. "I've always been used to." She looked round the room. It was very like her old one at the cottage, and its sloping ceiling and bare white walls seemed familiar and homelike; it was a comfort, too, to see that its tiny window looked towards the hills. As she observed all this she took off her bonnet, and was immediately startled by a loud laugh from Agnetta. "Well!" she exclaimed, "You have made a pretty guy of yourself." Lilac put her hand quickly up to her head. "Oh, I forgot--my hair," she said. "Whatever made you do it?" asked Agnetta, planting herself full in front of her cousin and staring at her. "It's neater," said Lilac, avoiding the hard gaze. "I shall wear it so till it gets longer. I'm not agoin' to have a fringe no more." "Well!" repeated Agnetta, lost in astonishment; then she added: "You do look comical! Just like a general servant. If I was you I'd wear a cap!" With this parting thrust she clattered downstairs giggling. So this was Lilac's welcome. She went to the window, leant her arms on the broad sill, and looked forlornly up at the hill. There was not a single person who wanted her here, or who had taken the trouble to say a kind word. How could she bear to live here always? "Li-lack!" shrieked a voice up the stairs, "you're to come to tea." Through the meal that followed Lilac sat shyly silent, feeling that every morsel choked her, and listening to the clatter of voices and teacups round her but hardly hearing any words. The farmer had noticed her presence by a nod, and then resumed his newspaper. He meant to do his duty by Mary's girl until she was old enough to go to service, but no one could expect him to be glad of her arrival. Another useless member of the family to support, where there were already too many. Peter was not there at first, but when the meal was nearly over Lilac heard the wagon roll heavily into the yard, and soon afterwards its master came almost as heavily into the room and took his place at the table. When there he eat largely and silently, taking huge draughts of tea out of a great mug. This was one of his many vulgarities, which Bella deplored but could not alter, for he required so much tea that a cup was a ridiculous and useless thing to him, and had to be filled so often that it gave a great deal of trouble--in this therefore he was allowed to have his way. When Lilac got into her attic that night she found that her deal box had been carried up and placed in one corner, and as she began to undress in the half-light she caught sight of something else which certainly had not been there before. Something standing in the window twisted and prickly, but to her most pleasant to look upon. Could it really be the cactus? She went up to it, half afraid to find that she was mistaken. No, it was not fancy, the cactus was there, and Lilac was so pleased to see its ugly friendly face that tears came into her eyes. She had found a little bit of kindness at last at Orchards Farm, and it no longer felt quite so cold and strange. Peter no doubt had brought the plant down from the cottage, but who had told him to do it? Her aunt, or Agnetta, or perhaps after all it was Uncle Joshua as usual. Whoever it was Lilac felt very grateful, and went to sleep comforted with the thought that there was something in the room which had lived her old life and known her mother's care, though it was only a cactus plant. CHAPTER SEVEN. ORCHARDS FARM. "For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal where there is no love."--_Bacon_. "I like this one best," said Lilac. She was looking in at the shed where Ben was milking the cows at Orchards Farm. Inside it was dusky and cool. There was a sweet smell of hay and new milk, and it was very quiet, the silence only disturbed when an impatient cow stamped her foot or swished her tail at the flies, and was reproved by Ben's deep-toned, "Woa then, stand still." But outside it was very different, for the afternoon sun was still hot and dazzling, and all the farmyard creatures were conversing cheerfully together in many keys and voices. A tall white cock had perched himself tiptoe on a gate, crowing in a shrilly triumphant manner, the ducks were quacking in a sociable chorus, and Chummy, the great black sow, lying stretched on her side in the sun, kept up an undertone of deeply comfortable grunts. Lilac leant against the doorpost, now looking in at Ben and his cows, and now at the sunshiny strawyard. She felt tired and languid, as she very often did at the end of the day, although the work at Orchards Farm was no harder than she had always been used to at home. There, however, it had been done in peace and quietness, here all was hurry and confusion. It was a new and distracting thing to live in the midst of wrangling disputes, to be called here, shouted after there, to do bits of everyone's business, and to be scolded for leaving undone what she had never been told to do. Altogether a heavy change from her old peaceful life, and she could not settle her mind to it with any comfort. "'Tain't the work, it's the worry I mind," she said once to Agnetta; but Agnetta only stared and laughed. There was no consolation at all to be found in her, and all Lilac's hopes concerning her were disappointed as time went on. She was the same and Orchards Farm was the same as they had been in the old days when Lilac had worshipped them from a distance; but somehow, seen quite near this glory vanished, and though the stylish Sunday frocks and bangles remained, they were worth nothing compared to a little sympathy and kindness. Alas! these were not to be had. Lilac must stand on her own feet now, as her mother had told her: everyone was too full of their own troubles and interests and enjoyments to have any thought for her. What could she need beyond a roof over her head, food to eat, and clothes to wear? Mrs Greenways and all the neighbours thought her a lucky child, and told her so very often; but Lilac did not feel lucky, she felt sad and very lonely. After one or two attempts to talk to Agnetta, she resolved, however, to keep her troubles to herself, for Agnetta did not "understand." Who was there now to understand? None in the wide world but Uncle Joshua, and from him she felt as far distant as though he were in another country. She became in this way, as time went on, more silent, graver, and more what her cousins called "old-fashioned"; and though at heart she was far more childlike than they, she went about her work with serious application like one of twice her years. Mrs Greenways did not disapprove of this, and though she lost no occasion of impressing upon Lilac her smallness and uselessness, she soon began to find her valuable in the house: it was a new thing to have someone there who was steady and thorough in her work, and might be depended on to do it without constant reproof. She was satisfied, too, that Lilac had quite got over her grief, and did not seem to miss her mother so much as might have been expected. It would be troublesome to see the child fret and pine, and as no sign of this appeared she concluded it was not there. Mrs Greenways was accustomed to the sort of sorrow which shows itself in violent tears and complaints, and she would have been surprised if she could have known how Lilac's lonely little heart ached sometimes for the sound of her mother's voice or the sight of her face; how at night, when she was shut safely into her attic, she would stretch out her arms towards the cottage on the hill, and long vainly for the days to come back which she had not loved half well enough while they were passing. But no one knew this, and amidst the turmoil and bustle of the day no one guessed how lonely she was or thought of her much in any way. She was only little Lilac White, an orphan who had been fortunate enough to get a good home. So she lived her own life, solitary, although surrounded by people; and while she worked her mind was full of her mother's memory--sometimes she even seemed to hear her words again, and to see her smile of pleasure when she had done anything particularly well. She was careful, therefore, not to relax her efforts in the least, and though she got no praise for the thoroughness of her work, it was a little bit of comfort at the end of the day to think that she had "pleased Mother." It began soon to be a pleasure, too, when work was finished, to go out amongst the creatures in the farmyard. Here she forgot her troubles and her loneliness for a little while, and made many satisfactory friendships in which there were no disappointments. True, there was plenty of noise and bustle here as well as indoors, and family quarrels were not wanting amongst the poultry; but unlike the sharp speeches of Bella and Agnetta they left no bad feeling behind, and were soon settled by a few pecks and flaps. Lilac was sure of a welcome when she appeared at the gate to distribute the small offerings she had collected for her various friends during the day; bits of bread, sugar, or crusts--nothing came amiss, and even the great lazy Chummy would waddle slowly across to her from the other end of the yard. By degrees Lilac began to look forward to the end of the day, when she should meet these friends, and found great comfort in the thought that they expected her and looked out for her coming. Especially she liked to be present at milking-time, and as often as she possibly could she stole out of the house at this hour to spend a few quiet moments with Ben and his cows. On this particular afternoon she saw that there was one among them she had not noticed before--a little cream-coloured Alderney, with slender black legs and dark eyes. "I like that one best of all," she said, pointing to it. Ben's voice sounded hollow as he answered, and seemed to come out of the middle of the cow, for his head was pressed firmly against her side. "Ah, she's a sort of a little fancy coo, she is," he said; "she belongs to the young master. He thinks a lot of her. `We'll call this one None-so-pretty,' says he, when he brung her home." "Why does it belong to him," asked Lilac, "more than the other cows?" "Well, it were like this 'ere," said Ben, who was fond of company and always willing to talk. "This is how it wur. None-so-pretty she caught cold when she'd bin here a couple of weeks, and the master he sent for coo-doctor. And coo-doctor come and says: `She's in a pretty plight,' says he; `information of the lungs she's got, and you'll never get her through it. A little dillicut scrap of a animal like that,' he says; 'she ain't not to say fit for this part of the country! An' so he goes away, and the coo gets worse, so as it's a misery to see her." Ben stopped so long in his story to quiet None-so-pretty, who wanted to kick over the pail, that Lilac had to put another question. "How did she get well?" "It wur along of the young master," answered Ben, "as sat up with her a week o' nights, and poured her drink down her throat, and poletissed her chest, and cockered her up like as if she'd bin a human Christian. And he brung her through. Like a skilliton she wur at fust, but she picked up after a bit and got saucy again. An' ever sin that she'll foller him and rub her head agin' him, and come to his whistle like a dog. An' so the old master, he says: `The little cow's yer own now, Peter, to do as you like with,' he says; `no one else'd a had the patience to bring her through. An' if you'll take my advice you'll sell her, for she'll never be much good to us.'" "But Peter wouldn't sell her, I suppose?" asked Lilac eagerly. "No fear," replied Ben's muffled voice; "he's martal fond of None-so-pretty." Lilac looked with great interest at the little cow. An odd pair of friends--she and Peter--and as unlike as they could possibly be, for None-so-pretty was as graceful and slender in her proportions as he was clumsy and awkward-limbed. It was a good thing that there was someone to admire and like Peter, even if it were only a cow; for Lilac had not been a month at the farm without beginning to feel a little pity for him. He was uncouth and stupid, to be sure, but it was hard, she thought, that he should be so incessantly worried and jeered at. From the moment he entered the house to the moment he left it, there was something wrong in what he said or did. If he sat down on the settle and wearily stretched out his long legs, someone was sure to tumble over them: "Peter, how stupid you are!" If he opened his mouth to speak he said something laughable, and if to eat, there was something vulgar in his manners which called down a sharp reproof from Bella, who considered herself a model of refinement and good taste. He took all this in unmoved silence, and seldom said a word except to talk to his father on farming matters; but Lilac, looking on from her quiet corner, often felt sorry for him, as she would have done to see any large, patient animal ill-treated and unable to complain. "Anyhow," she said to herself as she stood with her eyes fixed on None-so-pretty after Ben had done his story, "if he is common he's kind." Her reflections were disturbed by Ben's voice making another remark, which came from the side of a large red cow named Cherry: "There's not a better lot of coos, nor richer milk than what they give, this side Lenham." Lilac made no answer. "An' if so be as the dairy wur properly worked they'd most pay the rent of this 'ere farm, with the poultry thrown in." Lilac glanced at the various feathered families outside; they were supposed to be Bella's charge, she knew, but she generally gave them over to Agnetta, who looked after them when she was inclined, and often forgot to search for the eggs altogether. "They wants care," continued Ben, "as well as most things. I don't name no names, but the young broods had ought to be better looked after in the spring. And they're worth it. There's ducks now--chancy things is early ducks, but they pay well. Git 'em hatched out early. Feed 'em often. Keep 'em warm and dry at fust. Let 'em go into the water at the right time. Kill 'em and send 'em up to Lunnon, and there you are--a good profit. Why, you'll git 15 shillings the couple for ducklings in March! That's not a price to sneeze at, that isn't. I name no names," he repeated mysteriously, "but them as don't choose to take the pains can't expect the profit." At supper that night Lilac remembered this conversation with Ben, and examined Peter's countenance curiously as he sat opposite to her with his whole being apparently engrossed by the meal. She could not, however, discover any kind or pleasant expression upon it. If it were there at all, it was unable to struggle through the thick dull mask spread over it. Bella meanwhile had news to tell. She had heard at Dimbleby's that afternoon that there was to be a grand fete in Lenham next week. Fireworks and a balloon, and perhaps dancing and a band. Charlotte Smith said it would be splendid, and she was going to have a new hat on purpose. "Well, I haven't got no money to throw away on new hats and suchlike," said Mrs Greenways, "but I s'pose you and Agnetta'll want to go too." "How'll we get over there?" asked Bella, looking fixedly at Peter, who did not raise his eyes from his plate. Mrs Greenways turned her glance in the same direction, and said presently: "Well, perhaps Peter he could drive you over in the spring cart." "Hay harvest," muttered Peter, deep down in his mug; "couldn't spare time." "Oh, bother," said Bella. "Then we must do with Ben." "Couldn't spare him neither," was Peter's answer. "Heavy crop. Want all the hands we can get." Bella pouted and Agnetta looked on the edge of tears. Mrs Greenways, anxious to settle matters comfortably, made another suggestion. "Well, you must just drive yourselves then, Bella. The white horse is quiet. I've drove him often." "Couldn't spare the horse neither," said Peter, "nor yet the cart," and having finished both his meal and the subject he got up and went out of the room. The farmer, roused by the sound of the dispute from a nap in the window seat, now enquired what was going on, and was told of the difficulty. "What's to prevent 'em walking?" he asked; "it's only five miles. If they're too proud to walk they'd better stop at home," and then he too left the room. "You don't catch _me_ walking!" exclaimed Bella; "if I can't drive I shan't go at all. Getting all hot and dusty, and Charlotte Smith driving past us on the road with her head held up ever so high." "No more shan't I," said Agnetta, with a toss of her head. "Well, there, we'll see if we can't manage somehow," said Mrs Greenways coaxingly. "If the weather's good for the hay harvest your father'll be in a good temper, and we'll see what we can do. Lilac!" she added, turning sharply to her niece, "Molly's left out some bits of washing in the orchard, jest you run and fetch 'em in." Lilac picked up her sunbonnet and went out, glancing at Agnetta to see if she were coming too, but she did not move. It was a cool, still evening after a very hot day, and all the flowers in the garden were holding up their drooping heads again, and giving out their sweetest scent as if in thankfulness for the change. There were a great many in bloom now, for it was June, more than a whole month since that happy, miserable day when Lilac had been Queen, and as she passed Peter's own little bit of ground she stopped to look admiringly at them. They seemed to grow here better than in other places--with a willing luxuriance as though in return for the affection and care which was evidently spent on them. Pansies, columbines, white-fringed pinks, and sweet-peas all mixed up together, and yet keeping a certain order and not allowed to intrude upon each other. Lilac passed on through a little gate which led into the kitchen garden, and as she did so became aware that the owner of the flowers was quite near. She paused and considered within herself as to whether she should speak to him. He was sitting on the stump of a cherry tree, which had been cut down to a convenient height from the ground; on this was placed a square piece of turf, so that it formed a cushion, and was evidently a customary seat. Near him was a row of beehives, under a slanting thatch, and their busy inhabitants, returning in numbers from their day's labour, hummed and buzzed around him, much to the annoyance of Sober, the old sheep dog, who lay stretched at his feet. Tib, the ugly cat, had taken up a discreet position at a little distance from the hives, and sat very wide awake, with the only eye she possessed on the alert for any stray game that might pass that way. Neither Peter nor his companions saw Lilac; they all appeared absorbed in their own reflections, and the former had fixed his gaze vacantly on the copse beyond the orchard. A little while ago she would have passed quickly on without a moment's hesitation, but now she felt a sort of sympathy with Peter. She was lonely, and he was lonely; besides, he had been kind to None-so-pretty. So presently she made a little rustle, which roused Sober from his slumbers. He raised his head, and finding that it was a friend wagged his bushy tail and resumed his former position; but this roused Peter too, and he slowly turned his eyes upon Lilac and stared silently. Knowing that it would be useless to wait for him to speak, she said timidly: "How pretty your pinks grow!" Peter got up from his seat and looked seriously over the railing at the pinks. "They're well enough," he said; "but the slugs and snails torment 'em so." "I think they're as pretty as can be," said Lilac; "and that sweet you can smell 'em ever so far. We had some up yonder," she added, with a nod towards the hills, "but they never had such blooms as yours." "Maybe you'd like a posy," said Peter, suddenly blurting out the words with a great effort. Receiving a delighted answer in the affirmative he fumbled for some time in his pocket, and having at last produced a large clasp knife bent over his flower bed. The conversation having got on so far, Lilac felt encouraged to continue it, and looked round her for a subject. "This is a nice, pretty corner to sit in," she said; "but don't the bees terrify you?" Peter straightened himself up with the flowers he had cut in one hand, and stared in surprise. "The bees!" he repeated. He strode up to the hives, took up a handful of bees and let them crawl about him, which they did without any sign of anger. "Why ever don't they sting yer?" asked Lilac, shrinking away. "They know I like 'em," answered Peter, returning to his flowers. "They know a lot, bees do." "I s'pose they're used to see you sitting here?" said Lilac. Peter nodded. "They're rare good comp'ny too," he said, "when you can follow their carryings on, and know what they're up to." Lilac watched him thoughtfully as his large hand moved carefully amongst the flowers, cutting the best blossoms and adding them to the nosegay, which now began to take the shape of a large fan. While he had been talking of the bees his face had lost its dullness; he had not looked stupid at all, and scarcely ugly. She would try and make him speak again. "The blossoms is over now," she remarked, looking at the trees in the orchard; "but there's been a rare sight of 'em this year." "There has so," answered Peter. "It'll be a fine season for the fruit if so be as we get sun to ripen it. The birds is the worst," he went on. "I've seen them old jaypies come out of the woods yonder as thick as thieves into the orchard. I don't seem to care about shootin' 'em, and scarecrows is no good." What a long sentence for Peter! "Do they now?" said Lilac sympathisingly. "An' I s'pose," stroking Tib on the head, "they don't mind Tib neither?" "Not they," said Peter, with something approaching a chuckle. "They're altogether too many for _her_." "She's not a _pretty_ cat," said Lilac doubtfully. "Well, n-no," said Peter, turning round to look at Tib with some regret in his tone. "She ain't not to say exactly pretty, but she's a rare one for rats. Ain't ye, Tib?" As if in reply Tib rose, fixed her front claws in the ground, and stretched her long lean body. She was not pretty, the most favourable judge could not have called her so. Her coat was harsh and wiry, her head small and mean, with ears torn and scarred in many battles. Her one eye, fiercely green, seemed to glare in an unnaturally piercing manner, but this was only because she was always on the lookout for her enemies--the rats. To complete her forlorn appearance she had only half a tail, and it was from this loss that her friendship with Peter dated, for he had rescued her from a trap. He seemed now to feel that her character needed defence, for he went on after a pause: "She'll sit an' watch for 'em to come out of the ricks by the hour, without ever tasting food. Better nor any tarrier she is at it." "Ben says the rats is awful bad," said Lilac. "They're that bold they'll steal the eggs, and scare off the hens when they're setting." "They do that," replied Peter, shaking his head. "The poultry wants seeing to badly; but Bella she don't seem to take to it, nor yet Agnetta, and our hands is full outside." "I like the chickens and ducks and things," said Lilac. "I wish Aunt'd let me take 'em in hand." Peter reared himself up from his bent position, and holding the big nosegay in one hand looked gravely down at his cousin. It was a good long distance from his height to Lilac, and she seemed wonderfully small and slender and delicately coloured as she stood there in her straight black frock and long pinafore. She had taken off her sun bonnet, so that her little white face with all the hair fastened back from it was plainly to be seen. It struck Peter as strange that such a small creature should talk of taking any more work "in hand" besides what she had to do already. "You hadn't ought to do hard work," he said at length; "you haven't got the strength." "I don't mind the work," said Lilac, drawing up her little figure. "I'm stronger nor what I look. 'Taint the work as I mind--" She stopped, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. Peter saw them with the greatest alarm. Somehow with his usual stupidity he had made his cousin cry. All he could do now was to take himself away as quickly as possible. He went up to Sober and touched him gently with his foot. "Come along, old chap," he said. "We've got to look after the lambs yonder." Without another word or a glance at Lilac he rolled away through the orchard with the dog at his heels, his great shoulders plunging along through the trees, and Lilac's gay bunch of flowers swinging in one hand. He had quite forgotten to give it to her. She looked after him in surprise, with the tears still in her eyes. Then a smile came. "He's a funny one surely," she said to herself. "Why ever did he make off like that?" There was no one to answer except Tib, who had jumped up into a tree and looked down at her with the most complete indifference. "Anyway, he means to be kind," concluded Lilac, "and it's a shame to flout him as they do, so it is." CHAPTER EIGHT. ONLY A CHILD! "Who is the honest man? He who doth still and strongly good pursue, To God, his neighbour and himself most true, Whom neither force nor fawning can Unpin or wrench from giving all his due." _G. Herbert_. Joshua Snell had by no means forgotten his little friend Lilac. There were indeed many occasions in his solitary life when he missed her a great deal, and felt that his days were duller. For on her way to and from school she had been used to pay him frequent visits, if only for a few moments at a time, dust his room, clean the murky little window, and bring him a bunch of flowers or a dish of gossip. In this way she was a link between him and the small world of Danecross down below; and in spite of his literary pursuits Joshua by no means despised news of his neighbour's affairs, though he often received it with a look of indifference. Besides this, her visits gave him an opportunity for talking, which was a great pleasure to him, and one in which he was seldom able to indulge, except on Saturdays when he travelled down to the bar of the "Three Bells" for an hour's conversation. He was also fond of Lilac for her own sake, and anxious to know if she were comfortable and happy in her new home. He soon began, therefore, to look out eagerly for her as he sat at work; but no little figure appeared, and he said to himself, "I shall see her o' Sunday at church." But this expectation was also disappointed, and he learned from Bella Greenways that Lilac and Agnetta were to go in the evenings, it was more convenient. Joshua could not do that; it had been his settled habit for years to stay at home on Sunday evening, and it was impossible to alter it. So it came to pass that a whole month went by and he had not seen her once. Then he said to himself, "If so be as they won't let her come to me, I reckon I must go and see her." And he locked up his cottage one evening and set out for the farm. Joshua was a welcome guest everywhere, in spite of his poverty and lowly station; even at the Greenways', who held their heads so high, and did not "mix", as Bella called it, with the "poor people." This was partly because of his learning, which in itself gave him a position apart, and also because he had a certain dignity of character which comes of self-respect and simplicity wherever they are found. Mrs Greenways was indeed a little afraid of him, and as anxious to make the best of herself in his presence as she was in that of her rector and landlord, Mr Leigh. "Why, you're quite a stranger, Mr Snell," she said when he appeared on this occasion. "Now sit down, do, and rest yourself, and have a glass of something or a cup of tea." Joshua being comfortably settled with a mug of cider at his elbow she continued: "Greenways is over at Lenham, and Peter's out on the farm somewheres, but I expect they'll be in soon." The cobbler waited for some mention of Lilac, but as none came he proceeded to make polite enquiries about other matters, such as the crops and the live stock, and the chances of good weather for the hay. He would not ask for her yet, he thought, because it might look as though he had no other reason for coming. "And how did you do with your ducks this season, Mrs Greenways, ma'am?" he said. "Why, badly," replied Mrs Greenways in a mortified tone; "I never knew such onlucky broods. A cow got into the orchard and trampled down one. Fifteen as likely ducklings as you'd wish to see. And the rats scared off a hen just as she'd hatched out; and we lost a whole lot more with the cramp." "H'm, h'm, h'm," said the cobbler sympathisingly, "that was bad, that was. And you ought to do well with your poultry in a fine place like this too." "Well, we don't," said Mrs Greenways, rather shortly; "and that's all about it." "They want a lot of care, poultry does," said Joshua reflectively; "a lot of care. I know a little what belongs to the work of a farm. Years afore I came to these parts I used to live on one." "Then p'r'aps you know what a heart-breaking, back-breaking, wearing-out life it is," burst out poor Mrs Greenways. "All plague an' no profit, that's what it is. It's drive, drive, drive, morning, noon, and night, and all to be done over again the next day. You're never through with it." "Ah! I dessay," said Joshua soothingly; "but there's your daughters now. They take summat off your hands, I s'pose? And that reminds me. There's little White Lilac, as we used to call her,--you find her a handy sort of lass, don't you?" "She's well enough in her way," said Mrs Greenways. "I don't never regret giving her a home, and I know my duty to Greenways' niece; but as for use--she's a child, Mr Snell, and a weakly little thing too, as looks hardly fit to hold a broom." "Well, well, well," said Joshua, "every little helps, and I expect you'll find her more use than you think for. Even a child is known by its doings, as Solomon says." Mrs Greenways interposed hastily, for she feared the beginning of what she called Joshua's "preachments." "You'd like to have seen her, maybe; but she's gone with Agnetta to the Vicarage to take some eggs. Mrs Leigh likes to see the gals now and then." Joshua made his visit as long as he could in the hope of Lilac's return, but she did not appear, and at last he could wait no longer. "Well, I'll go and have a look round for Peter," he said; "and p'r'aps you'll send Lilac up one day to see me. She was always a favourite of mine, was Lilac White. And I'd a deal of respect for her poor mother too. Any day as suits your convenience." "Oh, she can come any day as for that, Mr Snell," replied Mrs Greenways with a little toss of her head. "It doesn't make no differ in a house whether a child like that goes or stays. She's plenty of time on her hands." "That's settled then, ma'am," said Joshua, "and I shall be looking to see her soon." He made his farewell, leaving Mrs Greenways not a little annoyed that no mention had been made of Agnetta in this invitation. "Not that she'd go," she said to herself, "but he might a asked her as well as that little bit of a Lilac." It was quite a long time before she found it possible to allow Lilac to make this visit, for although she was small and useless and made no differ in the house, there were a wonderful number of things for her to do. Lilac's work increased; other people beside Mrs Greenways discovered the advantage of her willing hands, and were glad to put some of their own business into them. Thus the care of the poultry, which had been shuffled off Bella's shoulders on to Agnetta, now descended from her to Lilac, the number of eggs brought in much increasing in consequence. Lilac liked this part of her daily task; she was proud to discover the retired corners and lurking-places of the hens, and fill her basket with the brown and pink eggs. Day by day she took more interest in her feathered family, and began to find distinguishing marks of character or appearance in each, she even made plans to defeat the inroads of the rats by coaxing her charges to lay their eggs in the barn, where they were more secure. "Hens is sillier than most things," said Ben, when she confided her difficulties to him; "what they've done once they'll do allers, it's no good fightin' with 'em." He consented, however, to nail some boards over the worst holes in the barn, and by degrees, after infinite patience, Lilac succeeded in making some of the hens desert their old haunts and use their new abode. All this was encouraging. And about this time a new interest indoors arose which made her life at Orchards Farm less lonely, and was indeed an event of some importance to her. It happened in this way. Ever since her arrival she had watched the proceedings of Molly in the dairy with great attention. She had asked questions about the butter-making until Molly was tired of answering, and had often begged to be allowed to help. This was never refused, although Molly opened her eyes wide at the length of time she took to clean and rinse and scour, and by degrees she was trusted with a good deal of the work. The day came when she implored to be allowed to do it all--just for once. Molly hesitated; she had as usual a hundred other things to do and would be thankful for the help, but was such a bit of a thing to be trusted? On the whole, from her experience of Lilac she concluded that she was. "You won't let on to the missus as how you did it?" she said. And this being faithfully promised, Lilac was left in quiet possession of the dairy. She felt almost as excited about that batch of butter as if her life depended on it. Suppose it should fail? "But there!" she said to herself, "I won't think of that; I will make it do," and she set to work courageously. And now her habits of care and neatness and thoroughness formed in past years came to her service, as well as her close observation of Molly. Nothing was hurried in the process, every small detail earnestly attended to, and at last trembling with excitement and triumph she saw the result of her labours. The butter was a complete success. As she stood in the cool dark dairy with the firm golden pats before her, each bearing the sharply-cut impression of the stamp, Lilac clasped her hands with delight. She had not known such a proud moment in all her life, except on the day when she had been Queen. And this was a different sort of pride, for it was joy in her own handiwork-- something she herself had done with no one to help her. "Oh," she said to herself, "if Mother could but see that, how rare an' pleased she'd be!" Maybe she did, but how silent it was without her voice to say "Well done", and how blank without her face to smile on her child's success. There was no one to sympathise but Molly, who came in presently with loud exclamations of surprise. "So you've got through? Lor'-a-mussy, what a handy little thing it is! And you won't ever let on to missus or any of 'em?" Lilac never did "let on." She kept Molly's secret faithfully, and saw her butter packed up and driven off to Lenham without saying a word. And from this time forward the making up of the butter, and sometimes the whole process, was left in her hands. It was not easy work, for all the things she had to use were too large and heavy for her small hands, and she had to stand on a stool to turn the handle of the big churn. But she liked it, and what she lacked in strength she made up in zeal; it was far more interesting than scrubbing floors and scouring saucepans. Molly, too, was much satisfied with this new arrangement, for the dairy had always brought her more scolding from her mistress than any part of her work, and all now went on much more smoothly. Lilac wondered sometimes that her aunt never seemed to notice how much she was in the dairy, or called her away to do other things; she always spoke as if it were Molly alone who made the butter. In truth Mrs Greenways knew all about it, and was very content to let matters go on as they were; but something within her, that old jealousy of Lilac and her mother, made it impossible for her to praise her niece for her services. She could not do it without deepening the contrast between her own daughters and Lilac, which she felt, but would not acknowledge even to herself. So Lilac got no praise and no thanks for what she did, and though she found satisfaction in turning out the butter well for its own sake, this was not quite enough. A very small word or look would have contented her. Once when her uncle said: "The butter's good this week," she thought her aunt must speak, and glanced eagerly at her, but Mrs Greenways turned her head another way and no words come. Lilac felt hurt and disappointed. It was a busier time than usual at the farm just now, though there was always plenty for everyone to do. It was hay harvest and there were extra hands at work, extra cooking to do, and many journeys to be made to and from the hayfield. Lilac was on the run from morning till night, and even Bella and Agnetta were obliged to bestir themselves a little. In the big field beyond the orchard where the grass had stood so tall and waved its flowery heads so proudly, it was now lying low on the ground in the bright hot sun. The sky was cloudless, and the farmer's brow had cleared a little too, for he had a splendid crop and every chance of getting it in well. "To-morrow's Lenham fete," said Agnetta to Lilac one evening. "It's a pity but what you can go," answered Lilac. "We are going," said Agnetta triumphantly, "spite of Peter and Father being so contrary; and we ain't a-going to walk there neither!" "How are you goin' to get there, then?" asked Lilac. "Mr Buckle, he's goin' to drive us over in his gig," said Agnetta. "My I shan't we cut a dash? Bella, she's goin' to wear her black silk done up. We've washed it with beer and it rustles beautiful just like a new one. And she's got a hat turned up on one side and trimmed with Gobelin." "What's that?" asked Lilac, very much interested. "It's the new blue, silly," answered Agnetta disdainfully. Then she added: "My new parasol's got lace all round it, ever so deep. I expect we shall be about the most stylish girls there. Won't Charlotte Smith stare!" "I s'pose it's summat like a fair, isn't it?" asked Lilac. "Lor', no!" exclaimed Agnetta; "not a bit. Not near so vulgar. There's a balloon, and a promnarde, and fireworks in the evening." All these things sounded mysteriously splendid to Lilac's unaccustomed ears. She did not know what any of them meant, but they seemed all the more attractive. "You've got to be so sober and old-fashioned like," continued Agnetta, "that I s'pose you wouldn't care to go even if you could, would you? You'd rather stop at home and work." "I'd like to go," answered Lilac; "but Molly couldn't never get through with the work to-morrow if we was all to go. There's a whole lot to do." "Oh, of course you couldn't go," said Agnetta loftily. "Bella and me's different. We're on a different footing." Agnetta had heard her mother use this expression, and though she would have been puzzled to explain it, it gave her an agreeable sense of superiority to her cousin. In spite of soberness and gravity, Lilac felt not a little envious the next day when Mr Buckle drove up in his high gig to fetch her cousins to the fete. She could hear the exclamations of surprise and admiration which fell from Mrs Greenways as they appeared ready to start. "Well," she said with uplifted hands, "you do know how to give your things a bit of style. That I _will_ say." Bella had spent days of toil in preparing for this occasion, and the result was now so perfect in her eyes that it was well worth the labour. The silk skirt crackled and rustled and glistened with every movement; the new hat was perched on her head with all its ribbons and flowers nodding. She was now engaged in painfully forcing on a pair of lemon-coloured gloves, but suddenly there was the sound of a crack, and her smile changed to a look of dismay. "There!" she exclaimed, "if it hasn't gone, right across the thumb." "Lor', what a pity," said her mother. "Well, you can't stop to mend it; you must keep one hand closed, and it'll never show." Agnetta now appeared. She was dressed in the Sunday blue, with Bella's silver locket round her neck and a bangle on her wrist. But the glory of her attire was the new parasol; it was so large and was trimmed with such a wealth of cotton lace, that the eye was at once attracted to it, and in fact when she bore it aloft her short square figure walking along beneath it became quite a secondary object. Lilac watched the departure from the dairy window, which, overgrown with creepers, made a dark frame for the brightly-coloured picture. There was Mr Buckle, a young farmer of the neighbourhood, in a light-grey suit with a blue satin tie and a rose in his buttonhole. There was Bella, her face covered with self-satisfied smiles, mounting to his side. There was Agnetta carrying the new parasol high in the air with all its lace fluttering. How gay and happy they all looked! Mrs Greenways stood nodding at the window. She had meant to go out to the gate, but Bella had checked her. "Lor', Ma," she said, "don't you come out with that great apron on--you're a perfect guy." When the start was really made, and her cousins were whirled off to the unknown delights of Lenham, leaving only a cloud of dust behind them, Lilac breathed a little sigh. The sun was so bright, the breeze blew so softly, the sky was so blue--it was the very day for a holiday. She would have liked to go too, instead of having a hard day's work before her. "Where's Lilac?" called out Mrs Greenways in her high-pitched worried voice. "What on earth's got that child? Here's everything to do and no one to do it. Ah! there you are," as Lilac ran out from the dairy. "Now, you haven't got no time to moon about to-day. You must stir yourself and help all you can." "Bees is swarmin'!" said Ben, thrusting his head in at the kitchen door, and immediately disappearing again. "Bother the bees!" exclaimed Mrs Greenways crossly. But on Molly the news had a different effect. It was counted lucky to be present at the housing of a new swarm. She at once left her occupation, seized a saucepan and an iron spoon, and regardless of her mistress rushed out into the garden, making a hideous clatter as she went. "There now, look at that!" said Mrs Greenways with a heated face. "She's off for goodness knows how long, and a batch of loaves burning in the oven, and your uncle wanting his tea sent down into the field. Why ever should they want to go swarmin' now in that contrairy way?" She opened the oven door and took out the bread as she spoke. "Now, don't you go running off, Lilac," she continued. "There's enough of 'em out there to settle all the bees as ever was. You get your uncle's tea and take it out, and Peter's too. They won't neither of 'em be in till supper. Hurry now." The last words were added simply from habit, for she had soon discovered that it was impossible to hurry Lilac. What she did was well and thoroughly done, but not even the example which surrounded her at Orchards Farm could make her in a bustle. The whole habit of her life was too strong within her to be altered. Mrs Greenways glanced at her a little impatiently as she steadily made the tea, poured it into a tin can, and cut thick hunches of bread and butter. "I could a done it myself in, half the time," she thought; but she was obliged to confess that Lilac's preparations if slow were always sure, and that she never forgot anything. Lilac tilted her sunbonnet well forward and set out, walking slowly so as not to spill the tea. How blazing the sun was, though it was now nearly four o'clock. In the distance she could see the end of her journey, the big bare field beyond the orchard full of busy figures. As she passed the kitchen garden, Molly, rushing back from her encounter with the bees, almost ran against her. "There was two on 'em," she cried, her good-natured face shining with triumph and the heat of her exertions; "and we've housed 'em both beautiful. Lor'! ain't it hot?" She stood with her iron weapons hanging down on each side, quite ready for a chat to delay her return to the house. Molly was always cheerfully ready to undertake any work that was not strictly her own. Lilac felt sorry, as they went on their several ways, to think of the scolding that was waiting for her; but it was wasted pity, for Molly's shoulders were broad, and a scolding more or less made no manner of difference to them. There were all sorts and sizes of people at work in the hayfield as Lilac passed through it. Machines had not yet come into use at Danecross, so that the services of men, women, and children were much in request at this busy time. The farmer, remembering the motto, was determined to make his hay while the sun shone, and had collected hands from all parts of the neighbourhood. Lilac knew most of them, and passed along exchanging greetings, to where her uncle sat on his grey cob at the end of the field. He was talking to Peter, who stood by him with a wooden pitchfork in his hand. Lilac thought that her uncle's face looked unusually good-tempered as she handed up his meal to him. He sat there eating and drinking, and continued his conversation with his son. "Well, and what d'ye think of Buckle's offer for the colt?" "Pity we can't sell him," answered Peter. "_Can't_ sell him!" repeated the farmer; "I'm not so sure about that. Maybe he'd go sound now. He doesn't show no signs of lameness." "Wouldn't last a month on the roads," said Peter. The farmer's face clouded a little. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "that's Buckle's business. He can look him over, and if he don't see nothing wrong--" "We hadn't ought to sell him," said Peter in exactly the same voice. "He's not fit for the roads. Take him off soft ground and he'd go queer in a week." "He might or he mightn't," said the farmer impatiently; "all I know is I want the cash. It'd just pay that bill of Jones's, as is always bothering for his money. I declare I hate going into Lenham for fear of meeting that chap." Peter had begun to toss the hay near him with his pitchfork. He did not look at his father or change his expression, but he said again: "Knowing what we do, we hadn't ought to sell him." The farmer struck his stirrup-iron so hard with his stick that even the steady grey pony was startled. "I wish," he said with an oath, "that you'd never found it out then. I'd like to be square and straight about the horse as well as anyone. I've always liked best to be straight, but I'm too hard up to be so particular as that comes to. It's easy enough," he added moodily, "for a man to be honest with his pockets full of money." "I could get the same price for None-so-pretty," said Peter after a long pause. "Mrs Grey wants her--over at Cuddingham. Took a fancy to her a month ago." "I'll not have her sold," said the farmer quickly. "What's the good of selling her? She's useful to us, and the colt isn't." "She ain't not exactly so _useful_ to us as the other cows," said Peter. "She's more of a fancy." "Well, she's yours," answered the farmer sullenly. "You can do as you like with her of course; but I'm not going to be off my bargain with Buckle whatever you do." He shook his reins and jogged slowly away to another part of the field, while Peter fell steadily to work again with his pitchfork. Lilac was packing the things that had been used into her basket, and glanced at him now and then with her thoughts full of what she had just heard. Her opinion of Peter had changed very much lately. She had found, since her first conversation with him, that in many things he was not stupid but wise. He knew for instance a great deal about all the animals on the farm, their ways and habits, and how to treat them when they were ill. There were some matters to be sure in which he was laughably simple, and might be deceived by a child, but there were others on which everyone valued his opinion. His father certainly deferred to him in anything connected with the live stock, and when Peter had discovered a grave defect in the colt he did not dream of disputing it. So Lilac's feeling of pity began to change into something like respect, and she was sure too that Peter was anxious to show her kindness, though the expression of it was difficult to him. Since the day when he had gone away from her so suddenly, frightened by her tears, they had had several talks together, although the speech was mostly on Lilac's side. She shrank from him no longer, and sometimes when the real Peter came up from the depths where he lay hidden, and showed a glimpse of himself through the dull mask, she thought him scarcely ugly. Would he sell None-so-pretty? She knew what it would cost him, for since Ben's history she had observed the close affection between them. There were not so many people fond of Peter that he could afford to lose even the love of a cow--and yet he would rather do it than let the colt be sold! As she turned this over in her mind Lilac lingered over her preparations, and when Peter came near her tossing the hay to right and left with his strong arms, she looked up at him and said: "I'm sorry about None-so-pretty." Peter stopped a moment, took off his straw hat and rubbed his hot red face with his handkerchief. "Thank yer," he answered; "so am I." "Is it _certain sure_ you'll sell her?" asked Lilac. Peter nodded. "She'll have a good home yonder," he said; "a rare fuss they'll make with her." "She'll miss you though," said Lilac, shaking her head. "Well," answered Peter, "I shouldn't wonder if she did look out for me a bit just at first. I've always been foolish over her since she was ill." "But if Uncle sells the colt I s'pose you won't sell her, will you?" continued Lilac. "He _won't_ sell him," was Peter's decided answer, as he turned to his work again. Now, nothing could have been more determined than Mr Greenways' manner as he rode away, but yet when Lilac heard Peter speak so firmly she felt he must be right. The colt would not be sold and None-so-pretty would have to go in his place. She returned to the farm more than ever impressed by Peter's power. Quiet, dull Peter who seemed hardly able to put two sentences together, and had never an answer ready for his sisters' sharp speeches. That evening when Bella and Agnetta returned from Lenham, Lilac was at the gate. She had been watching for them eagerly, for she was anxious to hear all about the grand things they had seen, and hoped they would be inclined to talk about it. As they were saying goodbye to Mr Buckle with a great many smiles and giggles, the farmer came out. "Stop a bit, Buckle," he said, "I want a word with you about the colt. I've changed my mind since the morning." Lilac heard no more as she followed her cousins into the house; but there was no need. Peter had been right. During supper nothing was spoken of but the fete--the balloon, the band, the fireworks, and the dresses, Charlotte Smith's in particular. Lilac was intensely interested, and it was trying after the meal was over to have to help Molly in taking away the dishes, and lose so much of the conversation. This business over she drew near Agnetta and made an attempt to learn more, but in vain. Agnetta was in her loftiest mood, and though she was full of private jokes with Bella, she turned away coldly from her cousin. They had evidently some subject of the deepest importance to talk of which needed constant whispers, titters from Bella, and even playful slaps now and then. Lilac could hear nothing but "He says--She says," and then a burst of laughter, and "go along with yer nonsense." It was dull to be left out of it all, and she wished more than ever that she had gone to the fete too. "Lilac," said her aunt, "just run and fetch your uncle's slippers." She was already on her way when the farmer took his pipe out of his mouth and looked round. He had been moody and cross all supper-time, and now he glanced angrily at his two daughters as they sat whispering in the corner. "It's someone else's turn to run, it seems to me," he said; "Lilac's been at it all day. You go, Agnetta." And as Agnetta left the room with an injured shrug, he continued: "Seems too as if Lilac had all the work and none of the fun. You'd like an outing as well as any of 'em--wouldn't you, my maid?" Lilac did not know what to make of such unexpected kindness. As a rule her uncle seemed hardly to know that she was in the house. She did not answer, for she was very much afraid of him, but she looked appealingly at her aunt. "I'm sure, Greenways," said the latter in an offended tone, "you needn't talk as if the child was put upon. And your own niece, and an orphan besides. I know my duty better. And as for holidays and fetes and such, 'tisn't nateral to suppose as how Lilac would want to go to 'em after the judgment as happened to her directly after the last one. Leastways, not yet awhile. There'd be something ondacent in it, to my thinking." "Well, there! it doesn't need so much talking," replied the farmer. "I'm not wanting her to go to fetes. But there's Mr Snell--he was asking for her yesterday when I met him. Let her go tomorrow and spend the day with him." "If there is a busier day than another, it's Thursday," said Mrs Greenways fretfully. "Why, as to that, she's only a child, and makes no differ in the house, as you always say," remarked the farmer; "anyhow, I mean her to go to-morrow, and that's all about it." Lilac went to bed that night with a heart full of gratitude for her uncle's kindness, and delight at the promised visit; but her last thought before she slept was: "I'm sorry as how None-so-pretty has got to be sold." CHAPTER NINE. COMMON THINGS. "...Find out men's wants and will And meet them there, all earthly joys grow less To the one joy of doing kindnesses." _George Herbert_. Lilac could hardly believe her own good fortune when nothing happened the next morning to prevent her visit, not even a cross word nor a complaint from her aunt, who seemed to have forgotten her objections of last night and to be quite pleased that she should go. Mrs Greenways put a small basket into her hand before she started, into which she had packed a chicken, a pot of honey, and a pat of fresh butter. "There," she said, "that's a little something from Orchards Farm, tell him. The chick's our own rearing, and the honey's from Peter's bees, and the butter's fresh this morning." She nodded and smiled good-naturedly; Joshua should see there was no stint at the farm. "Be back afore dusk," she called after Lilac as she watched her from the gate. So there was nothing to spoil the holiday or to damp Lilac's enjoyment in any way, and she felt almost as merry as she used to be before she came to live in the valley, and had begun to have cares and troubles. For one whole day she was going to be White Lilac again, with no anxieties about the butter; she would hear no peevish voices or wrangling disputes, she would have kindness and smiles and sunshine all round her, and the blue sky above. In this happy mood everything along the well-known road had new beauties, and when she turned up the hill and felt the keener air blow against her face, it was like the greeting of an old friend. The very flowers in the tall overgrown hedges were different to those which grew in the valley, and much sweeter; she pulled sprays of them as she went along until she had a large straggling bunch to carry as well as her basket, and so at last entered Joshua's cottage with both hands full. "Now, Uncle Joshua," she said, when the first greetings over he had settled to his work again, "I've come to dinner with you, and I've brought it along with me, and until it's ready you're not to look once into the kitchen. You couldn't never guess what it is, so you needn't try; and you mustn't smell it more nor you can help while it's cooking." It was a proud moment for Lilac when, the fowl being roasted to a turn, the table nicely laid, and the bunch of flowers put exactly in the middle, she led the cobbler up to the feast. Even if Joshua had smelt the fowl he concealed it very well, and his whole face expressed the utmost astonishment, while Lilac watched him in an ecstasy of delight. "My word!" he exclaimed, "its fit for a king. I feel," looking down at his clothes, "as if I ought to have on my Sunday best." Lilac was almost too excited to eat anything herself, and presently, when she saw Joshua pause after his first mouthful, she enquired anxiously: "Isn't it good, Uncle?" "Fact is," he answered, "it's _too_ good. I don't really feel as how I ought to eat such dillicate food. Not being ill, or weak, or anyway picksome in my appetite." "I made sure you'd say that," said Lilac triumphantly; "and I just made up my mind I'd cook it without telling what it was. You've got to eat it now, Uncle Joshua. You couldn't never be so ungrateful as to let it spoil." "There's Mrs Wishing now," said Joshua, stilt hesitating, "a sickly ailing body as 'ud relish a morsel like this." It was not until Lilac had set his mind at rest by promising to take some of the fowl to Mrs Wishing before she returned, that he was able to abandon himself to thorough enjoyment. Lilac knew then by his silence that her little feast was heartily appreciated, and she would not disturb him by a word, although there were many things she wanted to say. But at last Joshua had finished. "A fatter fowl nor a finer, nor a better cooked one couldn't be," he said, as he laid down his knife and fork. "Not a bit o' dryness in the bird: juicy all through and as sweet as a nut." Ready now for a little conversation, he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe while Lilac stood near washing the dishes and plates. "It's thirty years ago," he said, speaking in a jerky voice so as not to interfere with the comfort of his pipe, "since I had a fowl for dinner-- and I mind very well when it was. It was my wedding-day. Away up in the north it was, and parson gave the feast." "Was that when you used to play the clar'net in church, Uncle?" asked Lilac. Joshua nodded. "We was a clar'net and a fiddle and a bass viol," he said reflectively. "Never kept time--the bass viol didn't. Couldn't never get it into his head. He wasn't never any shakes of a player--and he was a good feller too." "Did they play at your wedding?" asked Lilac. "They did that," he answered; "in church and likewise after the ceremony. Lor'! to hear how the bass viol did tag behind in _Rockingham_. I can hear him now. 'Twas like two solos being played, as one might say. No unity at all. I never hear that tune now but what it carries me back to my wedding-day and the bass viol; and the taste of that fowl's done the same thing. It's a most pecooliar thing, is the memory." Lilac liked to hear Joshua talk about old days, but she was eager too to tell her own news. There was so much that he did not know: all about hay-harvest, and her butter-making, about Lenham fete, and her cousins, and, finally, all about None-so-pretty and Peter. "I do think," she added, "as how I like him best of any of 'em, for all they say he's so common." "Common or uncommon, they'd do badly without him," muttered Joshua. "He's the very prop and pillar of the place, is Peter; if a wall's strong enough to hold the roof up, you don't ask if it's made of marble or stone." "Are common things bad things?" asked Lilac suddenly. Joshua took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at her in some surprise. "Common things--eh?" he repeated. "Yes, Uncle," said Lilac hesitatingly, and trying to think of how to make it clear. But she could only add: "They call the pigs common too." "Well, as to pigs," said Joshua, "I wish they was commoner still. I don't despise a bit of bacon myself. I call that a good thing anyhow. When one comes to look at it," he continued after a few puffs at his pipe, "the best things of all is common. The things as is under our feet and nigh to our hand and easy to be got. There's the flowers now-- the common ones which grow so low as any child can pick 'em in the fields, daisies and such. There's the blue sky as we can all see, poor as well as rich. There's rain and sunshine and air and a heap else as belongs to all alike, and which we couldn't do without. The common things is the best things, don't you make any mistake about that. There's your own name now--Lilac. It's a common bush lilac is; it grows every bit as well in a little bit of garden nigh the road as in a grand park, and it hasn't no rare colours to take the eye. And yet on a sunshiny day after rain the folks passing'll say, `Whatever is it as smells so beautiful?' Why it's just the common lilac bush. You ought to be like that in a manner of speaking--not to try and act clever and smart so as to make folks stare, but to be good-tempered and peaceful and loving, so as they say when you leave 'em, `What made the place so pleasant? Why, it was Lilac White. She ain't anything out of the common, but we miss her now she's gone--'" The frequent mention of her name reminded Lilac of something she wanted to say, and she broke in suddenly: "Why, I've never thought to thank you, Uncle, for all that bloom you got me on May Day. What a long way back it do seem!" Joshua looked perplexed. "What's the child talking on?" he said. "I didn't get no flowers." "Whoever in all the world could it a been then?" said Lilac slowly. "You're sure you haven't forgotten, Uncle Joshua?" "Sartain sure!" "You didn't ask no one to get it?" "Never mentioned a word to a livin' bein'." Lilac stared thoughtfully at the cobbler, who had now gone back to his little shed and was hard at work. "P'r'aps, then," she said, "'twarn't you neither who sent Mother's cactus down to the farm?" "Similarly," replied he, "it certainly was _not_; so you've got more friends than you reckoned for, you see." Lilac stood in the doorway, her bonnet dangling in one hand, her eyes fixed absently on Joshua's brown fingers. "I made sure," she said, "as how it was you. I couldn't think as there was anybody else to mind." It was getting late. Without looking at the clock she knew that her holiday would soon be over, because through Joshua's little window there came a bright sun beam which was never there till after five. She tied on her bonnet, prepared a choice morsel of chicken for Mrs Wishing, and set out on her further journey after a short farewell to the cobbler. Joshua never liked saying goodbye, and did it so gruffly that it might have sounded sulky to the ear of a stranger, but Lilac knew better. She had a "goodish step" before her, as she called it to herself, and if she were to get back to the farm before dusk she must make haste. So she hurried on, and soon in the distance appeared the two little white cottages side by side, perched on the edge of the steep down. The one in which she had lived with her mother was empty, and as she got close to it and stopped to look over the paling into the small strip of garden, she felt sorry to see how forlorn and deserted it looked. It had always been so trim and neat, and its white hearthstone and open door had invited the passer-by to enter. Now the window shutters were fastened, the door was locked, the straggling flowers and vegetables were mixed up with tall weeds and nettles--it was all lifeless and cold. It was a pity. Mother would not have liked to see it. Lilac pushed her hand through the palings and managed to pick some sweet-peas which were trailing themselves helplessly about for want of support, then she went on to the next gate. Poor Mrs Wishing was very lonely now that her only neighbour was gone; very few people passed over that way or came up so far from Danecross. Sometimes when Dan'l had a job on in the woods he was away for days and she saw no one at all, unless she was able to get to the cobbler's cottage, and that was seldom. Lilac knocked gently at the half-open door, and hearing no answer went in. Mrs Wishing was there, sitting asleep in a chair by the hearth with her head hanging uncomfortably on one side; her dress was untidy, her hair rough, and her face white and pinched. Lilac cast one glance at her and then looked round the room. There were some white ashes on the hearth, a kettle hanging over them by its chain, and at Mrs Wishing's elbow stood an earthenware teapot, from which came a faint sickly smell; and when Lilac saw that she nodded to herself, for she knew what it meant. The next moment the sleeper opened her large grey eyes and gazed vacantly at her visitor. "It's me," said Lilac. "It's Lilac White." Mrs Wishing still gazed without speaking; there was an unearthly flickering light in her eyes. At last she muttered indistinctly: "You're just like her." Not in the least alarmed or surprised at this condition, Lilac glanced at the teapot and said reproachfully: "You've been drinking poppy tea, and you promised Mother you wouldn't do it no more." Mrs Wishing struggled feebly against the drowsiness which overpowered her, and murmured apologetically: "I didn't go to do it, but it seemed as if I couldn't bear the pain." Lilac set down her basket, and opened the door of a cupboard near the chimney corner. "Where's your kindlin's?" she asked. "I'll make you a cup of real tea, and that'll waken you up a bit. And Uncle Joshua's sent you a morsel of chicken." "Ha'n't got no kindlin's and no tea," murmured Mrs Wishing. "Give me a drink o' water from the jug yonder." No tea! That was an unheard-of thing. As Lilac brought the water she said indignantly: "Where's Mr Wishing then? He hadn't ought to go and leave you like this without a bit or a drop in the house." Mrs Wishing seemed a little refreshed by the water and was able to speak more distinctly. She sat up in her chair and made a few listless attempts to fasten up her hair and put herself to rights. "'Tain't Dan'l's fault this time," she said; "he's up in the woods felling trees for a week. They're sleeping out till the job's done. He did leave me money, and I meant to go down to the shop. But then I took bad and I couldn't crawl so far, and nobody didn't pass." "And hadn't you got nothing in the house?" asked Lilac. "Only a crust a' bread, and I didn't seem to fancy it. I craved so for a cup a' tea. And I had some dried poppy heads by me. So I held out as long as I could, and nobody didn't come. And this morning I used my kindlin's and made the tea. And when I drank it I fell into a blessed sleep, and I saw lots of angels, and their harps was sounding beautiful in my head all the time. When I was a gal there was a hymn--it was about angels and golden crownds and harps, but I can't put it rightly together now. So then I woke and there was you, and I thought you was a sperrit. Seems a pity to wake up from a dream like that. But _I_ dunno." She let her head fall wearily back as she finished. Lilac was not in the least interested by the vision. She was accustomed to hear of Mrs Wishing's angels and harps, and her mind was now entirely occupied by earthly matters. "What you want is summat to eat and drink," she said, "and I shall just have to run back to Uncle Joshua's for some bread and tea. But first I'll get a few sticks and make you a blaze to keep you comp'ny." Mrs Wishing's eyes rested an her like those of a child who is being comforted and taken care of, as having collected a few sticks she knelt on the hearth and fanned them into a blaze with her pinafore. "You couldn't bide a little?" she said doubtfully, as Lilac turned towards the door. "I'll be back in no time," said Lilac, "and then you shall have a nice supper, and you mustn't take no more of this," pointing to the teapot. "You know you promised Mother." "I didn't _go to_," repeated Mrs Wishing submissively; "but it seemed as if I couldn't bear the gnawing in my inside." It did not take long for Lilac, filled with compassion for her old friend, to run back to the cobbler's cottage; but there she was delayed a little, for Joshua had questions to ask, although he was ready and eager to fill her basket with food. The return was slower, for it was all uphill and her burden made a difference to her speed, so that it was long past sunset when she reached Mrs Wishing for the second time. Then, after coaxing her to eat and drink, Lilac had to help her upstairs and put her to bed like a child, and finally to sit by her side and talk soothingly to her until she dropped into a deep sleep. Her duties over, and everything put ready to. Mrs Wishing's hand for the next morning, she now had time to notice that it was quite dusk, and that the first stars were twinkling in the sky. With a sudden start she remembered her aunt's words: "Be back afore dusk," and clasped her hands in dismay. It was no use to hurry now, for however quickly she went the farm would certainly be closed for the night before she reached it. Should she stay where she was till the morning? No, it would be better to take the chance of finding someone up to let her in. Mrs Wishing would be all right now that Joshua knew about her; "and anyway, I'm glad I came," said Lilac to herself, "even if Aunt does scold a bit." With this thought to console her, she stepped out into the cool summer night, and began her homeward journey. It was not very dark, for it was midsummer--near Saint Barnabas Day, when there is scarcely any night at all-- "Barnaby Bright All day and no night!" Lilac had often heard her mother say that rhyme, and she remembered it now. It was all very, very still, so that all manner of sounds too low to have been noticed amongst the noises of the day were now plainly to be heard. A soft wind went whispering and sighing to itself in the trees overhead, carrying with it the sweetness of the hayfields and the honeysuckle in the hedges, owls hooted mysteriously, and the frogs croaked in some distant pond. Creatures never seen in the daytime were now awake and busy. As Lilac ran along, the bats whirred close past her face, and she saw in the grass by the wayside the steady little light of the glow-worms. It was certainly very late; there was hardly a glimmer of hope that anyone would be up at the farm. It was equally certain that, if there were, a scolding waited for Lilac. Either way it was bad, she thought. She wanted to go to bed, for she was very tired, but she did not want to be scolded to-night; she could bear that better in the morning. When she reached the house, therefore, and found it all silent and dark, with no light in any window and no sound of any movement, she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. But presently, as she stood there forlornly, with only the sky overhead full of stars blinking their cold bright eyes at her, she began to long to creep in somewhere and rest. Her limbs ached, her head felt heavy, and her hard little bed seemed a luxury well worth the expense of a scolding. Should she venture to knock at the door? She had almost determined on this bold step, when quite suddenly a happy idea came to her. There would perhaps be some door open in the outbuildings, either in the loft or the barn or the stables, where she could get in and find shelter for the night. It was worth trying at any rate. With renewed hope she ran across the strawyard and tried the great iron ring in the stable door. It was not locked. Here were shelter and rest at last, and no one to scold! She crept in, and was just closing the heavy door when towards her, across the rickyard, came the figure of a man. His head was bent so that she could not see his face, but she thought from his lumbering walk that it must be Peter, and in a moment it flashed across her mind that he had just got back from Cuddingham. While she stood hesitating just within the door the man came quite close, and before she could call out the key rattled in the lock and heavy footsteps tramped away again. Then it was Peter. But surely he must have seen her, and if so why had he locked her in? Anyhow here she was for the night, and the next thing to do was to find a bed. She groped her way past the stalls of the three Pleasants, whose dwelling she had invaded, to the upright ladder which led to the loft. The horses were all lying down after their hard day's work, and only one of them turned his great head with a rattle of his halter, to see who this small intruder could be. Lilac clambered up the ladder and was soon in the dark fragrant-smelling loft above, where the trusses of hay and straw were mysteriously grouped under the low thick beams. There was no lack of a soft warm nest here, and the close neighbourhood of the Pleasants made it feel secure and friendly; nothing could possibly be better. She took off her shoes, curled herself up cosily in the hay, and shut her weary eyes. Presently she opened them drowsily again, and then discovered that her lodging was shared by a companion, for on the rafters just above her head, her single eye gleaming in the darkness, sat Peter's cat Tib. Lilac called to her, but she took no notice and did not move, having her own affairs to conduct at that time of night. Lilac watched her dreamily for a little while, and then her thoughts wandered on to Peter and became more and more confused. He got mixed up with Joshua, and the cactus and None-so-pretty and heaps of white flowers. "The common things are the best things," she seemed to hear over and over again. Then quite suddenly she was in Mrs Wishing's cottage, and the loft was filled with the heavy sickly smell of poppy tea: it was so strong that it made her feel giddy and her eyelids seemed pressed down by a firm hand. After that she remembered nothing more that night. CHAPTER TEN. THE CREDIT OF THE FARM. "Many littles make a mickle."--_Scotch Proverb_. She was awakened the next morning by trampling noises in the stable below, and starting up could not at first make out where she was. The sun was shining through a rift in the loft door, Tib was gone, cocks were crowing outside, all the world was up and busy. She could hear Ben's gruff voice and the clanking of chains and harness, and soon he and the three horses had left the stable and gone out to their day's work. It must be late, therefore, and she must lose no time in presenting herself at the house. Perhaps it might be possible, she thought, to get up to her attic without seeing anyone, and tidy herself a bit first; she should then have more courage to face her aunt, for at present with her rough hair and pieces of hay and straw clinging to her clothes, she felt like some little stray wanderer. She approached the house cautiously and peeped in at the back door before entering, to see who was in the kitchen. Bella was there talking to Molly, whose broad red face was thrust eagerly forward as though she were listening to something interesting. They were indeed so deeply engaged that Lilac felt sure they would not notice her, and she took courage and went in. "It's a mercy she wasn't killed," Molly was saying. "She's no light weight to fall, isn't the missus." "It's completely upset me," said Bella in a faint voice, with one hand on her heart. "I tremble all over still." "And to think," said Molly, "as it was only yesterday I said to myself, `I'll darn that carpet before I'm an hour older'." "Well, it's a pity you didn't," said Bella sharply; "just like your careless ways." Molly shook her head. "'Twasn't to _be_," she said. "'Twasn't for nothing that I spilt the salt twice, and dreamt of water." "The doctor says it's a bad sprain," continued Bella; "and it's likely she'll be laid up for a month. Perfect rest's the only thing." "_I_ had a cousin," said Molly triumphantly, "what had a similar accident. A heavy woman she was, like the missus in build. Information set in with _her_ and she died almost immediate." Lilac did not wait to hear more; she made her escape safely to her attic, and soon afterwards found Agnetta and learnt from her the history of the accident. Mrs Greenways had had a bad fall; she had caught her foot in a hole in the carpet and twisted her ankle, and the doctor said it was a wonder she had not broken any bones. Everyone in the house had so much to say, and was so excited about this misfortune, that Lilac's little adventure was passed over without notice, and the scolding she had dreaded did not come at all. Poor Mrs Greenways had other things to think of as she lay groaning on the sofa, partly with pain and partly at the prospect before her. To be laid up a month! It was easy for the doctor to talk, but what would become of things? Who would look after Molly? Who would see to the dairy? It would all go to rack and ruin, and she must lie here idle and look on. Her husband stood by trying to give comfort, but every word he said only seemed to make matters worse. "Why, there's Bella now," he suggested; "she ought to be able to take your place for a bit." "And that just shows how much you know about the indoors work, Greenways," said his wife fretfully; "to talk of Bella! Why, I'd as soon trust the dairy to Peter's cat as Bella--partikler now she's got that young Buckle in her head. She don't know cream from buttermilk." "Why, then, you must just leave the butter to Molly as usual, and let the girls see after the rest," said Mr Greenways soothingly. "Oh, it's no use talking like that," said his wife impatiently; "it's only aggravating to hear you. I suppose you think things are done in the house without heads or hands either. Girls indeed! There's Agnetta, knows no more nor a baby, and only that little bit of a Lilac as can put her hand to anything." Finding his efforts useless, Mr Greenways shrugged his shoulders and went out, leaving his wife alone with her perplexities. The more she thought them over the worse they seemed. To whom could she trust whilst she was helpless? Who would see that the butter was ready and fit for market? Not Bella, not Agnetta, and certainly not Molly. Really and truly there was only that little bit of a Lilac, as she called her, to depend on--she would do her work just as well whether she were overlooked or not, Mrs Greenways felt sure. It was no use to shut her eyes to it any longer, Lilac White was not a burden but a support, not useless but valuable, only a child, but more dependable than many people of twice her years. It was bitter to poor Mrs Greenways to acknowledge this, even to herself, for the old jealousy was still strong within her. "I s'pose," she said with a groan, "there was something in Mary White's upbringing after all. I'm not agoin' to own up to it, though, afore other folks." When a little later Lilac was told that her aunt wanted her, she thought that the scolding had come at last, and went prepared to bear it as well as she could. It was, however, for a surprisingly different purpose. "Look here, Lilac," said Mrs Greenways carelessly, "you've been a good deal in the dairy lately, and you ought to have picked up a lot about it." "I can make the butter all myself, Aunt," replied Lilac, "without Molly touching it." "Well, I hope you're thankful for such a chance of learning," said Mrs Greenways; "not but what you're a good child enough, I've nothing to say against you. But what I want to say is this: Molly can't do everything while I'm laid by, and I think I shall take her from the dairy-work altogether, and let you do it." Lilac's eyes shone with delight. Her aunt spoke as though she were bestowing a favour, and she felt it indeed to be such. "Oh! thank you, Aunt," she cried. "I'm quite sure as how I can do it, and I like it ever so much." "With Agnetta to help you I dessay you'll get through with it," said Mrs Greenways graciously, and so the matter was settled. Lilac was dairymaid! No longer a little household drudge, called hither and thither to do everyone's work, but an important person with a business and position of her own. What an honour it was! There was only one drawback--there was no mother to rejoice with her, or to understand how glad she felt about it. Lilac was obliged to keep her exultation to herself. She would have liked to tell Peter of her advancement, but just now he was at work on some distant part of the farm, and she saw him very seldom, for her new office kept her more within doors than usual. The good-natured Molly was, however, delighted with the change, and full of wonder at Lilac's cleverness. "It's really wonderful," she said; "and what beats me is that it allus turns out the same." With this praise Lilac had to be content, and she busied herself earnestly in her own little corner with increasing pride in her work. Sometimes, it is true, she looked enviously at Agnetta, who seemed to have nothing to do but enjoy herself after her own fashion. Since Lenham fete Bella and she had had some confidential joke together, which they carried on by meaning nods and winks and mysterious references to "Charlie." They were also more than ever engaged in altering their dresses and trimming their hats, and although Lilac was kept completely outside all this, she soon began to connect it with the visits of young Mr Buckle. She thought it a little unkind of Agnetta not to let her into the secret, and it was dull work to hear so much laughter going on without ever joining in it; but very soon she knew what it all meant. "Heard the news?" cried Agnetta, rushing into the dairy, then, without waiting for an answer, "Bella's goin' to get married. Guess who to?" "Young Mr Buckle," said Lilac without a moment's hesitation. "As soon as ever Ma's about again the wedding's to be," said Agnetta exultingly. "I'm to be bridesmaid, and p'r'aps Charlotte Smith as well." Lilac, who had stopped her scrubbing to listen, now went on with it, and Agnetta looked down at her kneeling figure with some contempt. "What a lot of trouble you take over it!" she said. "Molly used to do it in half the time." "If I ain't careful," answered Lilac, "the butter'd get a taste." "I'll help you a bit," said her cousin condescendingly. "I'll rinse these pans for you." Lilac was glad to have Agnetta's company, for she wanted to hear all about Bella's wedding; but Agnetta's help she was not so anxious for, because she usually had to do the work all over again. Agnetta's idea of excellence was to get through her work quickly, to make it look well outside, to polish the part that showed and leave the rest undone. Speed and show had always been the things desired in the household at Orchards Farm--not what _was_ good but what _looked_ good, and could be had at small expense and labour. Beneath the smart clothing which Mrs Greenways and her daughters displayed on Sundays, strange discoveries might have been made. Rents fastened up with pins, stains hidden by stylish scarves and mantles, stockings unmended, boots trodden down or in holes. A feather in the hat, a bangle on the arm, and a bunched-up dress made up for these deficiencies. "If it don't show it don't matter," Bella was accustomed to say. Agnetta paused to rest after about two minutes. "Bella won't have nothing of this sort to do after she's married," she said. "Charlie says she needn't stir a finger, not unless she likes. She'll be able to sit with her hands before her just like a lady." "I shouldn't care about being a lady if that's what I had to do," said Lilac. "I should think it would be dull. I'd rather see after the farm, if I was Bella." "You don't mean to tell me you _like work_?" said Agnetta, staring. "You wouldn't do it, not if you weren't obliged? 'Tain't natural." "I like some," said Lilac. "I like the dairy work and I like feeding the poultry. And I want to learn to milk, if Ben'll teach me. And in the spring I mean to try and get ever such a lot of early ducks." "Well, I hate all that," said Agnetta. "Now, if I could choose I wouldn't live on a farm at all. I'd have lots of servants, and silk gownds and gold bracelets and broaches, and satting furniture, and a carridge to drive in every day. An' I'd lie in bed ever so late in the mornings and always do what I liked." Time went on and Mrs Greenway's ankle got better, so that although still lame she was able to hobble about with a stick, and find out Molly's shortcomings much as usual. During her illness she had relied a good deal on Lilac and softened in her manner towards her, but now the old feeling of jealousy came back, and she found it impossible to praise her for the excellence of the dairy-work. "I can't somehow bring my tongue to it," she said to herself; "and the better she behaves the less I can do it." One day the farmer came back from Lenham in a good humour. "Benson asked if we'd got a new dairymaid," he said to his wife; "the butter's always good now. Which of 'em does it?" "Oh," said Mrs Greenways carelessly, "the girls manage it between 'em, and I look it over afore it goes." Lilac heard it, for she had come into the room unnoticed, and for a second she stood still, uncertain whether to speak, fixing a reproachful gaze on her aunt. What a shame it was! Was this her reward for all her patience and hard work? Never a word of praise, never even the credit of what she did! On her lips were some eager angry words, but she did not utter them. She turned and ran upstairs to her own little attic. Her heart was full; she could see no reason for this injustice: it was very, very hard. What would they do, she went on to think, if she left the butter to Bella and Agnetta to manage between them? What would her aunt say then? Trembling with indignation she sat down on her bed and buried her face in her hands. At first she was too angry to cry, but soon she felt so lonely, with such a great longing for a word of comfort and kindness, that the tears came fast. After that she felt a little better, rubbed her eyes on her pinafore, and looked up at the small window through which there streamed some bright rays of the afternoon sun. What was it that lighted the room with such a glory? Not the sunshine alone. It rested on something in the window, which stood out in gorgeous splendour from the white bareness of its surroundings--the cactus had bloomed! Yes, the cactus had really burst into two blossoms, of such size and brilliancy that with the sunlight upon them they were positively dazzling to behold. Lilac sat and blinked her red eyes at them in admiration and wonder. She had watched the two buds with tender interest, and feared they would never unfold themselves. Now they had done it, and how beautiful they were! How Mother would have liked them! Her next thought was, as she went closer to examine them, that she must tell Peter. She remembered now, that, occupied with her own affairs and interests, she had never thanked him for two kind things he had done. She was quite sure that he had got the flowers for her on May Day, and had brought the cactus down from the cottage, yet she had said nothing. How ungrateful she had been! She knew now how hard it was not to be thanked for one's services. Did Peter mind? He must be pretty well used to it, for certainly no one ever thanked him for anything, and as for praise that was out of the question. If, as Uncle Joshua had said, he was the prop of the house, it was taken for granted, and no one thought of saying, "Well done, Peter!" Yet he never complained. He went patiently on in his dull way, keeping his pains and troubles to himself. How seldom his face was brightened by pleasure, and yet Lilac remembered when he had been talking to her about his animals or farming matters, that she had seen it change wonderfully. Some inner feeling had beamed out from it, and for a few minutes Peter was a different creature. It was a pity that he did not always look like that; no one at such times could call him stupid or ugly. "Anyway," concluded Lilac, "he's been kind, and I'll thank him as soon as ever I can." Her sympathy for Peter made her own trouble seem less, and she went downstairs cheerfully with her mind bent on managing a little talk with him as soon as possible. Supper-time would not do, because Bella and Agnetta were there, and afterwards Peter was so sleepy. It must be to-morrow. As it happened things turned out fortunately for Lilac, and required no effort on her part, for Mrs Greenways discovered the next day that someone must do some shopping in Lenham. There were things wanted that Dimbleby did not keep, and the choice of which could not be trusted to a man. "I wonder," she said, "if I could make shift to get into the cart--but if I did I couldn't never get in and out at the shops." She looked appealingly at her elder daughter. "The cart's _going_ in with the butter," she added. But Bella was not inclined to take the hint. "You don't catch me driving into Lenham with the cart full of butter and eggs and such," she said. "Whatever'd Charlie say? Why shouldn't Lilac go? She's sharp enough." There seemed no reason against this, and it was accordingly settled that Lilac should be entrusted with Mrs Greenways' commissions. As she received them, her mind was so full of the dazzling prospect of driving into Lenham with the butter that it was almost impossible to bring it to bear on anything else. It would be like going into the world. Only once in her whole life had she been there before, and that was when her mother had taken her long ago. She was quite a little child then, but she remembered the look of it still, and what a grand place she had thought it, with its broad market square and shops and so many people about. When her aunt had finished her list, which was a very long one, Bella was ready with her wants, which were even more puzzling. "I want this ribbon matched," she said, "and I want a bonnet shape. It mustn't be too high in the crown nor yet too broad in the brim, and it mustn't be like the one Charlotte Smith's got now. If you can't match the ribbon exactly you must get me another shade. A kind of a sap green, I think--but it must be something uncommon. And you might ask at Jones's what's being worn in hats now--feathers or artificials. Oh, and I want some cream lace, not more than sixpence a yard, a good striking pattern, and as deep as you can get for the money." Agnetta having added to this two ounces of coconut rock and a threepenny bottle of scent, Lilac was allowed to get ready for her expedition. The cart was waiting in the yard with the baskets packed in at the back, and Ben was buckling the last strap of the harness. She expected that he was going with her, and it was quite a pleasant surprise when Peter came out of the house with a whip in his hand and took the reins. Nothing could have happened more fortunately, she thought to herself as they drove out of the gate, for now there would be no difficulty at all in saying what she had on her mind. This and the excitement of the journey itself put her in excellent spirits, so that though some people might have called the road to Lenham dull and flat, it was full of charms to Lilac. It was indeed more lively than usual, for it was market day, and as they jogged along at an easy pace they were constantly greeted by acquaintances all bent in the same direction. Some of these were on foot and others in all kinds of vehicles, from a wagon to a donkey cart. Mr Buckle presently dashed by them in a smart gig, and called out, "How's yourself, Peter?" as he passed; and farther on they overtook Mrs Pinhorn actively striding along in her well-known checked shawl. Peter answered all greetings in the same manner--a wag of the head towards the right shoulder--but Lilac felt so proud and pleased to be going to Lenham with her own butter that she sat up very straight, and smiled and nodded heartily to those she knew. It seemed a wonderfully short journey, and she saw the spire of Lenham church in the distance before she had said one word to Peter, or he had broken silence except to speak to his horse. This did not disturb her, for she was used to his ways now, and she made up her mind that she would put off any attempt at conversation until their return. And here they were at Lenham, rattling over the round stones with which the marketplace was paved. It was full of stalls, crowded together so closely that there was scarcely room for all the people passing up and down between them. They struggled along, jostling each other, pushing their way with great baskets on their arms, and making a confusion of noises. Scolding, laughter, shouting filled the air, mixed up with the clatter of crockery, cracking of whips, and the shrill cries of the market women. Such a turmoil Lilac had never heard, and it was almost a relief when Peter turned a little away from it and drew up at the door of Benson's shop, where the butter was to be left. It was a large and important shop, and though the entrance was down a narrow street it had two great windows facing the market square, and there was a constant stream of people bustling in and out. Lilac's heart beat fast with excitement. If she had known that the butter was to be displayed in such a grand beautiful place as this, and seen by so many folks, she would hardly have dared to undertake it. Sudden fear seized her that it might not be so good as usual this time: there was perhaps some fault in the making-up, some failure in the colour, although she had thought it looked all right when she packed up at the farm. She followed Peter into the shop with quite a tremor, and was glad when she saw Mr Benson could not attend to them just yet, for he and his boy were both deeply engaged in attending to customers. Lilac had plenty of time to look round her. Her eye immediately fell on some rolls of butter on the counter, and she lifted a corner of the cloth which covered her own and gave an anxious peep at it, then nudged Peter and looked up at him for sympathy. "It's a better colour nor that yonder," she whispered. Peter stood stolidly unconscious of her excitement, but he turned his quiet eyes upon the eager face lifted to his, and nodded kindly. Mr Benson caught sight of him and bustled up. "Morning, Peter," he said briskly. "How's your mother?" "Middling, thank you," said Peter, and without any further words he pointed at the basket on the counter. "Butter--eh?" said the grocer. "Well, I hope it's as good as the last." He unpacked the basket and proceeded to weigh the butter, talking all the time. "It's an odd thing to me how your butter varies. Now, the last month it's been as good again as it used to be. Of course in the winter there will be a difference because of the feed, I can understand that; but I can't see why it shouldn't be always the same in the summer. I don't mind telling you," he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential tone, "that I'd made up my mind at one time to give it up. People won't buy inferior butter, and I don't blame 'em." "It's good this time, anyhow," said Peter. "It's prime," said Mr Benson. "Is it the cows now, that you've got new, or is it the dairymaid?" "The cows isn't new, nor yet the dairymaid," said Peter. "Well, whichever it is," said the grocer, "the credit of the farm's coming back. Orchards Farm always had a name for its dairy in the old days. I remember my father talking of it when I was a boy." Mrs Pinhorn, who had been standing near during this conversation, now struck sharply in: "They _do_ say there was a brownie at the farm in those days, but when it got into other hands he was angered and quitted." "That's a curious superstition, ma'am," said the grocer politely. "There's folks in Danecross who give credit to it still," continued Mrs Pinhorn. "Old Grannie Dunch'll tell you ever so many tales about the brownie and his goings-on." "Well, if we didn't live, so to say, within the pale of civilisation," said the grocer, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, "we might think you'd got him back again at the farm. What do you say to that, Peter?" Everyone knew that Peter believed in all sorts of crazy things, and when Mr Benson put this jocular question to him several people turned to see how he took it. Lilac looked eagerly up at him also, for she had a faint hope that he might somehow know that she was dairymaid, and would tell them so. That would be a triumph indeed. At any rate he would stop all this silly talk about the brownie. She had heard Grannie Dunch's stories scores of times, and they were very interesting, but as to believing them--Lilac felt far above such folly, and held them all in equal contempt, whether they were of charms, ghosts, brownies, or other spirits. It was therefore with dismay that she saw Peter's face get redder and redder under the general gaze, and heard him instead of speaking up only mutter, "I don't know nothing about it." Moved by indignation at such foolishness, and at the mocking expression an Mr Benson's round face, she ventured to give Peter's sleeve a sharp pull. No more words came, he only shuffled his feet uneasily and showed an evident desire to get out of the shop. "Well, well," said the grocer, turning his attention to some money he was counting out of a drawer, "never you mind, Peter. If you've got him you'd better keep him, for he knows how to make good butter at any rate." Everyone laughed, as they always did at Mr Benson's speeches, and in the midst of it Peter gathered up his money and left the shop with Lilac. She felt so ruffled and vexed by what had passed, that she could hardly attend to his directions as he pointed out the different shops she had to go to. They were an ironmonger's, a linendraper's, and a china shop, and in the last he told her she must wait until he came to fetch her with the cart in about an hour's time. Lilac stood for a moment looking after him as he drove away to put up his horse at the inn. She was angry with Mr Benson, angry with the people who had laughed, and angry with Peter. No wonder folks thought him half-silly when he looked like that. And yet he knew twice as much as all of 'em put together. Only that morning when Sober had cut his foot badly with broken glass, it was Peter with his clumsy-looking gentle fingers who had known how to stop the bleeding and bind up the wound in the best way. But in spite of all this he could stand like a gaby and let folks make a laughing-stock of him? It was so provoking to remember how silly he had looked, that it was only by a determined effort that Lilac could get it out of her head, and bend her attention on Bella's ribbons and her aunt's pots and pans. When she had once began her shopping, however, she found it took all her thoughts, and it was not till she was seated in the china shop, her business finished, and her parcels disposed round her, that the scene came back to her again. Could it be possible that Peter put any faith in such nonsensical tales? Grannie Dunch believed them; but then she was very ignorant, over ninety years old, and had never been to school. When Grannie Dunch was young perhaps folks did believe such things, and she had never been taught better; there were excuses for her. On one point Lilac was determined. Peter's mind should be cleared up as to who made the butter. What had Mr Benson said about it? "The credit of the farm's coming back." She repeated the words to herself in a whisper. What a grand thing if she, Lilac White, had helped to bring back the credit of the farm! At this point in her reflections the white horse appeared at the door, and Lilac and all her belongings were lifted up into the cart. Very soon they were out of the noisy stony streets of Lenham, and on the quiet country road again. She took a side glance at her companion. He looked undisturbed, with his eyes fixed placidly on the horse's ears, and had evidently nothing more on his mind than to sit quietly there until they reached home. It made Lilac feel quite cross, and she gave him a sharp little nudge with her elbow to make him attend to what she had to say. "Why ever did you let 'em go on so silly about the brownie?" she said. "You looked for all the world as if you believed in it." Peter flicked his horse thoughtfully. "There's a many cur'ous things in the world," he said; "cur'ouser than that." "There ain't no such things as brownies, though," said Lilac, with decision; "nor yet ghosts, nor yet witches, nor yet any of them things as Grannie Dunch tells about." Peter was silent. "_Is_ there?" she repeated with another nudge of the elbow. "I don't says as there is," he answered slowly. "Of course not!" exclaimed Lilac triumphantly. "And I don't say as there isn't," finished Peter in exactly the same voice. This unexpected conclusion quite took Lilac's breath away. She stared speechlessly at her cousin, and he presently went on in a reflective tone with his eyes still fixed on the horse's ears: "It's been a wonderful lucky year, there's no denying. Hay turned out well, corn's going to be good. More eggs, more milk, better butter, bees swarmed early." "But," put in Lilac, "Aunt sprained her ankle, and the colt went lame, and you had to sell None-so-pretty. That wasn't lucky. Why didn't the brownie hinder that?" Peter shook his head. "I don't say as there _is_ a brownie at the farm," he said. "But you think he helps make the butter," said Lilac scornfully. Peter turned his eyes upon his companion; her face was hidden from him by her sunbonnet, but her slender form and the sound of her voice seemed both to quiver with indignation and contempt. "Well, then, who _does_?" he asked. But Lilac only held her head up higher and kept a dignified silence; she was thoroughly put out with Peter, and if he was so silly it really was no use to talk to him. Conscious that he was in disgrace, Peter fidgeted uneasily with his reins, whipped his horse, and cast some almost frightened glances over his shoulder at the silent little figure beside him, then he coughed several times, and finally, with an effort which seemed to make his face broader and redder every minute, began to speak: "I'd sooner plough a field than talk any day, but but I'll tell you something if I can put it together. Words is so hard to frame, so as to say what you mean. Maybe you'll only think me stupider after I'm done, but this is how it was--" He stopped short, and Lilac said gently and encouragingly, "How was it, Peter?" "I've had a sort of a queer feeling lately that there's something different at the farm. Something that runs through everything, as you might say. The beasts do their work as well again, and the sun shines brighter, and the flowers bloom prettier, and there's a kind of a pleasantness about the place. I can't set it down to anything, any more than I know why the sky's blue, but it's there all the same. So I thought over it a deal, and one day I was up in the High field, and all of a sudden it rapped into my head what Grannie Dunch says about the brownie as used to work at the farm. `Maybe,' I says to myself, `he's come back.' So I didn't say nothing, but I took notice, and things went on getting better, and I got to feel there was someone there helping on the work--but I wasn't not to say _certain_ sure it was the brownie, till one night--" "When?" said Lilac eagerly as Peter paused. "It was last Saint Barnaby's, and I'd been up to Cuddingham with None-so-pretty. It was late when I got back, and I remembered I hadn't locked the stable door, and I went across the yard to do it--" "Well?" said Lilac with breathless interest. "So as I went, it was most as light as day, and I saw as plain as could be something flit in at the stable door. 'Twasn't so big as a man, nor so small as a boy, and its head was white. So then I thought, `Surely 'tis the brownie, for night's his working time,' and I'd half a mind to take a peep and see him at it. But they say if you look him in the face he'll quit, so I just locked the door and left him there. When Benson talked that way about the credit of the farm, I knew who we'd got to thank. Howsomever," added Peter seriously, "you mustn't thank him, nor yet pay him, else he'll spite you instead of working for you." As he finished his story he turned to his cousin a face beaming with the most childlike faith; but it suddenly clouded with disappointment, for Lilac, no longer gravely attentive, was laughing heartily. "I thought maybe you'd laugh at me," he said, turning his head away ashamed. Lilac checked her laughter. "Here's a riddle," she said. "The brownie you locked into the stable that night always makes the butter. He isn't never thanked nor yet paid, but you've looked him in the face scores of times." Peter gazed blankly at her. "You're doing of it now!" she cried with a chuckle of delight; "you're looking at the brownie now! Why, you great goose, it's me as has made the butter this ever so long, and it was me as was in the stable on Saint Barnaby's!" It was only by very slow degrees that Peter could turn his mind from the brownie, on whom it had been fixed for weeks past, to take in this new and astonishing idea. Even when Lilac had told her story many times, and explained every detail of how she had learnt to be dairymaid, he broke out again: "But how _could_ you do it? You didn't know before you came, and there's Bella and Agnetta was born on the farm, and doesn't know now. Wonderful quick you must be, surely. And so little as you are--and quiet," he went on, staring at his cousin. "You don't make no more clatter nor fuss than a field-mouse." "'Tisn't only noisy big things as is useful," said Lilac with some pride. "It's harder to believe than the brownie," went on Peter, shaking his head; "a deal more cur'ous. I thought I had got hold of him, but I don't seem to understand this at all." He fell into deep thought, shaking his head at intervals, and it was not until the farm was in sight that he broke silence again. "The smallest person in the farm," he said slowly, "has brought back the credit of the farm. It's downright amazing. I'm not agoin' to say `thank you,' though," he added with a smile as they drove in at the gate. A sudden thought flashed into Lilac's mind. "Oh, Peter," she cried, "the flowers was lovely on May Day, and the cactus is blooming beautiful! Was it the brownie as sent 'em, do you think?" Peter made no reply to this, and his face was hidden, for he was plunging down to collect the parcels in the back of the cart. Lilac laughed as she ran into the house. What a funny one he was surely, and what a fine day's holiday she had been having! CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE CONCERT. "But I will wear my own brown gown And never look too fine." Months came and went. August turned his beaming yellow face on the waving cornfields, and passed on leaving them shorn and bare. Then came September bending under his weight of apples and pears, and after him October, who took away the green mantle the woods had worn all the summer, and gave them one of scarlet and gold. He spread on the ground, too, a gorgeous carpet of crimson leaves, which covered the hillside with splendour so that it glowed in the distance like fire. Here and there the naked branches of the trees began to show sharply against the sky--soon it would be winter. Already it was so cold, that although it was earlier than usual Miss Ellen said they must begin to think of warming the church, and to do this they must have some money, and therefore the yearly village concert must be arranged. "It was the new curate as come to me about it," said the cobbler to Mr Dimbleby one evening. "`You must give us a solo on the clar'net, Mr Snell,' says he." "He's a civil-spoken young feller enough," remarked Mr Dimbleby, "but he's too much of a boy to please me. The last was the man for my money." "Time'll mend that," said Joshua. "And what I like about him is that he don't bear no sort of malice when he's worsted in argeyment. We'd been differing over a passage of Scripture t'other day, and when he got up to go, `Ah, Mr Snell,' says he, `you've a deal to learn.' `And so have you, young man,' says I. Bless you, he took it as pleasant as could be, and I've liked him ever since." He turned to Bella Greenways, who had just entered. "And what's _your_ place in the programme, Miss Greenways?" Bella always avoided speaking to the cobbler if she could, for while she despised him as a "low" person, she feared his opinion, and knew that he disapproved of her. She now put on her most mincing air as she replied: "Agnetta and me's to play a duet, the `Edinburgh Quadrilles,' and Mr Buckle accompanies on the drum and triangle." "Why, you'd better fall in too with the clar'net, Mr Snell," suggested Mr Dimbleby. "That'd make a fine thing of it with four instruments." Joshua shook his head solemnly. "Mine's a solo," he said. "A sacred one: `Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea.' That'll give a variety." "Mr Buckle's going to recite a beautiful thing," put in Bella: "`The Dream of Eugene Aram'. He's been practising it ever so long. He's going to do it with action." "I don't know as I can make much of that reciting," said Joshua doubtfully. "Now a good tune, or a song, or a bit of reading, I can take hold of and carry along, but it's poor sport to see a man twist hisself, and make mouths, and point about at nothing at all. I remember the first time the curate did it. He stares straight at me for a second, and then he shakes his fist and shouts out suddenly: `Wretch!' or `Villain!' or summat of that sort. I was so taken aback I nearly got up and went out. Downright uncomfortable I was." "It's all the fashion now. But of course," said Bella disdainfully, "it isn't everybody as is used to it. I'm sure it's beautiful to hear Charlie! It makes your blood run cold. There's a part where he has to speak it in a sort of a hissing whisper. He's afraid the back seats won't hear." "And a good thing for 'em," muttered Joshua. "It's bad enough to see a man make a fool of hisself without having to hear him as well." "But after all," continued Bella, without noticing this remark, "it's only the gentry as matter much, and they'll be in the two front rows. Mrs Leigh's going to bring some friends." "And what's Lilac White going to do?" said Joshua, turning round with sudden sharpness. "She used to sing the prettiest of 'em all at school." "Oh, I dare say she'll sing in the part songs with the other children," said Bella carelessly. "They haven't asked her for a solo." But although this was the case Lilac felt quite as interested and pleased as though she were to be the chief performer at the concert. When the programme was discussed at the farm, which was very often, she listened eagerly, and was delighted to find that Mrs Leigh wished her to sing in two glees which she had learnt at school. The concert would be unusually good this year, everyone said, and each performer felt as anxious about his or her part as if its success depended on that alone. Mr Buckle, next to his own recitation, relied a good deal on the introduction of a friend of his from Lenham, who had promised to perform on the banjo and sing a comic song--if possible. "If you can get Busby," he repeated over and over again, "it'll be the making of the thing, and so I told Mrs Leigh." "What did she say?" enquired Bella. "Well, she wanted to know what he would sing. But, as I said to her, you can't treat Busby as you would the people about here. He moves in higher circles and he wouldn't stand it. You can't tie him down to a particular song, he must sing what he feels inclined to. After all, I don't suppose he'll come. He's so sought after." "Well, it is awkward," said Bella, "not being certain--because of the programme." "Oh, they must just put down, _Song, Mr Busby_, and leave a blank. It's often done." Each time Mr Buckle dropped in at the farm just now he brought fresh news relating to Mr Busby. He could, or could not come to the concert, so that an exciting state of uncertainty was kept up. As the day grew nearer the news changed. Busby would certainly _come_, but he had a dreadful cold so that it was hardly probable he would be able to sing. Lilac heard it all with the greatest sympathy. The house seemed full of the concert from morning till night. As she went about her work the strains of the "Edinburgh Quadrilles" sounded perpetually from the piano in the parlour. Sometimes it was Agnetta alone, slowly pounding away at the bass, and often coming down with great force and determination on the wrong chords; sometimes Bella and Agnetta at the same time, the treble dashing along brilliantly, and the bass lumbering heavily in the distance but contriving to catch it up at the end by missing a few bars; sometimes Mr Buckle arriving with his drum and triangle there was a grand performance of all three, when Lilac and Molly, taking furtive peeps at them through the half-open door, were struck with the sincerest admiration and awe. It was indeed wonderful as well as deafening to hear the noise that could be got out of those three instruments; they seemed to be engaged in a sort of battle in which first one was triumphant and then another. "It's a _little_ loud for this room," observed Mr Buckle complacently, "but it'll sound very well at the concert." Bella felt sure that it would be far the best thing in the programme, not only because the execution was spirited and brilliant but on account of the stylish appearance of the performers. Mr Buckle had been persuaded to wear his volunteer uniform on the occasion, in which, with his drum slung from his shoulders and the triangle fastened to a chair, so that he could kick it with one foot, he made a very imposing effect. Agnetta and Bella had coaxed their mother into giving them new dresses of a bright blue colour called "electric", which, being made up by themselves in the last fashion, were calculated to attract all eyes. These preparations, whilst they excited and interested Lilac, also made her a little envious. She began to wish she had something pretty to put on in honour of the concert, and even to have a faint hope that her aunt might give her a new dress too. But this did not seem even to occur to Mrs Greenways, and Lilac soon gave up all thoughts of it with a sigh. Her Sunday frock was very shabby, but after all just to stand up amongst the other children it would not show much. She took it out of her box and looked at it: perhaps there was something she could do to smarten it up a little. It certainly hung in a limp flattened manner across the bed, and was even beginning to turn a rusty colour; nothing would make it look any different. Would one of her cottons be better, Lilac wondered anxiously. But none of the children would wear cottons, she knew--they all put on their Sunday best for the concert. The black frock must do. She could put a clean frill in the neck, and brush her hair very neatly, but that was all. There was no one she remembered to take much notice what she wore, so it did not matter. The evening came. Everyone had practised their parts and brought them to a high pitch of perfection; and except Mr Busby, whose appearance was still uncertain, everyone was prepared to fill their places in the programme. "You won't find two better-looking girls than that," said Mrs Greenways to her husband, looking proudly at her two daughters. "That blue does set 'em off, to be sure!" "La!" said Bella with a giggle, "I feel that nervous I know I shall break down. I'm all of a twitter." "Well, it's no matter how you _play_ as long as you look well," said Mrs Greenways; "with Charlie making all that noise on the drum, you only hear the piano now and again. But where's Lilac!" she added. "It's more than time we started." Lilac had been ready long ago, and waiting for her cousins, but just before they came downstairs she had caught sight of Peter looking into the room from the garden, and making mysterious signs to her to come out. When she appeared he held towards her a bunch of small red and white chrysanthemums. "Here's a posy for you," he said. "Stick it in your front. They're a bit frost-bitten, but they're better than nothing." Lilac took the flowers joyfully; after all she was not to be quite unadorned at the concert. "You ain't got a new frock," he continued, looking at her seriously when she had fastened them in her dress. "You look nice, though." "Ain't you coming?" asked Lilac. She felt that she should miss Peter's friendly face when she sang, and that she should like him to hear her. "Presently," he said. "Got summat to see to first." When the party reached the school-house it was already late. The Greenways were always late on such occasions. The room was full, and Mr Martin, the curate, who had the arrangement of it all, was bustling about with a programme in his hand, finding seats for the audience, greeting acquaintances, and rushing into the inner room at intervals to see if the performers had arrived. "All here?" he said. "Then we'd better begin. Drum and fife band!" The band, grinning with embarrassment and pleasure, stumbled up the rickety steps on to the platform. The sounds of their instruments and then the clapping and stamping of the audience were plainly heard in the green room, which had only a curtain across the doorway. "Lor'!" said Bella, pulling it a little on one side and peeping through at the audience, "there _is_ a lot of people! Packed just as close as herrings. There's a whole row from the Rectory. How I do palpitate, to be sure! I wish Charlie was here!" Mr Buckle soon arrived with vexation on his brow. No sign of Busby! He was down twice in the programme, and there was hardly a chance he would turn up. It was too bad of Busby to throw them over like that. He might at least have _come_. "Well, if he wasn't going to sing I don't see the good of that," said Bella; "but it _is_ a pity." "It just spoils the whole thing," said Mr Buckle, and the other performers agreed. But to Lilac nothing could spoil the concert. It was all beautiful and glorious, and she thought each thing grander than the last. Uncle Joshua's solo almost brought tears to her eyes, partly of affection and pride and partly because he extracted such lovely and stirring sounds from the clar'net. It made her think of her mother and the cottage, and of so many dear old things of the past, that she felt sorrowful and happy at once. Next she was filled with awe by Mr Buckle's recitation, which, however, fell rather flat on the rest of the assembly; and then came the "Edinburgh Quadrilles", in which the performers surpassed themselves in banging and clattering. Lilac was quite carried away by enthusiasm. She stood as close to the curtain as she could, clapping with all her might. The programme was now nearly half over, and Mr Busby's first blank had been filled up by someone else. Mr Martin came hurriedly in. "Who'll sing or play something?" he said. "We must fill up this second place or the programme will be too short." His glance fell upon Lilac. "Why, you're the little girl who was Queen? You can sing, I know. That'll do capitally--come along." Lilac shrank back timidly. It was an honour to be singled out in that way, but it was also most alarming. She looked appealingly at her cousin Bella, who at once came forward. "I don't think she knows any songs alone, sir," she said; "but I'll play something if you like." "Oh, thank you, Miss Greenways," said Mr Martin hastily, "we've had so much playing I think they'd like a song. I expect she knows some little thing--don't you?" to Lilac. Lilac hesitated. There stood Mr Martin in front of her, eager and urgent, with outstretched hand as though he would hurry her at once to the platform; there was Bella fixing a mortified and angry gaze upon her; and, in the background, the other performers with surprise and disapproval on their faces. She felt that she _could_ not do it, and yet it was almost as impossible to disoblige Mr Martin, the habit of obedience, especially to a clergyman, was so strong within her. Suddenly there sounded close to her ear a gruff and friendly voice: "Give 'em the `Last Rose of Summer', Lilac. You can sing that very pretty." It came from Uncle Joshua. "The very thing!" exclaimed Mr Martin. "Couldn't possibly be better, and I'll play it for you. Come along!" Without more words Lilac found herself hurried out of the room, up the steps, and on to the platform, with Mr Martin seated at the piano. Breathless and frightened she stood for a second half uncertain whether to turn and run away. There were so many faces looking up at her from below, and she felt so small and unprotected standing there alone in front of them. Her heart beat fast, her lips were as though fastened together, how could she possibly sing? Suddenly in the midst of that dim mass of heads she caught sight of something that encouraged her. It was Peter's round red face with mouth and eyes open to their widest extent, and it stood out from all the rest, just as it had done on May Day. Then it had vexed her to see it, now it was such a comfort that it filled her with courage. Instead of running away she straightened herself up, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and took a long breath. When Mr Martin looked round at her she was able to begin, and though her voice trembled a little it was sweet and clear, and could be heard quite to the end of the room. Very soon she forgot her rears altogether, and felt as much at her ease as though she were singing in Uncle Joshua's cottage as she had done so often. The audience kept the most perfect silence, and gazed at her attentively throughout. It was a very simple little figure in its straight black frock, its red and white nosegay, and thick, laced boots, and it looked all the more so after the ribbons and finery of those which had come before it; yet there was a certain dignity about its very simplicity, and the earnest expression in the small face showed that Lilac was not thinking of herself, but was only anxious to sing her song as well as she could. She finished it, and dropped the straight little curtsy she had been taught at school. "After all it had not been so bad," she thought with relief, as she turned to go away in the midst of an outburst of claps and stamps from the audience. But she was not allowed to go far, for it soon became evident that they wanted her to sing again; nothing in the whole programme had created so much excitement as this one little simple song. They applauded not only in the usual manner but even by shouts and whistling, and through it all was to be heard the steady thump, thump, thump of a stick on the floor from the middle of the room where Peter sat. Lilac looked round half-frightened at Mr Martin as the noise rose higher and higher, and made her way quickly to the steps which led from the platform. "They won't leave off till you sing again," he said, following her, "though we settled not to have any encores. You'd better sing the last verse." So it turned out that Lilac's song was the most successful performance of the evening; it was impossible to conceal the fact that it had won more applause than anything, not even excepting the "Edinburgh Quadrilles." This was felt to be most unjust, for she had taken no trouble in preparing it, and was not even properly dressed to receive such an honour. "I must own," said Mrs Greenways in a mortified tone, "that I did feel disgraced to see Lilac standing up there in that old black frock. I can't think what took hold of the folks to make so much fuss with her. But there! 'Tain't the best as gets the most praise." "I declare," added Bella bitterly, "it's a thankless task to get up anything for the people here. They're so ignorant they don't know what's what. To think of passing over Charley's recitation and encoring a silly old song like Lilac's. It's a good thing Mr Busby _didn't_ come, I think--he wouldn't 'a been appreciated." "'Twasn't only the poor people though," said Agnetta. "I saw those friends of Mrs Leigh's clapping like anything." "Ah, well," said Mrs Greenways, "Lilac's parents were greatly respected in the parish, and that's the reason of it. She hasn't got no cause to be set up as if it was her singing that pleased 'em." Lilac had indeed very little opportunity of being "set up." After the first glow of pleasure in her success had faded, she began to find more reason to be cast down. Her aunt and cousins were so jealous of the applause she had gained that they lost no occasion of putting her in what they called her proper place, of showing her that she was insignificant, a mere nobody; useless they could not now consider her, but she had to pay dearly for her short triumph at the concert. The air just now seemed full of sharp speeches and bitterness, and very often after a day of unkind buffets she cried herself to sleep, longing for someone to take her part, and sore at the injustice of it all. "'Tain't as if I'd wanted to sing," she said to herself. "They made me, and now they flout me for it." But her unexpected appearance in public had another and most surprising result. About a week after the concert, when the excitement was lessening and the preparations for Bella's wedding were beginning to take its place, Mrs Greenways was sent for to the Rectory--Mrs Leigh wished to speak to her. "I shouldn't wonder," she said to her husband before she started, "if it was to ask what Bella'd like for a present. What'd you say?" "I shouldn't wonder if it was nothing of the kind," replied Mr Greenways. "More likely about the rent." But Mrs Greenways held to her first opinion. It would not be about the rent, for Mrs Leigh never mentioned it to her. No. It was about the present; and very fitting too, when she called to mind how long her husband had been Mr Leigh's tenant. To be sure he had generally owed some rent, but the Greenways had always held their heads high and been respected in spite of their debts. On her way to the Rectory, therefore, she carefully considered what would be best to choose for Bella and Charlie. Should it be something ornamental--a gilt clock, or a mirror with a plush frame for the drawing-room? They would both like that, but she knew Mrs Leigh would prefer their asking for something useful; perhaps a set of tea-things would be as good as anything. These reflections made the distance short, yet an hour later, when, her interview over, Mrs Greenways reappeared at the farm, her face was lengthened and her footstep heavy with fatigue. What could have happened? Something decidedly annoying, for she snapped even at her darling Agnetta when she asked questions. "Don't bother," she said, "let's have tea. I'm tired out." During the meal her daughters cast curious glances at her and at each other, for it was a most unusual thing for their mother to bear her troubles quietly. As a rule the more vexed she was the more talkative she became. It must therefore be something out of the common, they concluded; and before long it appeared that it was the presence of Lilac that kept Mrs Greenways silent. She threw angry looks at her, full of discontent, and presently, unable to control herself longer, said sharply: "When you've finished, Lilac, I want you to run to Dimbleby's for me. I forgot the starch. If you hurry you'll be there and back afore dusk." CHAPTER TWELVE. LILAC'S CHOICE. "A stone that is fit for the wall will not be left in the way."--_Old Proverb_. As the door closed on Lilac, the news burst forth from Mrs Greenways in such a torrent that it was difficult at first to follow, but at length she managed to make clear to her astonished hearers all that had passed between herself and Mrs Leigh. It was this: A lady staying at the Rectory had seen Lilac at the concert, and asked whom she was. Whereupon, hearing her history and her present occupation at Orchards Farm, she made the following suggestion. She wanted a second dairymaid, and was greatly pleased with Lilac's appearance and neat dress. Would Mrs Leigh find out whether her friends would like her to take such a situation? She would give her good wages, and raise them if she found her satisfactory. "It's a great opportunity for a child like Lilac," Mrs Leigh had said to Mrs Greenways; "but I really think from what I hear of her that she is quite fit to take such a place." "Well, as to that," said Mr Greenways slowly when his wife paused for breath, "I suppose she is. If she can manage the dairy alone here, she can do it with someone over her there." "Now I wonder who _could_ 'a told Mrs Leigh that Lilac made our butter," said Mrs Greenways; "somehow or other that child gets round everyone with her quiet ways." "Most likely that interfering old Joshua Snell," said Bella, "or Peter maybe, or Ben. They all think no end of Lilac." "Well, I don't see myself what they find in her," said Mrs Greenways; "though she's a good child enough and useful in her way. I should miss her now I expect; though, of course," with a glance at her husband, "she wouldn't leave us, not so long as we wanted her." "That's for _her_ to say," said the farmer. "I'm not going to take a chance like that out of her mouth. She's a good little gal and a credit to her mother, and it's only fair and right she should choose for herself. Go or stay, I won't have a word said to her. 'Tain't every child of her age as has an offer like that, and she's deserved it." "And who taught her all she knows?" said Mrs Greenways wrathfully. "Who gave her a home when she wanted one, and fed and kep' her? And now as she's just beginning to be a bit of use, she's to take herself off at the first chance! I haven't common patience with you, Greenways, when you talk like that. It's all very well for you; and I s'pose you're ready to pay for a dairymaid in her place. But I know this: If Lilac's got a drop of gratitude in her, and a bit of proper feeling, she'll think first of what she owes to her only relations living." "Well, you ought to 'a told her how useful she was if you wanted her to know it," said Mr Greenways. "You've always gone on the other tack and told her she was no good at all. I shouldn't blame her if she wanted to try if she could please other folks better." There was so much truth in this, that in spite of Mrs Greenways' anger it sank deeply into her mind. Why had she not made more of Lilac? What should she do, if the child, with the consent of her uncle and encouraged by Mrs Leigh, were to choose to leave the farm? It was not unlikely, for although she had not been actively unkind to Lilac she had never tried to make her happy at the farm; her jealousy had prevented that. And then, the money--that would be a great temptation; and the offer of it seemed to raise Lilac's value enormously. In short, now that someone else wanted her, and was willing to pay for her services, she became twice as important in Mrs Greenways' eyes. One by one the various duties rose before her which Lilac fulfilled, and which would be left undone if she went away. She sat silent for a few minutes in moody thought. "I didn't say nothing certain to Mrs Leigh," she remarked at length, "but I did mention as how we'd never had any thought of Lilac taking service, no more nor Agnetta or Bella." "Lor', Ma!" said Bella, "the ideer!" "All the same," said the farmer, "when we first took Lilac we said we'd keep her till she was old enough for a place. The child's made herself of use, and you don't want to part with her. That's the long and the short of it. But I stand by what I say. She shall settle it as she likes. She shall go to Mrs Leigh and hear about it, and then no one shan't say a word to her, for or against. When's she got to decide?" "In a week," answered his wife. "But you're doing wrong, Greenways, you hadn't ought to put it on the child's shoulders; it's us as ought to decide for her, us as are in the place of her father and mother. She's too young to know what's for her good." "I stand by what I say," repeated the farmer, and he slapped the table with his hand. Mrs Greenways knew then that it was useless to oppose him further, and the conversation came to an end. Now, when the matter was made known to Lilac, it seemed more like a dream than anything real. She had become so used to remain in the background, and go quietly on at her business without notice, that she could not at first believe in the great position offered to her. She was considered worth so much money a year! It was wonderful. After she had seen Mrs Leigh, and heard that it really was true and no dream, another feeling began to take the place of wonder, and that was perplexity. The choice, they told her, was to remain in her own hands, and no one would interfere with it. What would be best? To go or stay? It was very difficult, almost impossible, to decide. Never in her short life had she yet been obliged to choose in any matter; there had always been a necessity which she had obeyed: "Do this," "Go there." The habit of obedience was strong within her, but it was very hard to be suddenly called to act for herself. And the worst of it was that no one would help her; even Mrs Leigh only said: "I shan't persuade you one way or the other, Lilac, I shall leave it to you and your relations to consider." Uncle Joshua had no counsel either. "You must put one against the other and decide for yourself, my maid," he said; "there'll be ups and downs wherever you go." She studied her aunt's face wistfully, and found no help there. Mrs Greenways kept complete and gloomy silence on the question. Thrown back upon herself, Lilac's perplexity grew with each day. If she went to sleep with her mind a little settled to one side of the matter, she woke up next morning to see many more advantages on the other. To leave Orchards Farm, and the village, and all the faces she had known since she could remember anything, and go to strangers! That would be dreadful. But then, there was the money to be thought of, and perhaps she might find the strangers kinder than her own relations. "It's like weighing out the butter," she said to herself; "first one side up and then t'other." If only someone would say you _must_ go, or you _must_ stay. During this week of uncertainty many things at the farm looked pleasanter than they had ever done before, and she was surprised at the interest everyone in the village took in her new prospects. They all had something to say about them, and though this did not help her decision but rather hindered it, she was pleased to find that they cared so much for her. "And so you're goin' away," said poor Mrs Wishing, fluttering into the farm one day and finding Lilac alone. "Seems as if I was to lose the on'y friend I've got. But I dunno. There was your poor mother, she was took, and now I shan't see you no more. 'Tain't as I see you often, but I know you might drop in anywhen and there's comfort in that. Lor'! I shouldn't be standing here now if you hadn't come in that night--I was pretty nigh gone home that time. Might a been better p'r'aps for me and Dan'l too if I had. But you meant it kind." "Maybe I shan't go away after all," said Lilac soothingly. "You're one of the lucky ones," continued Mrs Wishing. "I allers said that. Fust you get taken into a beautiful home like this, and then you get a place as a gal twice your age would jump at. Some gets all the ups and some gets all the downs. But _I_ dunno!" She went on her way with a weary hitch of the basket on her arm, and a pull at her thin shawl. Then Bella's voice sounded beseechingly on the stairs: "Oh, _do_ come here a minute, Lilac." Bella was generally to be found in her bedroom just now, stitching away at various elegancies of costume. She turned to her cousin as she entered, and said with a puzzled frown: "I'm in ever such a fix with this skirt. I can't drape it like the picture do what I will, it hangs anyhow. And Agnetta can't manage it either." Agnetta stood by, her face heated with fruitless labour, and her mouth full of pins. Lilac examined the skirt gravely. "You haven't got enough stuff in it," she said. "You'll have to do it up some other way." "Pin it up somehow, then, and see what you can do," said Bella. "I'm sick and tired of it." Lilac was not quite without experience in such things, for she had often helped her cousins with their dressmaking, and she now succeeded after a few trials in looping up the skirt to Bella's satisfaction. "_That's_ off my mind, thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "You're a neat-fingered little thing; I don't know what we shall do without you." It was a small piece of praise, but coming from Bella it sounded great. Lilac's affairs, her probable departure from the farm and how she would be much missed there, were much talked of in the village just now. The news even reached Lenham, carried by the active legs and eager tongue of Mrs Pinhorn, who, with many significant nods, as of one who could tell more if she chose, gave Mr Benson to understand that he might shortly find a difference in the butter. It was not for _her_ to speak, with Ben working at the farm since a boy, but--So even the great and important Mr Benson was prepared to be interested in Lilac's choice. She often wondered, as day after day went by so quickly and left her still undecided, what her mother would have advised her to do. But then, if her mother had been alive, all this would not have happened. She tried nevertheless to imagine what she would have said about it, and to remember past words which might be of help to her now. "Stand on your own feet and don't be beholden to anyone." Certainly by taking this situation she would follow that advice, and child though she was, she knew it might be the beginning of greater things. If she filled this place well she might in time get another, and be worth even more money. But then, could she leave the farm? the home which had sheltered her when she had been left alone in the world. Who would take her place? No one could deny now that she would leave a blank which must be filled up. She could hardly bear to think of a stranger standing in her accustomed spot in the dairy, handling the butter, looking out of the little ivy-grown window, taking charge of the poultry. "They'll feed 'em different, maybe," she thought; "and they won't get half the eggs, I know they won't." How hard it would be, too, to leave the faces she had known from childhood, all so familiar, and some of them so dear: not human faces alone, but all sorts of kind and friendly ones, belonging to the dumb animals, as she called them. She would miss the beasts sorely, and they would miss her: the cows she was learning to milk, the great horses who jingled their medals and bowed their heads so gently as she stood on tiptoe to feed them, the clever old donkey who could unfasten any gate and let all the animals out of a field: the pigs, even the sheep, who were silliest of all, knew her well and showed pleasure at her coming. She looked with affection, too, at the bare little attic, out of whose window she had gazed so often with eyes full of tears at the white walls of her old home on the hillside. How hard it had been to leave it, and now it made her almost as sad to think of going away from the farm. But then--there was the money, and although Mrs Leigh said nothing in favour of her going to this new place, Lilac had a feeling that she really wished it, and would be disappointed if she gave it up. Everyone said it was such a chance! It was not altogether a fancy on Lilac's part that everyone at the farm looked at her kindly just now, for the idea of losing her made them suddenly conscious that she would be very much missed. Mrs Greenways watched her with anxiety, and there was a new softness in her way of speaking; her old friends, Molly and Ben, were eager in showing their goodwill, and Agnetta, in spite of the approaching excitement of Bella's wedding, found time to enquire many times during the day if Lilac "had made up her mind." "Of course you meant to go from the first," she said at length. "Well, I don't blame you, but you might 'a said so to an old friend like me." The only person at the farm who was sincerely indifferent to Lilac's choice was Bella. "It won't make any matter to me whether you're here or there," she said candidly; "but there's no doubt it'll make a difference to Ma. There's some as would call it demeaning to go out to service, but I don't look at it like that. Of course if it was me or Agnetta it wouldn't be thought of; but I agree with Pa that it's right you should choose for yourself." So no one helped Lilac, and the days passed and the last one came, while she was still as far as ever from deciding. Escaping from the chatter and noises inside the house she went out towards evening into the garden for a little peace and quietness. She wanted to be alone and think it over for the last time; after that she would go to Mrs Leigh and tell her what she meant to do, and then all the worry would be over. She strolled absently along, with the same tiresome question in her mind, through the untidy bushy garden, past Peter's flower bed, gay with chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies, until she came to the row of beehives, silent, deserted-looking dwellings now with only one or two languid inhabitants to be seen crawling torpidly about the entrances. Lilac sat down on the cherry-tree stump opposite them, and, for a moment leaving the old subject, her mind went back to the spring evening when Peter had cut the bunch of flowers for her, and let the bees crawl over his fingers. She smiled to herself as she remembered how suddenly he had gone away without giving her the nosegay at all. Poor Peter! she understood him better now. As she thought this there was a click of the gate leading into the field, she turned her head, and there was Peter himself coming towards her with his dog Sober at his heels. During this past week Peter as well as Lilac had been turning things over a great deal in his mind. Not that he was troubled by uncertainty, for he felt sure from the first that she would go away from the farm. And it was best she should. From outward ill-treatment he could have defended her: he was strong in the arm, but with his tongue he was weaker than a child. Many a time he had sat in silence when hard or unkind speeches had been cast at her, but none the less he had felt it sorely. After the concert, when she had sung as pretty as a bird, how they had flouted her. It was a hard thing surely, and it was best she should go away to folks as would value her better. But he felt also that he must tell her he was sorry. That was a trial and a difficulty. How should he frame it? Though he could talk more easily to Lilac than anyone else in the world, speech was still terribly hard, and when he suddenly came upon her this evening his first instinct was to turn and go back. Sober, however, pricked his ears and ran forward when he saw a friend, and this example encouraged Peter. "As like as not," he said to himself, "I shall say summat quite different the minute I begin, but I'll have a try at it;" so he went on. There was a touch of frost in the air, and the few remaining leaves, so few that you could count them, were falling every minute or so gently from the trees. A scarlet one from the cherry tree overhead had dropped into Lilac's lap, and lay there, a bright red spot on her white pinafore. As Peter's eye fell on it it occurred to him to say gruffly: "The leaves is nearly all gone." "Pretty nigh," said Lilac, looking up into the bare branches of the cherry tree. "We'll soon have winter now." There was silence. Peter took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with his coat sleeve. "There's lots will be sorry when you go," he burst out suddenly. "The beasts'll miss you above a bit." Lilac did not answer. She saw that he wanted to say something more, and knew that it was best not to confuse his mind by remarks. "Not but what," he went on, "you're in the right. Why should you work for nothing here and get no thanks? You're worth your wages, and there you'll get 'em. There's justice in that. Only--the farm'll be different." "There's only the dairy," said Lilac. "Someone else'll have to do that if I go. And I should miss the beasts too." She put her hand on Sober's rough head as he sat by her. "It's a queer thing," said Peter after another pause, "what a lot I get in my head sometimes and yet I can't speak it out. You remember about the brownie, and me saying the farm was pleasanter and that? Well, what I want to say now is, that when you're gone all that'll be gone--mostly. It'll be like winter after summer. Anyone as could use language could say a deal about that, but I can't. I don't want you to stay, but I've had it in my mind to tell you that I shall miss you as well as the beasts--above a bit. That's all." Sober now seemed to think he must add something to his master's speech, for he raised one paw, placed it on Lilac's knee, and gazed with a sort of solemn entreaty into her face. She knew at once what he wanted, for though he could not "use language" any more than Peter, he was quite able to make his meaning clear. In the course of many years' faithful attention to business he had become rheumatic, and this paw, in particular was swollen and stiff at the joint. Lilac had found that it gave him ease to rub it, and Sober had got into the habit of calling her attention to it in this way at all times and seasons. Now as she took it in her hand and looked into his wise affectionate eyes, it suddenly struck her that here were two people who would really miss her, and want her if she were far away. No one would rub Sober's paw, no one would take much notice of her other dumb friend, Peter. She could not leave them. She placed the dog's foot gently on the ground and stood up. "I'm not going away," she said, "I'm going to bide. And I shall go straight in and tell Aunt, and then it'll be settled." Indoors, meanwhile, the same subject had been discussed between different people. In the living room, where tea was ready on the table, Mrs Greenways and her two daughters waited the coming of the farmer, Agnetta eyeing a pot of her favourite strawberry jam rather impatiently, and Bella, tired with her stitching, leaning languidly back in her chair with folded arms. "Lilac ain't said nothing to either of you, I s'pose?" began Mrs Greenways. "I know she means to go, though," said Agnetta. "Well, I must look about for a girl for the dairy, I s'pose," said Mrs Greenways sadly. "I won't give it to Molly again. And a nice set they are, giggling flighty things with nothing but their ribbons and their sweethearts in their heads." "Lor'! Ma, don't fret," said Bella consolingly; "you got along without Lilac before, and you'll get along without her again." "I shan't ever replace her," continued her mother in the same dejected voice; "she doesn't care for ribbons, and she's not old enough for sweethearts. I do think it's not acting right of Mrs Leigh to go and entice her away." "If here isn't Mr Snell coming in alonger Pa," said Agnetta, craning her neck to see out of the window. "He's sure to stay to tea." She immediately drew her chair up to the table and helped herself largely to jam. "And of all evenings in the week I wish he hadn't chosen this," said Mrs Greenways. "Poking and meddling in other folks' concerns. Now mind this, girls,--don't you let on as if I wanted to keep Lilac, or was sorry she's going. Do you hear?" It did not at first appear, however, that this warning was necessary, for Joshua said no word of Lilac or her affairs; he seemed fully occupied in drinking a great deal of tea and discussing the events of the neighbourhood with the farmer, and it was not till the end of his meal that he looked round the table enquiringly, and asked the dreaded question. "And what's Lilac settled to do about going?" "You know as much about that as we do, Mr Snell," replied Mrs Greenways loftily. "There's no doubt," continued the cobbler, fixing his eye upon her, "as how Mrs Leigh's friend is going to get a prize in Lilac White. She's only a child, as you once said, ma'am, but I know what her upbringing was: `As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined'. There's the making of a thorough good servant in her. Well worth her wages she'll be." "She's been worth more to us already than ever I knew of, or counted on, till lately," put in the farmer. "Just now, I met Benson, and says he: `You're losing your dairymaid by what I hear, and I can but wish you as good a one.'" "That's not so easy," said Joshua, shaking his head. "Good workers don't grow on every bush. It's a pity, too, just when your butter was getting back its name." "I'd half a mind," said the farmer, "to offer the child wages to stop, but then I thought it wouldn't be acting fair. She ought to have the chance of bettering herself in a place like that. If she goes she's bound to rise, and if she stays she won't, for I can't afford to give her much." "And what's your opinion, ma'am?" asked Joshua politely of Mrs Greenways. "Oh, it isn't worth hearing, Mr Snell," she replied with a bitter laugh; "its too old-fashioned for these days. I should 'a thought Lilac owed summat to us, but my husband don't seem to take no count of that at all. Not that it matters to me." As she spoke, with the colour rising in her face and a voice very near tears, the door opened and Lilac came quickly in. The conversation stopped suddenly, all eyes were fixed on her; perhaps never since she had been Queen had her presence caused so much attention: even Agnetta paused in her repast, and looked curiously round to see what she would do or say. Without giving a glance at anyone else in the room, Lilac walked straight up to where Mrs Greenways sat at the head of the table: "Aunt," she said rather breathlessly, "I've come to say as I've made up my mind." Mrs Greenways straightened herself to receive the blow. She knew what was coming, and it was hard to be humiliated in the presence of the cobbler, yet she would put a brave face upon it. With a great effort she managed to say carelessly: "It don't matter just now, Lilac. Sit down and get your tea." But Mr Greenways quite spoilt the effect of this speech. "No, no," he called out. "Let her speak. Let's hear what she's got to say. Here's Mr Snell'd like to hear it too. Speak out, Lilac." Thus encouraged, Lilac turned a little towards her uncle and Joshua. "I've made up my mind as I'd rather bide here, please," she said. The teapot fell from Mrs Greenways' hands with such a crash on the tray that all the cups rattled, the air of indifference which she had struggled to keep up vanished, her whole face softened, and as she looked at the modest little figure standing at her side tears of relief came into her eyes. Uncle Joshua and her old feelings of jealousy and pride were forgotten for the moment as she laid her broad hand kindly on the child's shoulder: "You're a good gal, Lilac, and you shan't repent your choice," she said; "take my word, you shan't." "And that's your own will, is it, Lilac?" said her uncle. "And you've thought it well over, and you won't want to be altering it again?" "No, Uncle," said Lilac. "I'm quite sure now." Her aunt's kind manner made her feel more firmly settled than before. "It's a harassing thing is a choice," said Mr Greenways. "I know what it is myself with the roots and seeds. Well, I won't deny that I'm glad you're going to stop, but I hope you've done the best for yourself, my maid." "Lor', Greenways, don't worry the child," interrupted his wife, who had recovered her usual manner. "She knows her own mind, and I'm glad she's shown so much sense. You sit down and get your tea, Lilac, and let's be comfortable and no more about it." Lilac slipped into the empty place between the cobbler and Agnetta, rather abashed at so much notice. Agnetta pushed the pot of jam towards her. "I'm glad you're going to stop," she said. "Have some jam." Joshua had not spoken since Lilac's entrance, but Mrs Greenways, eyeing him nervously, felt sure he was preparing to "preachify." She went on talking very fast and loud in the hope of checking this eloquence, but in vain; Joshua, after a few short coughs, stood upright and looked round the table. "Friends," he said, "I knew Lilac's mother well, and I call to mind this evening what she often said to me: `I want my child to grow up self-respecting and independent. I want to teach her to stand alone and not to be a burden on anyone.' And then, poor soul, she died sudden, and the child was left on your hands. And she couldn't but be a burden at first, seeing how young she was and how little she knew. And now look at it! How it's all changed. 'Tain't long ago, and she isn't much bigger to speak of, and yet she's got to be something as you value and don't want to part with. She's made her own place, and she stands firm in it on her own feet, and no one would fill it as well. It's wonderful that is, how small things may help big ones. Look at it!" said Joshua, spreading out the palms of his hands. "You take a little weak child into your house and think she's of no count at all, either to help or to hinder; she's so small and the place is so big you hardly know she's there. And then one day you wake up to find that she's gone quietly on doing her best, and learning to do better, until she's come to be one of the most useful people on the farm. Because for why? It's her mother's toil and trouble finding their fruit; we oughtn't to forget that. When folks are dead and gone it's hard on 'em not to call to mind what we owe 'em. They sowed and we reap. Lilac's come to be what she is because her mother was what she was, and I expect Mary White's proud and pleased enough to see how her child's valued this day. And so I wish the farm luck, and all of you luck, and we'll all be glad to think as we're not going to lose our little bit of White Lilac as is growing up amongst us." Lilac's eyes had been fixed shyly on her plate. It was like being Queen a second time to have everyone looking at her and talking of her. As Joshua finished there was a sound at the door of gruff assent, and she looked round. It came from Peter, who stood there with all his features stretched into a wide smile of pleasure. "They're all glad I'm going to bide," she said to herself, "and so am I." 
21448	----	The African Trader; or, The Adventures of Harry Bayford, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ This is rather a short book, only 120 small pages in book format. Harry is a young chap, just about ready to leave school, when his father suffers some business losses, and the stress kills him. Harry is left with some sisters, and he does not want to be a burden to them so he gets a job on board a trading vessel, and off they go to Africa. Here many of the crew catch the Yellow Fever, and die. The captain is ill, but appears to be surviving. An African seaman is a senior rating aboard the vessel. With a rich cargo, and badly under-manned, the vessel sets off for home. There is a fire in one of the holds, to which the vessel succumbs. Harry and the African seaman make themselves a raft, but the captain perishes. They are picked up almost at once by a slave trader, but a Royal Navy man-of-war appears and gives chase. The slave trader delays the chase by chucking slaves overboard, who then have to be picked up by the pursuer. It all gets sorted out, and Harry's cousin is an officer on the man-of-war. The African seaman is a religious man, and it actually turns out that he is the very person Harry had been asked to look out for by his old nurse. So there is a happy ending, as far as Harry is concerned, but there certainly were a few casualties on the way. ________________________________________________________________________ THE AFRICAN TRADER; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY BAYFORD, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. MY FATHER, AFTER MEETING WITH A SEVERE REVERSE OF FORTUNE, DIES, AND MY SISTERS AND I ARE LEFT DESTITUTE.--OUR FAITHFUL OLD BLACK NURSE MAMMY, TAKES CARE OF MY SISTERS, WHILE I, INVITED BY A FORMER ACQUAINTANCE, CAPTAIN WILLIS OF THE "CHIEFTAIN," SAIL WITH HIM ON A TRADING VOYAGE TO THE COAST OF AFRICA. Our school was breaking up for the midsummer holidays--north, south, east, and west we sped to our different destinations, thinking with glee of the pleasures we believed to be in store for us. I was bound for Liverpool, where my father, a West India merchant, now resided. He had for most of his life lived in Jamaica, where I was born, and from whence I had a few years before accompanied him to England to go to school. "I am sorry we shall not see you back, Bayford," said the good doctor, as he shook me warmly by the hand. "May our heavenly Father protect you, my boy, wherever you go." "I hope to go as a midshipman on board a man-of-war, sir," I answered. "My father expects to get me appointed to a ship this summer, and I suppose that is the reason I am leaving." The doctor looked kindly and somewhat sadly at me. "You must not, Harry, raise your hopes on that point too high," he answered, in a grave tone. "When I last heard from your father, saying he desired to remove you, he was very unwell. I grieve to have to say this, but it is better that you should be prepared for evil tidings. God bless you Harry Bayford. The coach will soon be up; I must not detain you longer." The doctor again warmly wrung my hand. I hastened after Peter the porter, who was wheeling my trunk down to the village inn where the coach stopped, and I had just time to mount on the top when the guard cried out, "All right;" the coachman laid his whip along the backs of the horses, which trotted gaily forward along the dusty road. My spirits would naturally have risen at finding myself whirled along at the rate of ten miles an hour on my way homeward, but the last words spoken by the doctor continually recurred to me, and contributed greatly to damp them. I managed, however, at length, to persuade myself that my anticipations of evil were mere fancies. On reaching Liverpool, having called a porter to carry my things, I hurried homewards, expecting to receive the usual happy greetings from my father and sisters. My spirits sank when looking up at the windows, I saw that all the blinds were drawn down. I knocked at the door with trembling hand. A strange and rough-looking man opened it. "Is my father at home?" I asked, in a low voice. The man hesitated, looking hard at me, and then said, "Yes; but you can't see him. There are some ladies upstairs--your sisters, I suppose--you had better go to them." There was an ominous silence in the house; no one was moving about. What had become of all the servants? I stole gently up to Jane and Mary's boudoir. They, and little Emily our younger sister, were seated together, all dressed in black. Sobs burst from them, as they threw their arms round my neck, without uttering a word. I then knew to a certainty what had happened--our kind father was dead; but I little conceived the sad misfortunes which had previously overtaken him and broken his heart, leaving his children utterly destitute. Jane, on recovering herself, in a gentle sad voice told me all about it. "Mary and I intend going out as governesses, but we scarcely know what to do for dear Emily and you Harry, though we will devote our salaries to keep you and her at school." "Oh, I surely can get a place as a nursemaid," said Emily, a fair delicate girl, looking but ill-adapted for the situation she proposed for herself. "And I, Jane, will certainly not deprive you and Mary of your hard-earned salaries, even were you to obtain what would be required," I answered, firmly. "I ought rather to support you, and I hope to be able to do so by some means or other." My sisters even then were not aware of the sad position in which we were placed. Our father had been a man of peculiarly reserved and retiring manners; he had formed no friendships in England, and the few people he knew were simply business acquaintances. An execution had been put into the house even before his death, so that we had no power over a single article it contained. The servants, with the exception of my sisters' black nurse, had gone away, and we had not a friend whose hospitality we could claim. She, good creature (Mammy, as we called her), finding out, on seeing my trunk in the hall, that I had arrived, came breathless, from hurrying up stairs, into the room, and embracing me, kissed my forehead and cheeks as if I had still been a little child; and I felt the big drops fall from her eyes as she held me in her shrivelled arms. "Sad all this, Massa Harry, but we got good Fader up dere, and He take care of us though He call massa away," and she cast her eyes to heaven, trusting with a simple firm faith to receive from thence that protection she might have justly feared she was not likely to obtain on earth. "We all have our sorrows, dear children," she continued, "massa had many sorrows when he lose your mother and his fortune, and I have my sorrows when I was carried away by slaver people, and leave my husband and piccaniny in Africa, and now your sorrows come. But we can pray to the good God, and he lift us out of dem all." Mammy had often told us of the cruel way in which she had been kidnapped, and how her husband had escaped with her little boy; and after she became a Christian (and a very sincere one she was), her great grief arose from supposing that her child would be brought up as a savage heathen in ignorance of the blessed truths of the gospel. My sisters and I, as children, had often wept while she recounted her sad history, but at the time I speak of, I myself was little able to appreciate the deeper cause of her sorrow. I thought, of course, that it was very natural she should grieve for the loss of her son, but I did not understand that it arose on account of her anxiety for his soul's salvation. "I pray day and night," I heard her once tell Jane, "dat my piccaniny learn to know Christ, and I sure God hear my prayers. How He bring it about I cannot tell." We and Mammy followed our father to the grave, and were then compelled to quit the house, leaving everything behind us, with the exception of my sisters' wardrobes and a few ornaments, which they claimed as their property. Mammy did her best to cheer us. She had taken, unknown to my sisters, some humble, though clean, lodgings in the outskirts of the town, and to these she had carried whatever we were allowed to remove. "See, Massa Harry," she said, showing me an old leathern purse full of gold. "We no want food for long time to come, and before then God find us friends and show us what to do." My sisters possessed various talents, and they at once determined to employ them to the best advantage. Jane and Mary drew beautifully, and were adepts in all sorts of fancy needle-work. Emily, though young, had written one or two pretty tales, and we were sure that she was destined to be an authoress. Mammy, therefore, entreated them not to separate, assuring them that her only pleasure on earth would be to labour and assist in protecting them. Had they had no other motive, for her sake alone, they would have been anxious to follow her advice. I was the only one of the family who felt unable to do anything for myself. I wrote too bad a hand to allow me any hopes of obtaining a situation in a counting-house; and though I would have gone out as an errand boy or page rather than be a burden to my sisters, I was sure they would not permit this, and, besides, I felt that by my taking an inferior position they would be lowered in the cold eyes of the world. I had ardently wished to go to sea, and I thought that the captain who had promised to take me as a midshipman would still receive me could I reach Portsmouth. I did not calculate the expense of an outfit, nor did I think of the allowance young gentlemen are expected to receive on board a man-of-war. I had wandered one day down to the docks to indulge myself in the sight of the shipping, contemplating the possibility of obtaining a berth on board one of the fine vessels I saw fitting out, and had been standing for some time on the quay, when I observed a tall good-looking man, in the dress of a merchantman's captain, step out of a boat which had apparently come from a black rakish looking brigantine lying a short distance out in the stream. I looked at him hard, for suddenly it occurred to me that I remembered his features. Yes, I was certain. He had been junior mate of the "Fair Rosomond," in which vessel we had come home from Jamaica, and a great chum of mine. "Mr Willis," I said, "do you remember me? I am Harry Bayford." "Not by looks, but by your voice and eyes I do, my boy," he answered, grasping my hand and shaking it heartily. "But what has happened? I see you are in mourning." I told him of my father's misfortunes and death; and as we walked along frankly opened out on my views and plans. "You will have no chance in the navy without means or friends, Harry," he answered. "There's no use thinking about the matter; but if your mind is set on going to sea I'll take you, and do my best to make a sailor of you. I have command of the `Chieftain,' an African trader, the brigantine you see off in the stream there. Though we do not profess to take midshipmen, I'll give you a berth in my cabin, and I don't see that in the long run you will run more risk than you would have to go through on board vessels trading to other parts of the world." "Thank you, Captain Willis, very much," I exclaimed, "I little expected so soon to go to sea." "Don't talk of thanks, Harry," he answered, "your poor father was very kind to me, and I am glad to serve you. I had intended calling on him before sailing; and if your sisters will allow me, I'll pay them a visit, and answer any objections they may make to your going." After dining with the captain at an inn, I hurried home with, what I considered, this good news. My sisters, however, were very unwilling to sanction my going. They had heard so much of the deadly climate of the African coast, and of dangers from slavers and pirates, that they dreaded the risk I should run. Captain Willis, according to his promise, called the next day, and not without difficulty quieted their apprehensions. Mammy, though unwilling to part with me, still could not help feeling a deep interest in my undertaking, as she thought that I was going to visit her own still-loved country; and while assisting my sisters to prepare my outfit she entertained me with an account of its beauties and wonders, while I promised to bring her back from it all sorts of things which I expected to collect. "And suppose, Mammy, I was to fall in with your little piccaniny, shall I bring him back to you?" I asked, with the thoughtlessness of a boy--certainly not intending to hurt her feelings. She dropped her work, gazing at me with a tearful eye. "He fine little black boy, big as you when four year old," she said, and stopped as if in thought, and then added, "Ah, Massa Harry, he no little boy now though, him great big man like him fader, you no know him, I no know him." "But what is his name, Mammy? That would be of use," I said. "Him called Cheebo," she answered, heaving a deep sigh. "But Africa great big country--tousands and tousands of people; you no find Cheebo among dem; God only find him. His eye everywhere. He hears Mammy's prayers, dat great comfort." "That it is, indeed," said Jane, fearing that my careless remarks had needlessly grieved poor Mammy, by raising long dormant feelings in her heart. "And oh, my dear Harry, if you are brought into danger, and inclined to despair--and I fear you will have many dangers to go through--recollect that those who love you at home are earnestly praying for you; and at the same time never forget to pray for yourself, and to feel assured that God will hear our united prayers, and preserve you in the way He thinks best." "I will try to remember," I said, "but do not fancy, Jane, that I am going to run my head into all sorts of dangers. I daresay we shall have a very pleasant voyage out, and be back again in a few months with a full cargo of palm oil, ivory, gold-dust, and all sorts of precious things, such as I understand Captain Willis is going to trade for." "You will not forget Cheebo though, Massa Harry," said Mammy, in a low voice. The idea that I might meet her son was evidently taking strong possession of her mind. "That I will not," I answered. "I'll ask his name of every black fellow I meet, and if I find him I'll tell him that I know his mother Mammy, and ask him to come with me to see you." "Oh, but he not know dat name," exclaimed Mammy. "Me called Ambah in Africa; him fader called Quamino. You no forget dat." "I hope not; but I'll put them in my pocketbook," I said, writing down the names, though I confess that I did so without any serious thoughts about the matter, but merely for the sake of pleasing old Mammy. When I told Captain Willis afterwards, he was highly amused with the notion, and said that I might just as well try to find a needle in a bundle of hay as to look for the old woman's son on the coast of Africa. The day of parting from my poor sisters and our noble-hearted nurse arrived. I did not expect to feel it so much as I did, and I could then understand how much grief it caused them. "Cheer up, Harry," said Captain Willis, as the "Chieftain," under all sail, was standing down the Mersey. "You must not let thoughts of home get the better of you. We shall soon be in blue water, and you must turn to and learn to be a sailor. By the time you have made another voyage or so I expect to have you as one of my mates, and, perhaps, before you are many years older, you will become the commander of a fine craft like this." I followed the captain's advice, and by the time we had crossed the line I could take my trick at the helm, and was as active aloft as many of the elder seamen on board. CHAPTER TWO. THE "CHIEFTAIN" ARRIVES OFF THE COAST OF AFRICA, AND WE CARRY ON A BRISK TRADE WITH THE NATIVES, WHO COME OFF TO US THROUGH THE SURF.--AT LENGTH CAPTAIN WILLIS PROPOSES TO RUN UP THE RIVER BONNY TO COMPLETE OUR CARGO. NOT FORGETFUL OF MY PROMISE TO MAMMY, I MAKE INQUIRIES FOR HER SON CHEEBO. It was my morning watch. I was indulging in the pleasure particularly enjoyable after sweltering in the close hot atmosphere of the cabin, of paddling about with bare feet on the wet deck, over which I and some of the men were heaving buckets of water, while others were lustily using holy-stones and scrubbing brushes, under the superintendence of Mr Wesbey, the first mate. The black cook was lighting his fire in the caboose, from whence a wreath of smoke ascended almost perpendicularly in the clear atmosphere. The sea was smooth as glass, but every now and then a slowly heaving swell lifted the vessel, and caused her sails, which hung down against the masts, to give a loud flap, while here and there the surface was broken by the fin or snout of some monster of the deep swimming round us. Our monkey, Quako, who had been turned out of his usual resting-place, was exhibiting more than his ordinary agility-- springing about the rigging, and chattering loudly, now making his way aloft, whence he looked eastwards, and now returning to the caboose, as if to communicate his ideas to his sable friend. "What makes Quako so frisky this morning?" I asked of Dick Radforth, the boatswain, a sturdy broad shouldered man of iron frame, who, with trousers tucked up, and bare arms brawny as those of Hercules, was standing, bucket in hand, near me, deluging the deck with water. "He smells his native land, Harry," he answered, "and thinks he is going to pay a visit to his kith and kindred. We shall have to keep him moored pretty fast, or he will be off into the woods to find them. I have a notion you will get a sight of it before long, when the sea breeze sets in and sends the old barky through the water." "What! the coast of Africa!" I exclaimed, and thoughts of that wonderful region, with its unexplored rivers, its gloomy forests, and its black skinned inhabitants, with their barbarous customs and superstitious rites, rose in my mind. "Aye, sure and it will be a pleasant day when we take our departure from the land, and see the last of it," observed Dick. "If those niggers would trade like other people we might make quick work of it, and be away home again in a few weeks, but we may thank our stars if we get a full cargo by this time next year, without leaving some of our number behind." "What? I should not fancy that any of our fellows were likely to desert," I observed. "No; but they are likely to get pressed by a chap who won't let go his gripe of them again," answered Dick. "Who is that?" I asked. "Yellow-fingered Jack we call him sometimes, the coast fever," said Dick. "If they would but take better care of themselves and not drink those poisonous spirits and sleep on shore at night, they might keep out of his clutches. I give this as a hint to you, Harry. I have been there a score of times, and am pretty well seasoned, but I have felt his gripe, though I do not fear him now." I thanked the boatswain for his advice. It was given, I suspected, for others' benefit as well as mine. As the bright hot red sun rose in the sky, casting his beams down on our heads, and making the pitch bubble up from the seams in the deck--as it had done not unfrequently during the voyage--a few cats' paws were seen playing over the mirror-like deep. The sails bulged out occasionally, again to hang down as before; then once more they swelled out with the gentle breeze, and the brigantine glided through the water, gradually increasing her speed. I was eagerly looking out for the coast; at length it came in sight--its distant outline rendered indistinct by the misty pall which hung over it. As we drew nearer, its forest covered heights had a particularly gloomy and sombre appearance, which made me think of the cruelties I had heard were practised on those shores, of the barbarous slave trade, of the fearful idolatries of its dark-skinned children, of its wild beasts, and of its deadly fevers. There was nothing exhilarating, nothing to give promise of pleasure or amusement. As our gallant brigantine glided gaily on, sending the sparkling foam from her bows through the tiny wavelets of the ocean, which glittered in the radiance of a blue and cloudless sky, and her sails filled with the fresh sea breeze, these feelings rapidly wore off. Now, on either side, appeared a fleet of fishing canoes, the wild songs of their naked crews coming across the water, as with rugged sails of matting lolling at their ease, they steered towards the shore. We overtook some of them, and such a loud jabber as they set up, talking to each other, or hailing us, I had never heard. Being near enough to the dangerous coast, we hove-to, and watched them as they fearlessly made their way to shore on the summits of a succession of rollers which burst in fearful breakers on the beach. With our glasses we could see hundreds of dingy figures like black ants, hurrying down to meet them, and to assist in hauling up their canoes. As I cast my eye along the coast I could see many a bay and headland bordered with a rim of glittering white sand, fringed by an unbroken line of sparkling surf. Now we could make out the mud walls and thatched roofs of the native villages, scattered here and there along the shore, mostly nestling amid groves of graceful cocoa-nut trees, while further inland appeared, at distant intervals, that giant monarch of the tropical forest, the silk cotton tree, stretching its mighty limbs upwards towards the sky, and far and wide around. Such was my first view of the African coast. "Well, what do you think of it?" asked Captain Willis. "It looks better than I expected," I said. "But I don't see how we are ever to reach it, much less carry on any trade with the people. How can we possibly send any goods on shore?" "You will see presently," he answered. "We have hoisted our trading signal, and before long we shall have plenty of dealers along side unless some other vessel has been before us; if so, we may have to wait some days till the black merchants can bring more goods down from the interior. The people about here are imbued with the very spirit of commerce. They understand too how to make a sharp bargain. We have to be wide awake, or, naked savages as they are, they will contrive to outwit us." Our various assortments of cotton and other goods had been got up from the hold ready for the expected trade. The captain had also taken out from his strong box a supply of sovereigns and Spanish dollars, should coin be demanded, though he relied chiefly on the more advantageous proceeding of barter. After standing off and on the coast for some hours, we perceived several large canoes about to be launched. On either side of each canoe stood a dozen or fifteen men, holding to the gunwale with one hand, and carrying a paddle in the other. At a signal from their head man the canoe was hurried into the foaming surf; but, instead of getting in, they swam by her side, guiding her course, until the first heavy swell was past, then they threw themselves simultaneously into her, and began to paddle with might and main till they got beyond the outer swell, and on they came, shouting with satisfaction at the success of their enterprise. Two got off without accident; but three others, when in the very midst of the breakers, were swamped, and I thought that their crews, and, at all events, their cargoes, would be lost. But no such thing. As I watched them through the glass I saw that they were all holding on to the gunwale, shoving her from side to side, until the water was thrown out, when in they got again, and began to gather up numerous articles floating around them. This accomplished, off they came as if nothing had happened. As they got alongside I discovered the reason why their effects did not sink--some were casks of palm oil, which naturally floated, while the elephants' tusks and other pieces of ivory, were fastened to large floats of cork-wood, and several of the men had small light wooden boxes, which contained gold-dust, secured to their waists. Though these were of a weight sufficient greatly to incumber, if not to sink, an ordinary swimmer, so expert were, they in the water that they appeared in no way to be inconvenienced. Several of them recognised Captain Willis, who had frequently before been off the coast, and having been fairly dealt with by him, and aware that he knew the price they would be ready to take, gave him very little trouble. Some, however, tried to outwit him, but he was very firm with them, and let them understand that he was indifferent to trading except on equitable terms. Altogether he was well satisfied with the result of his first day's business. We stood off the coast before the sea breeze died away, and returned again on the following morning. This sort of work we continued for several days. It was, however, a very tedious mode of proceeding. At length we found that the amount of produce, brought off from day to day, rapidly diminishing, while the natives began to demand higher prices than at first. We accordingly stood down the coast towards another native town, with the inhabitants of which we began to trade in the same way as before. From the time we first came into these latitudes we kept a bright look-out night and day. I asked old Radforth what was the use of doing this when we were engaged in a lawful commerce, which must of necessity prove an advantage to the negroes. "Why, you see, Harry, there are other gentry visit this coast with a very different object in view," he answered. "For the Spaniards and Portuguese, especially, come here to carry off the unfortunate inhabitants as slaves, and sometimes the villainous crews of their craft, if in want of provisions and water, will help themselves, without ceremony, from any merchantman they may fall in with. And should she have a rich cargo on board, they have been known, I have heard say, to make her people walk the plank, and sink or burn her, so that no one may know anything about the matter. Now our skipper has no fancy to be caught in that fashion, and if we were to sight a suspicious looking sail, as the `Chieftain' has got a fast pair of heels of her own, we should do our best to keep out of her way. You see when once fellows take to slaving they go from bad to worse. I have known something of the trade in my time, and it made my heart turn sick to see the way in which they crowd hundreds of their fellow-creatures down on the slave decks of their vessels, packed as close together as herrings in a cask, for their run across the Atlantic to the Brazils or Cuba. It may be, before we leave this coast, you will have the opportunity of seeing for yourself, so I need not tell you more about it now." After this I was as vigilant as anyone on board in looking out for suspicious craft,--for I had no fancy to be caught by a piratical slaver, and be made to walk the plank, and have our gallant little "Chieftain" sent to the bottom. We continued cruising along the coast for some weeks, slowly exchanging our cargo for African products. At length Captain Willis got tired of this style of doing business. "I am going to run up the river Bonny, Harry, where we are certain in time to get a full cargo of palm oil, though I would rather have filled up without going into harbour at all, for the climate, I own, is not the healthiest possible, and we may chance to have a touch of sickness on board." He spoke, however, in so unconcerned a way that I had no serious apprehensions on that score. I had not forgotten my promise to Mammy, and had asked all the blacks I could manage to speak to if they could tell me anything of Cheebo. I need scarcely say that my question was received with a broad grin by most of them. "Plenty Cheebos," was the general reply. "Dat black fellow Cheebo; and dat, and dat, and dat Quamino," was added, when I said that such was the name of the father of the Cheebo of whom I was in search, but none of them answered the description of poor Mammy's son. At length I felt very much inclined to give up my inquiries as hopeless. CHAPTER THREE. WE ENTER A RIVER.--ITS SCENERY DESCRIBED.--RECEIVE A VISIT FROM THE KING, AND TRADE WITH THE NATIVES.--THE PRODUCTS OF AFRICA, FOR WHICH WE TRADE, MENTIONED, AND THE CURIOUS MODE IN WHICH TRADE IS CONDUCTED.-- FEVER BREAKS OUT ON BOARD, AND SEVERAL OF THE CREW DIE.--SAD END OF POOR BOB.--THE BOATSWAIN AND MATES ATTACKED WITH FEVER.--MORE DEATHS.--THE CAPTAIN'S UNWILLINGNESS, NOTWITHSTANDING THIS, TO LEAVE THE RIVER TILL HIS CARGO IS COMPLETED. Standing in towards the coast with the sea breeze we saw before us an opening between two low mangrove covered points, which formed the mouth of the river we were about to ascend. The scarcely ever ceasing rollers, coming across the wide Atlantic, broke on the bar which ran across its entrance with somewhat less violence than on the coast itself. Still there was an ugly looking line of white foam which had to be crossed before we could gain the smooth water within. We hove-to, making the signal for a pilot. A canoe in a short time came off, having on board a burly negro, dressed in a broad brimmed hat, nankeen trousers, and white jacket, with a sash round his waist. He produced several documents to show that he was capable of taking a vessel over the bar. "Wait bit captain," he said, "high water soon, and den ship go in smooth--batten down hatches though, case sea break aboard." Captain Willis followed this advice; it was well that he did so. "Up helm now captain--bar berry good--plenty breeze." We stood on with all canvas set; the hands at their stations ready to shorten sail when necessary. Soon we found ourselves mounting to the top of a high roller, then on we glided, till in another instant down we came amid the hissing roaring breakers, their foam-topped summits dancing up on either side, and deluging our decks. I saw our black pilot holding on pretty tightly by the main shrouds--I followed his example, for I expected every moment to feel the vessel's keel touching the bar, when I knew that if she were to hang there even for the shortest possible time, the following sea might break over her stem, and make a clean sweep of her deck. On she sped though, lifted by another huge roller; downwards we then glided amid the eddying creamy waters on to the calm surface of the river, up which the next minute we were gliding rapidly. The appearance of the banks on either side was not attractive. As far as the eye could reach was one dense jungle of mangrove bushes, and though we ran on for several miles it in no way improved. The wind died away as we advanced, and the atmosphere became hot and oppressive. I had expected to see pleasant openings, with neat cottages, plantations of maize, rice, and other grain, pepper, palms and palmetos; but instead, a uniform line of the sombre tinted mangrove alone presented itself, the trees just too high to prevent our having a view over them of any more attractive scenery which might have existed beyond. I asked our black pilot when we should come to the town. "By by den you see," he answered with a look which denoted that we should in time witness something worth beholding. The water was as smooth as glass. Here and there coveys of birds might be seen skimming along the surface, while overhead a flight of scarlet winged flamingos swept in wide circles, their plumage flashing in the sun as they prepared to descend on one of the many sandbanks in the stream, to carry on their fishing operations. As we advanced, now and then a canoe would shoot out from among the jungle; the black skinned paddlers coming quickly alongside, to ascertain our character and the objects for which we wished to trade. Sometimes too we could see troops of monkeys making their way among the branches, their small grinning faces peering out at us as we glided by through some channel near the shore. Hour after hour thus passed by, but at length, towards evening, the belt of mangrove bushes diminished in thickness, and other trees of more attractive appearance began to take their place, and openings appeared with a few huts scattered about on the slopes of gently rising ground. As evening was closing in we caught sight, in the far distance, of a congregation of huts, and the pilot gave the captain the welcome information, that he might shorten sail, and prepare to come to an anchor. By the time we had made everything snug darkness closed down upon us. We could just see a few lights twinkling ahead, while on either side, across the stream, appeared the dark outline of the tall trees which clothed the river's banks. Silence reigned around us, with the exception of the ripple of the water against the vessel's bows; but from afar off came a confused mixture of sounds, which appeared like the croaking of frogs, the chirruping of crickets, and other creeping and flying things, the screeching and chattering of monkeys, mingled with the voices of human beings making merry round their huts. The air was damp and heavy and hot; at the same time I felt that I should like to be seated by a roaring drying fire. We kept a watch on deck as if we were at sea, with arms ready for use, for though our pilot had assured us "that all good people here," Captain Willis was too well acquainted, both with the character of the natives, and the sort of gentry who might possibly be in the river waiting for a cargo of slaves, to put himself in their power. I tumbled and tossed about during the night in my berth, unable to sleep, both on account of the heat, and, strange to say, of the perfect quiet which prevailed. Next morning a large canoe was seen coming off from the shore, in which was seated a white headed old negro in a glazed cocked hat, a red hunting coat on his shoulders, a flannel petticoat round his waist, and a pair of worsted slippers on his feet. The pilot, who had remained on board, notified to the captain, with great formality, that he was King Dingo, coming to receive his dash or payment for allowing us to trade with his people. His majesty was received with due ceremony, and conducted into the cabin, when, as soon as he was seated, notwithstanding the early hour of the day, he signified that it was his royal pleasure to be presented with a bottle of rum. Having taken two or three glasses, which seemed to have no other effect on him than sharpening his wits, he handed it to one of his attendants, and then applied himself to the breakfast, which had just been placed on the table, and I dare not say how many cups of coffee, sweetened to the brim with sugar, he swallowed in rapid succession. Having received half a dozen muskets, as many kegs of powder, brass pans, wash basins, plates, gunflints, and various cotton articles, as his accustomed dash, and requested a dozen bottles of rum in addition, he took his departure, promising to come again and do a little trade on his own account. The subjects of the sable potentate were now allowed to come on board, and several canoes were seen approaching us from different parts of the shore. One brought a tusk of ivory, others jars of palm oil, several had baskets of India-rubber, or gum-elastic, as it is called. Besides these articles, they had ebony, bees'-wax, tortoise-shell, gold-dust, copper-ore, ground nuts, and others to dispose of. We soon found that the business of trading with these black merchants was not carried on at the rate we should have desired. The trader, having hoisted his goods out of his canoe, would place them on deck, and seat himself before them, looking as unconcerned as if he had not the slightest wish to part with them. Some would wait till the captain came forward and made an offer; others would ask a price ten times the known value of the article, extolling its excellence, hinting that very little more was likely to be brought down the river for a long time to come, and that several other traders were soon expected. The captain would then walk away, advising the owner to keep it till he could obtain the price he asked. The trader would sit still till the captain again came near him, then ask a somewhat lower price. On this being refused he would perhaps make a movement as if about to return to his canoe, without having the slightest intention of so doing; and so the game would go on till the captain would offer the former price for the article, when, perhaps, the trader would sit on, time being of no consequence to him, in the hopes that he might still receive a larger amount of goods. On other occasions the captain had to commence bargaining, when he invariably offered considerably below the true mark, when the trader as invariably asked something greatly above it. The captain would then walk aft, and, perhaps, come back and talk about the other ports he intended to visit, where the natives were more reasonable in their demands. Captain Willis was too cool a hand to show any impatience, and he thus generally made very fair bargains, always being ready to give a just value for the articles he wished to purchase. As each jar of oil, each tooth or box of gold-dust, or basket of India-rubber, could alone be procured by this process, some idea may be formed of the time occupied every day in trading. Palm oil was, however, the chief article we were in search of; but two weeks passed by, and still a considerable number of our casks remained unfilled. Fever too had broken out on board. Three of our men were down with it, and day after day others were added to the number. The two first seized died, and we took them on shore to be buried. This had a depressing effect on the rest. When we returned on board we found that a third was nearly at his last gasp. Poor fellow, the look of despair and horror on his countenance I can never forget. "Harry," he exclaimed, seizing my hand as I went to him with a cup of cooling drink, "I am not fit to die, can no one do any thing for me? I dare not die, can't some of those black fellows on shore try to bring me through--they ought to know how to man handle this fever." "I am afraid that they are but bad doctors, Bob," I answered, "however, take this cooling stuff it may perhaps do you good." "A river of it won't cool the burning within me," he gasped out. "Oh Harry, and if I die now, that burning will last for ever and ever. I would give all my wages, and ten times as much, for a few days of life. Harry, I once was taught to say my prayers, but I have not said them for long years, and curses, oaths, and foul language have come out of my lips instead. I want to have time to pray, and to recollect what I was taught as a boy." I tried to cheer him up, as I called it, but alas, I too had forgotten to say my prayers, and had been living without God in the world, and though I did not curse and swear, my heart was capable of doing that and many other things that were bad, and so I could offer the poor fellow no real consolation. I persuaded him to drink the contents of the cup; but I saw as I put it to his lips that he could with difficulty get the liquid down his throat. "You have had a hard life of it, Bob, and perhaps God will take that into consideration," I said, making use of one of the false notions Satan suggests to the mind of seamen as well as to others. Bob knew it to be false. "That won't undo all the bad things I have been guilty of; it won't unsay all the blasphemies and obscene words which have flowed from my lips," he gasped out. "Then try to pray as you used to do," I said, "I will try and pray with you, but I am a bad hand at that I am afraid." "Oh, I can't pray now, it's too late! too late!" he exclaimed in a low despairing voice, as he sank back on his pillow, turning his fast glazing eye away from me. He had been delirious for some time before then, but his senses had lately been restored. He seemed instinctively to feel that I could offer him none of the consolation he needed. While I was still standing by the side of his bunk, one of the mates came forward to see how the sick were getting on. He spoke a few words to try and comfort the dying man. They had no more effect than mine, he only groaned out, "It's too late! too late! too late!" His voice rapidly grew weaker--there was a slight convulsive struggle; the mate lifted his hand, it fell down by his side. "Poor Bob has gone," he said, "there will be more following before long, I fear. If I was the captain I would get out of this river without waiting for a full cargo, or we shall not have hands enough left to take the vessel home." This scene made a deep impression on me; too late! too late! continued sounding in my ears. What if I were to be brought to utter the same expression? Where was poor Bob now? I tried not to think of the matter, but still those fearful words "too late" would come back to me; then I tried to persuade myself that I was young and strong, and as I had led a very different sort of life to most of the men, I was more likely than any one to escape the gripe of the fever. We had another trip on shore to bury poor Bob. The captain seemed sorry for him. "He was a man of better education than his messmates, though, to be sure, he had been a wild chap," he observed to me. Bob's conscience had been awakened; that of the others remained hardened or fast asleep, and they died as they had lived, foul, unwashed, unfit to enter a pure and holy heaven. I am drawing a sad and painful picture, but it is a true one. I did not then understand how full of horror it was, though I thought it very sad to lose so many of our crew. We continued to carry on trade as before, and the captain sent messengers urging the natives to hasten in bringing palm oil on board, but they showed no inclination to hurry themselves; and as to quitting the river till he had a full cargo on board, he had no intention of doing that. Hitherto the officers had escaped; but one morning the second mate reported that the first mate was unable to leave his berth, though he believed that it was nothing particular; but Dick Radforth, who was considered to be the strongest man on board, when he had tried to get up that morning, had been unable to rise. The captain sent me forward to see him. Some hours must have passed since he was attacked. He was fearfully changed, but still conscious. "Black Jack has got hold of me at last, Harry, but I'll grapple with him pretty tightly before I let him get the victory, do you see," he observed, when I told him that the captain had sent me to see him. "I'm obliged to him, but if he wishes to give me a longer spell of life, and to save the others on board, he will put to sea without loss of time, while the land breeze lasts. A few mouthfuls of sea air would set me up in a trice. If we don't get that there will be more of us down with fever before night." The boatswain had scarcely said this when he began to rave and tumble and toss about in his berth, and I had to call two of the men to assist me in keeping him quiet. When I got back to the cabin, I told the captain what Radforth had said. "Oh, that's only the poor fellow's raving. It will never do to leave the river without our cargo, for if we do some other trader will sure to be in directly afterwards and take advantage of what has been collected for us. However, I have had notice that lots of oil will be brought on board in a few days, and when we get that, we will put to sea even though we are not quite full." The captain shortly afterwards paid Radforth a visit; but the boatswain was raving at the time, and never again spoke while in his senses. The following day we carried him to his grave on shore. The death of one who was looked upon as the most seasoned and strongest man, had, as may be supposed, a most depressing effect among the crew. It was soon also evident that the first mate was ill with the fever, and indeed more than half our number were now down with it. Still the captain could not bring himself to quit the river. "In a few days very possibly we shall have a full cargo Harry," he said to me. "In the meantime, I daresay, the rest will hold out. Radforth overworked himself, or he would not have caught the fever. Take care Harry you don't expose yourself to the sun, and you will keep all to rights my boy,--I am very careful about that--though I am so well seasoned that nothing is likely to hurt me." "I wish we were out of the river, Captain Willis," I could not help replying. "The mates and the men are always talking about it, and they say the season is unusually sickly or this would not have happened." "They must mind their own business, and stay by the ship, wherever I choose to take her," he exclaimed, in an angry tone, and I saw that I should have acted more wisely in not making the observation I had just let fall. Still, to do him justice, Captain Willis was as kind and attentive as he possibly could be to the sick men; he constantly visited the first mate, and treated him as if he had been a brother. All this time not a word about religion was spoken on board; I had, it is true, a Bible in my chest, put there by my sisters, but I had forgotten all about it, and there was not another in the ship. Except in the instance I have mentioned, and in one or two others, not even the sick men seemed concerned about their souls. The only consolation which those in health could offer to them, was the hope that they might recover. "Cheer up Dick," or, "cheer up Tom, you'll struggle through it, never say die--you will be right again before long old boy," and such like expressions were uttered over and over again, often to those at their last gasp, and so the poor fellows went out of the world believing that they were going to recover and enjoy once more the base pursuits and unholy pleasures in which their souls' delighted. Alas, I have often though what a fearful waking up there must have been of those I had thus seen taking their departure from this world, yet the rest of us remained as hardened, and in most cases as fearless, of consequences as before. The death of the first mate, which very soon occurred, made the second mate, I perceived, somewhat more anxious than before about himself. The first mate had been a strong healthy man, and had often before been out on the coast, while the second mate was always rather sickly, and this was his first visit to the shores of Africa. Whether or not his fears had an effect upon him, I cannot say, but he began to look very ill, and became every day more anxious about himself. The captain tried to arouse him, telling him that we should be at sea enjoying the fresh breeze in a few days, and that he must hold out till then. "Still it is of no use, Harry," he said to me, as I was walking the deck with him one evening, trying to get a few mouthfuls of air. "I know I shall never leave this horrible place alive unless the captain would give the order at once to trip the anchor, then perhaps the thought of being free of it would set me up again." I told the captain when I went into the cabin what the poor mate had said, for I really thought our going away might be the means of saving his life, as well as that of others aboard. He took what I said in very good part, but was as obstinately bent in remaining as before. "Those are all fancies, Harry," he answered. "He has taken it into his head that he is to die, and that is as likely to kill him as the fever itself." "But then he fancies that he would get well if we were at sea," I replied. "Perhaps that really would set him up again." "Well, well, just tell him that you heard me ay I hoped to get away in two or three days, perhaps that will put him to rights," answered the captain, laughing. "Now, Harry, don't let me hear any more of this sort of thing; I have bother enough with these black traders without having to listen to the fancies of my own people." I told the mate what the captain had said. "If the vessel does get away at the time he mentioned, I hope that I may be able to help in taking her to sea, if not, mark my words Harry, there will be a good many more of us down with the fever." He spoke too truly. The traders continued to arrive but slowly, as before, with their oil. The captain waited and waited like an angler anxious to catch more fish. Before the week was over the second mate was dead, and we had only two men fit for duty on board. CHAPTER FOUR. MORE VICTIMS TO THE FEVER.--THE CAPTAIN HIMSELF ATTACKED.--WE SHIP SOME KRUMEN AND OTHER BLACKS, AMONG WHOM IS A CHRISTIAN, PAUL BALINGO.--PAUL INSTRUCTS THE CAPTAIN AND ME IN THE TRUTH.--CAPTAIN WILLIS GETS SOMEWHAT BETTER, AND WE PREPARE FOR SEA. The ship was almost full, and we had a few more empty casks, and were expecting some traders on board during the day with oil which would fill them up. When I turned out of my berth, just as morning broke, I found the captain seated in his cabin, with his head resting on his hands. He felt a little ill, he acknowledged, but said he was sure it was nothing. "We will get under weigh at daylight to-morrow morning, when the tide makes down, and I shall soon be all to rights," he observed. Still, I could not help remarking that he looked pale, and moved with difficulty. "I have agreed to ship half-a-dozen Krumen, and two or three other black seamen, who are knocking about here," he added. "This fever has made us terribly short-handed; but I hope the fellows who are sick will come round when we are in blue water again. Harry, go forward and see how they are getting on, and send Tom Raven to me." Raven was one of the two men who had hitherto escaped the lever, and being a good seaman, had been promoted to the rank of mate. I went on deck, but saw neither him nor Grinham, the other man. I made my way forward to where the crew were berthed, under the topgallant forecastle, expecting to find them there. Grinham was in his berth; he and two other poor fellows were groaning and tossing with fever, but the rest were perfectly quiet. I thought they were asleep. What was my horror, on looking into their berths, to find that their sleep was that of death! "Water, water," murmured Grinham. I ran and fetched some, and as I gave it to him I asked where Raven was. "I don't know," he answered, somewhat revived by the cool draught. "It's his watch on deck. He said he felt a little ill when he relieved me." Having done what I could for the other man, I went to look for Raven. I found him in the second mate's berth. He too was ill with fever, and seemed to have forgotten that he ought to have been on deck, and that the vessel had been left without anyone to look-out. I told him that the captain had resolved to put to sea the next day. "Had he gone a week ago the lives of some of us might have been saved, but it is too late now," he answered with a groan. Sick at heart, after attending to him, I returned to the cabin, to make my report to the captain. "What, all! everyone of them sick!" he exclaimed, sighing deeply. "Then God have mercy upon us. You must not fall ill, Harry." "Not if I can help it, sir," I replied. "I must keep up," he said, and if I can get these Krumen on board we will still put to sea. They are trustworthy fellows, and, Harry, you must be my mate. You are somewhat young; but you have got a head on your shoulders. You must keep your wits alive. "I'll do my best, sir," I answered, feeling not a little proud of the rank to which I thus was raised. I had, indeed, for some time past been performing the duties of mate, supercargo, steward, and not unfrequently helping the black cook, Sambo, and, indeed, lending a hand to everything which required to be done. Now Sambo and I were literally the only two people capable of working on board. The captain himself I feared greatly had got the fever, notwithstanding his assertions to the contrary. It was surprising that I, the youngest in the ship, and least inured to the climate, should have escaped. I had always been very healthy; had never done anything to hurt my constitution, and had followed the captain's advice in keeping out of the sun, and was inclined to feel somewhat self-satisfied on that account--not considering that it was owing to God's mercy and loving-kindness that I had been preserved. The captain said he would go and see Raven; but having got up, after moving a few paces, he sat down again with a groan, and a deadly pallor came over his countenance. He felt that he, too, had got the fever. I advised him to lie down again and rest, but to that he would not consent. He was determined to carry on the trade as usual during the day, and to get ready for sea as soon as the black seamen, whom he expected every hour on board, arrived. He sent me up frequently to see whether they were coming off, and now, when too late, he seemed as anxious as anyone had been to get the vessel out of the river. I was thankful when at length I found two canoes alongside with the expected blacks. The Krumen were fine athletic fellows, neatly dressed in shirts and trousers, and having all served on board men-of-war or in merchant vessels, spoke a little English. They had been hired by the captain's agent on shore; and as their wages had been settled, and they knew the duties they were required to perform, they went to work at once under their head man, who had been appointed to act as boatswain, and seemed inclined to be orderly and obedient. Besides the Krumen there were, as I have before said, several other black seamen engaged, who had been mostly recaptured slaves, and had afterwards entered on board men-of-war or merchant vessels touching at Sierra Leone. I was struck with the manner of one of them, a fine active man, as I, now the only representative of the "Chieftain's" officers and crew, stood near the gangway to receive them. Touching his hat in a respectful manner, he asked after Captain Willis. "He know me, Paul Balingo. I sail once with him some time ago. He kind man, so I come again." I told him that the captain was rather unwell. He had charged me not to let the blacks fancy that he had the fever. I added, that I was sure he would be glad to see him in the cabin. "I go when you tell I come on board," answered Paul. "Sorry to hear him ill." "Oh, he says its nothing," I observed, "and as soon as the tide serves we are to go down the river, and put to sea." I made this remark in obedience to the captain's instructions. I now gave directions to the black boatswain to get the cargo stowed without delay. The captain was much pleased to hear that Paul Balingo had joined the vessel, and said he would see him at once. "I remember him well," he observed, "a good steady fellow." I told Paul to come down, and he received a friendly welcome. I then reminded the captain that there was another duty to be performed. It was to bury the men who had died during the night. This was beyond the strength of those who still survived. "I see to it, sir," said Paul. "The sooner the better then," observed the captain. "And when you return we will trip the anchor, if there is wind enough to help us along." Four bodies were lowered into the canoe, and Paul and some of his companions took them on shore. He had fastened them up in canvas, for there was no time to make coffins; indeed, the carpenter was among them. I should like to have accompanied him to pay the last mark of respect I could to the poor fellows, but there were too many duties to be performed on board to allow of this. I watched them, however, through the glass as they stood on the beach, which formed our burial place. To my surprise, after the graves were dug, I observed Paul Balingo take off his hat--his companions imitating his example--when he seemed to be lifting up his hands in prayer. Then he addressed a number of natives who were standing round, and the bodies were carefully lowered into the graves, and covered up. When he returned on board I told him that the captain was very much obliged to him for what he had done. "And I saw too," I observed, "that you were praying for the poor fellows." "No, massa; I no pray for dem," he answered. "If when dey died dey loved Jesus Christ, den dey no want my prayers; if dey no love Him, den He no love dem. No, massa, me pray for dose that stand round, and for dose still alive. I pray dat God's Holy Spirit would come into dere hearts, and told dem to love Jesus, and dat He died for sinners. I prayed dat dey would hear His Word, and love Him and serve Him. Den I tell dem that Jesus Christ came down on earth, and become man, and be obedient to God, and do all dat good child should do who lub him parents, and dat He pure and holy like lamb widout spot or blemish, and dat He died on de cross, and be punished instead of wicked man, and dat God den say dat one who not deserve punishment being punished He will forgive all dose His dear Son present to Him, who lub Him and serve Him. Den I tell dem dat Jesus Christ died for dem, and dat if dey trust to Him He put away all dere sins, and God not look at dere sins any more. Den I turn de matter about, and I say dat you and all men are poor and naked and covered with dirt and sores, and not fit to go into de presence of pure and holy God; but if you love Christ and trust dat He died and was punished instead of you, den He put on you a white robe, cover you wid His righteousness, and den when you go to God He longer see that you are poor and naked, but He only see the white robe, and He say, `Now you may come into dis pure and bright heaven, and live wid Me.' Then once more I say again, look here, God put you into this world, and you owe God everything. You ought to obey Him and serve Him, and give Him all your strength and health, and to try and please Him in all things every moment of your life. Next I remind dem dat none of us do it, so we owe God a debt, and the longer we live the greater is the debt. It is not den all the things that we do dat God reckon, but the many things that we ought to do and which we leave undone. We receive all the good things from God, and we give Him nothing in return. Then we have no means to pay this debt, so Jesus Christ, because He love us, say He pay it, and God say He accept His payment and set us free. Den I say to the people, Do you believe dis? If you do, and try to love God, and serve God, and do what Jesus Christ did when He was on earth, den you have living faith, and you are free, and God no say longer that you owe Him debt, but He call you His dear children, and when you leave this world He receive you in heaven." "Why, Paul," I exclaimed, after listening with astonishment to what he had said, "I little expected to hear such things come out of a--" (I was going to say negro's mouth, but changed it to) "African sailor's mouth. You ought to be a missionary." "Every Christian man ought to be a missionary," he answered. "If he love the Lord Jesus, and know that the Lord Jesus love him, then he ought to tell that love to others, and if he knows the value of his own soul then he values the souls of others, and try to win those souls for Christ. The truth is, massa, I do want to be missionary, and I seek to go to England to learn more. I there learn to preach the gospel, and when I come back I carry the glad tidings of salvation to my ignorant countrymen." I was very much struck with Paul's earnestness and zeal, though at that time I could scarcely comprehend all he said--I myself knew nothing experimentally of the great love of Jesus of which he spoke. The poor black Christian was far more enlightened than I was. Still I felt a satisfaction at having him on board. He at once showed that he was not a mere theoretical Christian, for as soon as his duty on board the ship was over, he devoted himself to attending on the sick men. All the hours he could snatch from sleep he spent by the side of their bunks, urging them to trust to Jesus, and to repent of their sins while yet there was time. The poor second mate grew worse and worse. Paul visited him, and he heard from the lips of the black seaman, perhaps for the first time, the full and free message of salvation; and, I believe, from what Paul told me, and from the remarks the mate made to me before he died, that he had fully accepted God's gracious offer of reconciliation. I am going ahead though too fast in my narrative. Before the morning came that we were to have left our anchorage Captain Willis himself was laid prostrate with the fever, and having now no one on board to navigate the vessel, we could not venture to sea. I would have done my best to find our way to Sierra Leone, but the black boatswain refused to leave the harbour without an officer capable of taking charge of the brigantine. We were compelled, therefore, to wait till Captain Willis should recover sufficiently, or till the arrival of another English vessel which could spare one of her mates to take charge of the "Chieftain." Before many days were over Captain Willis, and Sambo, the black cook, and I, were the only persons of those who had come into the river, still alive on board. Had the Krumen been badly disposed, they might, without difficulty, have taken possession of the vessel, and made off with her rich cargo; but they appeared, as far I could judge, to intend to act faithfully, and perform their various duties as well as if the captain's eye had been constantly upon them. About Paul I had no doubt. Little as I knew of vital religion myself, I was sure that he was a true man, and that he acted according to his professions. Nothing could exceed his attention to the captain; he or I were constantly at his bedside; and Paul showed considerable skill in treating the disease. I believe that it was mainly owing to him, through God's mercy, that the captain did not succumb to it, as the rest of the crew had done. "Paul," said the captain one morning, when he felt himself getting a little better, "I owe you my life, I will try not to forget you." "Oh, no, no captain, poor fellow like me not able to do you good; give God de praise," he answered solemnly, looking upwards. "Oh, if you did but know how God loves you, how He takes care of you, and gives you all the good things of life, and saves you from danger, and wishes you to come and live with Him, and be happy for ever and ever, you would try to love Him and serve Him, and obey Him in all things." "I don't think that God can care for one who has cared so little for Him," answered the captain. "I don't mean to say that I call myself a bad man, or that I have many great sins on my conscience, and so, I suppose, if I died He would hot shut me out of heaven altogether." "Captain," said Paul, fixing his eyes steadily on him, "the debil told you dat; he a liar from the beginning. God says, `There is none that doeth good, no not one,' `The soul that sinneth shall surely die.' What does dat mean? Not, surely, that if you sinner He let you get into heaven. I ask you, captain, whether you are a sinner, or whether you pure and holy, and trust to Christ, and love Christ, and fit to go and live for ever and ever in the pure and holy heaven with Him? Understand, I do not ask whether you are a great sinner in your own sight, but whether you have ever committed any sins; and remember, God says, `the soul that sinneth,' not only the soul that is a great sinner." The captain looked much annoyed. "Yes, of course, I have committed some sins; but I don't see why God has any right to charge them against me." "God made this world, and all things that are therein. God rules this world, and God made His laws, and He says they are just and right, and God says, `The soul that sinneth shall surely die,'" answered Paul, solemnly. "Captain understand, it is not I who say that. God says it. But though God is a God of justice He is full of love and mercy, and He has therefore formed a plan for the benefit of sinning men, by which man's sins can be washed away, by which His justice will be satisfied, His love and mercy shown. He has allowed another to be punished instead of the sinner," Paul continued, explaining to the captain God's plan of salvation much in the same terms as he had already explained it to me. "I never understood that matter before," said the captain. "But still I do not see how God can expect us to be as good as you say." "Massa Captain, I do not say dat God expect us to be good; but still He has a right to demand that we should be good. He made man pure and holy and upright, and He gave him free will to act as he chose; but man disobeyed God and went away from Him, and forgot Him, and so God has the right to punish man. But den God is full of love and mercy, and He does not want to punish him, but wants him to come back to Him, and so He has sent His message to man to tell him how he may do that. Now as man cannot be good and pure and holy and do nothing but good, but, on the contrary, does much harm, he must either accept God's plan of salvation, or be punished. You have heard, captain, about the thief on the cross, even when he was dying he put faith in Jesus, and Jesus told him that he should be that night with Him in paradise. So you see, captain, there is hope for the sinner, even at the last, and this shows that God does not expect us to do anything good in order to be saved, but only just to put faith in the sacrifice of His dear Son--that is to say, to believe that He was punished instead of us. But then remember, captain, that only one thief was saved; and that shows to us that we must not put off turning to Jesus to the last, and, therefore, I pray you, captain, go to Him at once; trust to Him now, and you will not feel unhappy; and if this fever takes you away, as it has taken away so many people on board this ship, you will hab no fear of death, for you will go to live with Jesus, and be happy with Him for ever and ever." Captain Willis groaned. "I'll pray wid you, captain," said Paul, and he knelt down by the side of the bed, and lifted up his voice in prayer, and earnestly besought God to send His Holy Spirit to soften the captain's heart, and to enlighten his mind. I had listened attentively to all that Paul had said, and I prayed that the blessing which he asked for the captain might descend on me also; for I had begun to discover that my heart was very hard, and prone to evil, and that I had no love for Jesus, no desire to obey His law. Thus the truths of the gospel, as they fell from the lips of the black sailor, first came home to my heart. Several days passed by--the "Chieftain" was got ready for sea, and the captain considered himself well enough to take the command. CHAPTER FIVE. WE AT LENGTH GET OUT OF THE RIVER INTO THE OPEN SEA, BUT A CALM COMES ON, AND THE CAPTAIN AGAIN BECOMES VERY ILL.--NO ONE ON BOARD UNDERSTANDING NAVIGATION, I DOUBT WHETHER I SHALL FIND MY WAY TO SIERRA LEONE.--THE CAPTAIN DOES NOT BELIEVE THAT HE IS IN DANGER.--PAUL PLEADS WITH HIM ABOUT THE SAFETY OF HIS SOUL.--A FIRE BREAKS OUT IN THE HOLD.-- WE IN VAIN ENDEAVOUR TO EXTINGUISH IT.--THE REST OF THE CREW DESERT US.--PAUL AND I ENDEAVOUR TO SAVE THE CAPTAIN, BUT DRIVEN FROM THE CABIN BY THE FLAMES LEAP OVERBOARD AND REACH A SMALL BOAT, WHICH WE RIGHT AND GET INTO.--SEE A SCHOONER APPROACHING US. At day-break the pilot came on board, the sails were loosed, the anchor hove-up, and the "Chieftain," with a hot land breeze, which still blew strong, glided down the river. Captain Willis, who had been brought from his cabin by Paul and Sambo, sat propped up with pillows on the deck. It was melancholy to see him, his once strong frame reduced to a mere skeleton, his countenance pale and haggard, and his strong voice now sounding weak and hollow, and scarcely to be heard by those to whom he issued his orders. I stood by him to repeat them. I saw him cast an eye towards the spot which contained the graves of our shipmates, and I could divine his thoughts. Perhaps he might have reflected that had he not been so greedy of gain, many of them might be still alive, while he himself might be enjoying health and strength. The mangrove covered shores looked even more sombre and monotonous than before, in the grey light of morning, as we glided down between them. The air was hot and oppressive, and full of pestilence, and it seemed a wonder to me that I should have lived so many weeks while breathing such an atmosphere. I dreaded lest the breeze should fail us, and we should be compelled to spend another night under its influence; but the wind held, the tide was in our favour, and we had nearly reached the mouth of the river before the wind dropped, and we had to bring up. A few minutes afterwards the fresh sea breeze came rushing in, pure and sweet, and comparatively cool. With what delight did I gulp it down. I quickly felt like another creature. The captain also seemed to revive rapidly under its influence, and I began to hope that he would ultimately recover. I eagerly watched the sparkling lines of white foam as the ocean waves, meeting the ebbing current of the river, broke across the bar. How I longed for the evening, when the land breeze would again fill our sails, and carry us out into the open bounding ocean. It seemed to me that then all difficulty would be passed, and we should only have to shape our course for England, and steer on till we should reach it. The captain, unwilling again to go below, sat all day on deck under an awning, ready for the moment when we might venture to weigh anchor. It came at last. Just before sunset the hot wind began to blow. Although the bar still wore a threatening aspect, the pilot declared that, without fear, we might venture over it. Not a moment was lost, on we stood towards it. In a short time foaming breakers were hissing and bubbling around us. Once more I felt the vessel rising to the heaving wave, and welcomed the showers of spray which flew over her deck. On she sped, but very slowly; now she sank downwards, and it seemed as if the next roller would send her back on the bar. It glided under her, however, and then she appeared floating, as it were, almost at rest on its summit, and then downwards she slid, slowly making her onward way. In a few minutes more we were in the free open ocean, and the dark sombre river, with its gloomy associations, was far astern. Every inch of canvas the vessel could carry was set, that we might get a good offing before nightfall, when a calm was to be expected. "I never wish to see that place again," I could not help exclaiming. "Don't say that, Harry," answered the captain. "We may hope to have better luck the next time. If you ever want to grow rich you must run some risk. We have had an unusually sickly season, which may not again occur; and if the owners ask me to go back, I am not the man to refuse to do so, and I should look to you to go along with me." Can it be possible, I thought, that a man, after running so fearful a risk, would willingly again expose himself to the same danger, merely for the sake of rapidly gaining wealth? I forgot at the moment that people not only hazard their health but their souls, for that object. Had I remembered the fact, I should not have been surprised at what the captain had said. We had got out of sight of land, but the wind was very light, and we made little progress. In a short time it fell calm altogether, and the vessel lay like a log on the water. The heat, too, was very great, and the captain appeared to suffer from it. It was evident, indeed, that he was falling rapidly back, and he had now no strength to come on deck. I was much alarmed on his account, for I thought it too likely that, after apparently being so near recovery, he would die. I was anxious also on our own account, for knowing so little as I did about navigation, I could not tell how I should take the vessel into port. I got out a chart and studied it, and marked the spot where I believed we then were. I then drew a line from it to Sierra Leone, the place for which I intended to steer. It lay about north-west of us, and I hoped that if I could sight the land to the southward I might coast along till I came to it. There were, however, I knew, strong currents running, which might take us out of our course, and we might have contrary winds, which would further increase the difficulty. I thought that very likely some of the blacks knew more about the matter than I did, but I did not like to confess my apprehensions to them lest they might be tempted to play some trick, and perhaps run away with the vessel altogether. The only person in whom I could confide was Paul. I knew that I could trust him thoroughly, but then I suspected that he was not a better navigator than I was, as he had only served on board a man-of-war and merchantmen, when he would not have been able to learn anything about the matter. The captain caught sight of me through the open door of his berth, as I was poring over the chart spread out on the table of the main cabin. "What are you about, Harry?" he asked. I told him that I was looking at the chart to see what course we ought to steer. "Don't trouble yourself about that, lad," he answered; "I shall be well as soon as the breeze comes. It's this hot calm keeps me down. If the wind had continued, I should have been myself again by this time, though I have had a narrow squeak for it I'll allow." His face looked so pale and haggard, his eyes so sunken, his voice so weak and trembling, that I could not help fearing that he was mistaken. I was unwilling to alarm him, but it was so important that I should know how to act in case of his death, that I could not help saying,--"But suppose anything was to happen to you, sir, what should you advise me to do?" "I do not intend that anything shall happen to me, Harry," he answered, evidently annoyed at my remark. "After having got this valuable cargo on board we must not think of such a thing. Why Harry, in all my voyages I have never collected half so rich a freight." "I earnestly hope that you may recover your health, sir," I said. "I mentioned the subject simply in case of accidents, and I did not suppose that you would be offended." "Of course I am not, Harry," he replied. "You don't suppose that I am a coward and afraid to die; and if it was not for the sake of the vessel and her freight, I should not care, I fancy, so much about the matter; but it would never do now to knock under--so don't, Harry, put those gloomy thoughts again into my head." On going on deck I told Paul my fears about the captain. "Yes, he very bad," he said; "but I more sorry about him soul. He think more of the cargo, which may go to the bottom in one moment, than of his soul, which live for ever and ever. O Massa Harry, we must speak again to him about dat. We will plead with him with tears in our eyes, that he think about his soul, and we will tell him not to trouble about the vessel." Without loss of time we went to the captain. At first he listened somewhat coldly to what Paul said, but he did not grow angry. "I thank you for interesting yourself about me," he said at last. "You may be right, and if you will pray with me I will try to join you." Paul and I thereon knelt down, as we had done before, and Paul, in very plain language, earnestly besought God to send His Holy Spirit to soften the captain's heart, to show him that he was a lost sinner, and had need of a Saviour--to enlighten his mind, and to enable him to take hold of Christ as the only way whereby he could be saved. The captain remained for a long time afterwards silent. At length he put out his hand and grasped Paul's. "I see it now," he said, sighing deeply. "I have been, and still am, a great sinner. Oh, that I knew better how I could be saved." "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved," said Paul, in a firm voice. "That is God's loving message. He sends no other; and, captain, if all the ministers of your country were to come to you, they could bring you no other. If you do believe on Jesus, and are to die this very day, He says to you just what He said when hanging on the cross on Calvary to the dying thief, `This night thou shalt be with me in paradise.'" The captain was greatly moved, and I heard him, between his sobs, exclaiming, "Lord, I believe, help Thou my unbelief." Oh how necessary is that prayer! and I am sure it is one which is always answered, when the sinner is truly desirous of turning from his sins, and is seeking, by every means in his power, to strengthen his belief. I had got out my Bible several days before, and I now read it constantly to the captain, as well as to myself. Whenever I came to a passage which seemed to meet his case, he desired me to read it over and over again. Notwithstanding this, the desire was strong within him to recover, for the sake of carrying home the vessel and her rich freight in safety. That was but natural, and I earnestly hoped that he might be restored to health. Instead, however, of gaining strength, he appeared to grow weaker and weaker. The calm had now continued for several days. Often as I looked over the side I saw dark triangular fins just rising above the surface, and moving here and there round the ship, and frequently the whole form of the monster could be discerned as it glided by; and when I saw its keen cruel eyes glancing up towards me, I felt a shudder pass through my frame, such as, according to the vulgar notion, a person feels when it is said that some one is walking over his grave. Occasionally, when anything was thrown overboard, a white flash was seen rising out of the deep, and a large pair of jaws, armed with sharp teeth, opening, gulped it down, and directly afterwards the creature went swimming on, watching for any other dainty morsel which might come in its way. "How dreadful it would be to fall overboard," I thought. "Calm as the sea is, a person, with those creatures around, would have very little chance of escaping with life." Dark clouds had been gathering around, and the wavelets began to play over the hitherto calm ocean. Although as yet there was not much wind, the sails were trimmed, and, by the captain's orders, the vessel was put on a north-west course. I concluded, consequently, that he at all events intended touching at Sierra Leone, to obtain a mate and some white hands. The wind, however, rapidly increased, sail was taken in, and before long it was blowing a perfect hurricane. This made the poor captain more anxious than ever to get on deck, but when he attempted to move he found that he had not strength even to sit up. The wind howled and whistled, the vessel tumbled fearfully about, and the seas, which rose up in foaming masses, frequently broke on board, deluging her deck. I had gone down to the captain, who had directed me to visit him every quarter of an hour to let him know how things were going on, when, as I entered the cabin, I discovered a strong smell of burning, and directly afterwards I saw thin wreaths of black smoke making their way through the forward bulk-head. The dreadful conviction came upon me that the vessel was on fire. I sprang on deck, and calling the boatswain and Paul, I told them my fears. That they were too well founded we had soon fearful evidence, for the smoke, now in thick volumes, rose above the deck, both fore and aft. Still there might be time to extinguish the fire. To do this it was necessary to take off the main-hatchway, and, in spite of the risk of a sea beating over us, it was done. The instant it was off dense masses of black smoke rose up from below, preventing all attempts which the boatswain and some of his men made to discover the seat of the fire. "We must take to the boats," he exclaimed, "the ship soon all in flames, then the boats burn and we no get away." Paul and I as well as Sambo tried to persuade him and his Krumen to make more efforts to put out the fire before they lowered the boats. With the sea then running, indeed there was every probability that they would be swamped. We set them the example, by rigging the pumps, and filling buckets from alongside to heave down the hold. Thus encouraged, they laboured for a short time, but finding their efforts of no effect, they abandoned the work and began to lower the boats. The wind had happily by this time somewhat moderated; while most of the people were engaged in launching the long boat, Paul and I with two other men set to work to lower one of the smaller boats. We had not forgotten the poor captain, and as the smoke had not yet made its way into his cabin, I did not intend to let him know what had occurred till the last, when I hoped, with the assistance of Paul and others, to get him lowered safely into one of the boats. All hands were working away with frantic haste, for we could not tell at what moment the flames might burst forth, and render the deck untenable. At length the long boat was launched, and the boatswain and the Krumen leaped into her. They called to Sambo and the rest to follow. I thought Sambo would have remained faithful to the captain, and have come to assist him, but at that moment a forked flame burst up from the hold, so alarming him, that he followed the rest. Paul and I entreated the other men to remain by the smaller boat, while we went into the cabin to bring up my poor friend the captain. As I was descending the companion hatch, I heard the boatswain shouting to the other men, and caught sight of them running to the side. Still I hoped that should they desert us, Paul and I might be able, after placing the captain in the boat, to lower her in safety. "The ship on fire," exclaimed Captain Willis, when I told him what had occurred, "Heave water down the hold. Do all you can to save our rich freight, that must not be lost on any account." I told him that we had done what we could, and that the rest of the crew had already deserted the vessel. The captain sank back on his pillow, "I Have no strength to move," he murmured, "and you and Paul cannot lift me." "We will try, Massa Captain," said Paul. I proposed that we should lift him in his cot through the skylight. The captain at length agreed to this. I sprang on deck, intending to secure a tackle to the main boom, by which we might carry out my proposal with greater ease. What was my horror on reaching the deck, to find that the blacks, on quitting the falls, had neglected to secure them, and that the boat having fallen into the water had been washed away and capsized. The flames, too, which were now ascending through the main-hatchway had caught the other boat, and already her bows were burned through. With this appalling intelligence I returned below. Escape seemed impossible. I proposed building a raft, it was a desperate resource, and there might not be time even to lash a few spars together. I could not bear the thought of allowing the poor captain to perish miserably without an attempt to save him. He divined my thoughts. "Its of no use, Harry, I am prepared for death, and resign myself to the arms of that merciful God whom I have so lately learned to know," he said, with perfect calmness. Paul, while the captain had been speaking, seized a bright axe which hung against the bulk-head as an ornament, intending to cut away whatever might assist in forming a raft, and had sprang on deck with it. He now came down through the skylight hatch, "It is too late," he exclaimed, "the flames come aft." He spoke too truly. At that instant dense masses of smoke rushed into the cabin, and the flames burst through the after bulk head. I was scorched, by the heat and almost suffocated. So dense was the smoke which filled the captain's berth, that I could no longer see him. I felt Paul grasping my hand, "Come Harry, come, too late to save poor captain," he said, dragging me after him. I was almost stifled, and gasped for breath. In another moment I should have fallen, indeed I was so overcome with the smoke that I did not know what was happening. Happily however I kept firm hold of Paul, and suddenly I found myself plunged headlong into the water. He had hauled me through the cabin window. "Now strike out Massa Harry, I see boat not far off, we get to her," he exclaimed. I did as he directed me, but the thought of the horrid sharks I had seen swimming about the vessel, almost paralysed my senses, and every moment I expected to find myself seized by the cruel jaws of one of them. "Cheer up Harry, cheer up," shouted Paul; "there is the boat, we got Friend in heaven who look after us; never fear, we reach her soon, cheer up." With such like cries he continued to animate me. He shouted thus not only for that object, but to keep any sharks which might be inclined to seize us at a distance. The boat, as we got near her, was, I saw, keel upwards. "Never fear Massa Harry," said Paul, "we soon right her." We at length reached the boat, and Paul showing me the way, after some exertion, he going ahead and I keeping astern, we managed to turn her over. We then shook her from side to side till we had hove out a considerable amount of water in her. He told me to get in over the stern, and to begin bailing with my hat. I did as he advised, thankful to find myself out of the grasp of the sharks. He kept splashing about with his heels, and constantly turning round to see that none of the monsters were near. Looking up I caught sight of the long boat standing away from us under sail towards the shore. She had already got too far off to allow of our cries reaching her, or even indeed for those on board to see us. We were thus cruelly deserted by our shipmates. We could only hope for their credit that they supposed we had already lost our lives, and that there would be no use looking for us. At length I having partially cleared the boat, Paul also got in, and we both began bailing away as hard as we could with our hats. While thus employed I saw a huge shark approaching, and I fancied looking disappointed at our having escaped his hungry maw. Happily the sea by this time had gone considerably down, or our task would have been rendered hopeless. As it was it took us a considerable time to lessen the water in the boat, for deep as she was, the water which leaped in often again nearly refilled her. Still we persevered, for we were, we knew, labouring for our lives. Meantime the shark, as if longing to make us its prey, kept swimming round and round the boat. At a short distance the brigantine was burning furiously, and already the flames, ascending the masts, had caught the rigging and sails. While as I could not help doing, I turned my gaze at her I saw far away in the horizon the white sail of a vessel. "A sail! a sail!" I shouted; "we are saved Paul, we are saved." Paul looked up for a minute. "Yes," he said, "she standing this way. The burning ship bring her down to us. She big schooner. May be good, may be bad! though." CHAPTER SIX. A CALM COMES ON, AND WE REMAIN DURING THE NIGHT SUFFERING FROM HUNGER AND THIRST.--PAUL TELLS ME HIS HISTORY, AND I FIND THAT HE IS CHEEBO, OF WHOM I AM IN SEARCH.--HIS JOY AT HEARING OF HIS MOTHER MAKES HIM REGARDLESS OF THE SUFFERING WE ARE ENDURING--THE SCHOONER PICKS US UP.-- PAUL SUSPECTS HER CHARACTER.--BEFORE LONG WE DISCOVER THAT SHE IS A SLAVER, AND SHE RUNS UP A RIVER TO RECEIVE HER CARGO ON BOARD. Scarcely had we caught sight of the stranger than the wind entirely fell and she lay totally becalmed. The smooth sea enabled us to free the boat completely, and now we had nothing to do but to sit down and watch the burning brigantine. First one of the tall masts, completely encircled by the flames, fell hissing into the water. The other, after standing awhile in solitary grandeur, formed a fiery pinnacle to the flaming hull below. At length it followed its companion, and then the fire ran riot fore and aft. Sometimes wearied by the sight, I put my hands before my eyes to shut it out, but then I could not help thinking of the sad fate of the poor captain, whose body lay on its funeral pile on board. "Ah, he happy now," whispered Paul. He had also been thinking of him. "He say he love Jesus; he trust to Jesus, no fear for him." Paul's words brought consolation to my heart. Our own condition might well have made me depressed, yet I felt supported by the strong faith of my companion in a way I formerly should not have thought possible. We had no food, and not a drop of fresh water to quench our burning thirst. Some way off we could see pieces of burnt spars floating about. I thought of trying to paddle the boat up to them with our hands, hoping to find some which might serve as oars, and enable us to reach the schooner in the distance. I quickly, however, gave up the attempt, for scarcely had I put my hand into the water than I saw a huge pair of jaws darting towards it, and I had just time to pull it out before they made a snap close to me, which would, in a moment, have bitten it off. Night soon came down upon us as we thus sat utterly helpless in our boat, while the sea around was lighted up with the flames of the burning vessel. Loaded as she was almost entirely with combustible materials, they burned with unusual fierceness. Her whole interior, as the sides were burned away, appeared one glowing mass, surrounded by a rim of flames which fed upon her stout timbers and planking. Suddenly there came a loud hissing noise across the water, then a dense vapour ascended from her midst, and in an instant after all was darkness. The remains of the "Chieftain" had sunk into the depths of ocean. "I am afraid our chance of being picked up by the schooner is gone," I observed to Paul. "She very probably, when the breeze comes, will stand away from us." "There is no such thing as chance, Massa Harry," he answered. "If it is God's will she come, if not, He find some other way to save us. Let us pray that He do what He judge best." Thereon Paul, without waiting for my reply, knelt down in the bottom of the boat and lifted up his voice in prayer to our merciful Father in heaven, for that protection which we more than ever felt we so much needed. I imitating his example, heartily joined him. As we sat in the boat side by side talking together, for neither of us were inclined to sleep, I asked him how it was that he, a common sailor, had become so well instructed a Christian? "Ah, Massa Harry, I knew about Jesus when I quite a little boy; but only a few years ago I learned to love Him and trust to Him as I now do," he answered. "I'll tell you how dis was. When I piccaniny I hab kind fader and moder, and we live in Yourba country, in our own village, far away. One night the enemy come and attack the village, and carry off many men and women and children. My fader take me up and run away into de wood, my moder follow, but she fall, and the slaver people catch her and take her with the rest. My poor fader, like to break him heart, but for my sake he live and hide away till the slaver people gone. He tried to find my moder, but from dat day to dis he neber hear of her more. After some time it was told him dat a great many people go to a place called Abeokuta, and dat dere day built town, and let no slave-takers come near them, so my fader go there, and we live there, and work and grow rich, and many more people come, and we not fear any of our enemies. All the people were heathens, and prayed to the fetish. "After some time many people come from Sierra Leone, who had been carried off in slavers, and taken by the English cruisers, and landed there. They find relations and friends in Abeokuta, and so they stop to live with us. Some of them had learned in Sierra Leone about God and His Son Jesus Christ, and they tell us, and many of the people of Abeokuta say they will no longer pray to the fetish, but will only pray to God, and love Him and serve Him. My fader was among these, and now the only thing he cared for in life was to listen to the missionaries and hear about Jesus Christ. Only one thing made him unhappy, that was that my poor moder should not learn the truth of the gospel. He knew that she was carried away by bad people, and he afraid that she become bad like them; but he pray day and night that God in His mercy would make known to her His great love, as He had made it known to him. "Oh, if I could but hear that she had become a Christian how happy I should be!" he used to say to me over and over again. "Paul," that was the name I had got when I was christened, "you must pray for your moder wid me, and I am sure that God will hear our prayers." "At last my fader grew sick, and he made me promise, if he died, that I would go to Sierra Leone and try to find if my moder was dere. My fader grew worse and worse, but still him very happy, and taking my hand, he say, `Paul, you must meet me in heaven, and you must bring your moder there, and then we all live together for ever and ever, where there are no more slave-dealers, and no more war, and no more cruelty,' and den him die. "After dat I set off to go to Sierra Leone, but slave-dealer catch me on the way and take me on board slaver, with nearly four hundred other black fellows, and we were all put down in ship's hold, and carried away to the coast of Brazil. But English man-of-war catch the slaver. The English captain find out that I was a Christian, and so he ask me if I like to serve on board de man-of-war, and I say yes. The captain, good Christian man himself, so I learn to speak English, and he taught me to read Bible, and I learn still more about Jesus than I did in Abeokuta. At last we got back to Sierra Leone, and then I remember my promise to my father, and while I on shore trying to learn about my moder, the ship sail away, and no more come back. I no hear about my moder, and have no money, so I ship on board merchant vessel, and after sailing in her along the coast for some time I go on board another, and then I again go on board man-of-war. At last I get back to Sierra Leone, and fall very sick, and sent to hospital, then a good missionary come to me and I tell him what my fader had said, and he ask me if I think I going to heaven, and then he tell me more about the right way, and pray with me. And now I find Jesus as my own Saviour and Friend, and love Him, and wish to serve Him, and obey Him. Then the wish came into my heart to preach the gospel to my countrymen, but I, still poor and very ignorant, and I thought if I could make two or three voyages and save money, I would go to England and study there, and be better able to declare the glad tidings of salvation, and that the people would more willingly listen to me. "It was on the second trip I made that the vessel I was in was wrecked not far from the mouth of the Bonny, and I was making my way with some of those who had escaped with me to Sierra Leone when Captain Willis engaged me to serve on board the `Chieftain.'" While Paul was giving me this sketch of his history an idea had forcibly taken possession of my mind. "Tell me," I exclaimed suddenly, "what was your name before you were christened?" "Cheebo," he answered. "And your father's name," I inquired eagerly. "My father, him called Quamino," he said, in a surprised tone. "Oh Paul!" I cried out, seizing his hand, "I have indeed then good news for you. Your father's and your prayers have been answered, for I can assure you that your mother is a true and faithful Christian. I have known her all my life, her name she has told me was Ambah, and that she was torn away from her husband and child as your mother was from you." "Yes, yes, Ambah was my mother's name, and did she tell you that her husband's name was Quamino, and their piccaniny was called Cheebo?" he asked, almost gasping for breath. "Those were the very names she gave me, and I wrote them in my pocket book so that I might not forget them." I answered. "Oh, Massa Harry, that is indeed joyful news," he cried out. "Then I and my mother and father will all meet in heaven, Praise God! I now not fear what man can do unto me." It would be difficult to do justice to the feeling displayed by Paul, even were I to repeat all he said, his piety, his gratitude, and his joy. He could talk of nothing else during the night. He seemed to be insensible to hunger and thirst, and to forget altogether the dangerous position in which we were placed. Now he kneeled down in prayer, now he gave vent to his feelings in a hymn of praise. I could not help sympathising with him, and rejoicing that I had been the means of giving him the information which made him so happy. Still I must confess that I myself suffered not a little from the pangs of hunger, and would have given much for a glass of cold water. When morning dawned the schooner was still in sight. I looked anxiously round for the sign of a breeze, hoping that if it did come the stranger would stand towards us. At all events it seemed probable that having seen the burning vessel those on board, in common humanity, would sail over the spot where she had been, on the chance of picking up any of her crew who might have escaped. Paul, however, did not seem to wish this as much as I did. I saw him narrowly watching the vessel, then he shook his head as if he did not like her looks. The sun rose high in the sky, and beat down on our heads. My thirst became intolerable, and whatever might be the character of the stranger, I could not help longing that she would pick us up. The breeze came at last, her sails filled. How eagerly I watched her. "She is standing towards us," I cried out, "we must soon be seen." I stood up on a thwart and waved a handkerchief. "Better not Massa Harry," said Paul, but I did not heed him. The schooner came on rapidly. Again I waved my handkerchief, and held it between my two hands, so that it might flutter in the breeze. The stranger approached. She was a fine large square topsail schooner, with a black hull and taunt raking masts. She rounded to close to us, so that she could drop down to where our boat lay. A rope was hove to us, and I clambered up her side, Paul following me. We were both so weak when we reached her deck that we could scarcely stand. I pointed to my mouth, just able to murmur, "water! water!" "Si, si, aqua aqua," said a man, who appeared to be an officer; when one of the men dipped a mug into a cask on deck, and brought it to us. I took part of the contents then handed it to Paul; but the seaman signed to me to drain it myself, casting, I thought, a contemptuous glance at my negro companion. However, he brought another cup full, and even though I emptied it to the bottom, still my thirst was scarcely quenched. An officer now appeared from below, and addressing me in English, asked me how I came to be in the boat. I told him exactly what had occurred. "It is fortunate for you that we picked you up, for another vessel might not pass this way for days to come," he observed. "But what a pity so rich a cargo should have been lost." The unhappy fate of the poor captain did not seem to concern him much. I could not make out the character of the vessel. She was Spanish, I guessed, and her officers and crew appeared smart active fellows; and though she looked in some respects like a man-of-war, she certainly was not one. Her hatches were off, and as far as I could judge there was nothing to show that she was a slaver. The officer who had spoken to me finding that I was a young gentleman, politely invited me down into the cabin, telling Paul that he might go forward among the men. Paul thanked him, and took advantage of the permission granted him. The officers were going to breakfast, and I was very thankful when they invited me to join them. Altogether they treated me very civilly. I found an opportunity of speaking to Paul during the day. "Bad vessel this," he whispered. "Dey put you on shore soon Massa Harry, and so no harm come to you, but I fear they make me slave, and I no get back to see my moder. Still I pray God that He find a way for escape." I had too much reason soon afterwards to know that Paul was right in his conjectures. The next day we came in sight of a large vessel. Signals were exchanged, and we hove-to near each other. The boats were then actively engaged in bringing numerous articles on board the schooner--arms and ammunition, and cutlery, and Manchester goods, and farinha (the meal on which slaves on board ship are fed), and cases which I found contained slave shackles. There was no secret indeed made about the matter. The schooner having taken her cargo on board, the other vessel sailed away while we stood towards the coast. The carpenters were busily employed in fitting an additional deck in the hold, and Paul told me that it was called the slave deck, and that the slaves we were to take on board would be seated along it, packed close together side by side, and that they would thus be kept during the whole run to the Brazils, or wherever the schooner was bound with her hapless freight. "You see what this vessel is," said the officer who had spoken to me in English. "We have saved your life, and must exact a promise from you not to appear as a witness against any one on board should you at any future period be called on to do so. Let me advise you indeed not to take notice of anything that occurs on board and it will be the better for you. We do not wish to harm you, but there are those among us who hold human life very cheap, and they are not likely to stand on ceremony should you interfere with their proceedings." I replied that I was very grateful to him and the other officers for treating me kindly, and that I only desired to be put on board an English trader, in which I could work a passage home, "and I hope," I added, "that my black companion will be allowed to accompany me." "As to that I can make no promise," he answered. "The captain will decide the matter; but, I have no doubt, that if we fall in with an English trader you will be allowed to go on board her." A bright look-out was kept from the mast-head, and twice the schooner altered her course to avoid a sail seen in the distance. At length we came off the mouth of a river. A signal was made from the shore. With a fair breeze we ran in, and proceeding up some distance, dropped anchor in a creek, where the schooner lay concealed by the tall trees which grew on its banks. CHAPTER SEVEN. I WITNESS THE EMBARKATION OF SLAVES COLLECTED AT THE BARRACOONS, AND THE CRUEL WAY IN WHICH THEY ARE TREATED AND PACKED IN THE HOLD OF THE SLAVER.--UNWILLING TO DESERT PAUL, I REMAIN ON BOARD, AND THE SLAVER PUTS TO SEA.--PAUL IS THREATENED FOR ATTEMPTING TO COMFORT THE SLAVES WITH THE GOSPEL NEWS.--THE SCHOONER RECEIVES MORE SLAVES ON BOARD ALONG THE COAST.--SOME ARE DROWNED COMING OFF--THE SLAVER GETS ON SHORE JUST AS A MAN-OF-WAR IS SEEN IN THE OFFING.--A FOG COMES ON, AND THE SCHOONER'S CREW MAKING DESPERATE EFFORTS TO GET HER OFF, SHE ESCAPES, TO MY BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT, FROM THE MAN-OF-WAR'S BOATS, ALONG THE COAST. I found myself once more exposed to the pestilential air of an African river. I in vain tried to sleep. All night long I heard the sound of the carpenters at work fitting the slave decks, and fixing the bars across them, to which the captive negroes were to be secured. The crew were employed most of their time in hoisting water casks, and a further supply of farinha, on board. At length when morning broke I went on deck to breathe the air, which I hoped would be somewhat cooler than that of the calm. Through an opening in the trees I saw several long low sheds with cottages and huts scattered round them, while a number of people were moving about. The door in the end of one of the sheds was thrown open, and there issued forth a long line of black figures, walking two and two, and secured together by iron shackles round their wrists. They staggered along with unwilling steps, looking round on the trees and distant blue hills, which they were destined never again to see, and even now it seemed to me that could they have wrenched their hands from those iron bonds they would have attempted to strike a blow for freedom, and make their escape into the forest. On either side of them, however, walked ruffianly looking fellows, with pistols in their belts and heavy whips in their hands, with which, if their captives attempted to lag behind, they urged them on. One or two were whites, but most of them were negroes, and seemed to have no scruple in leading their countrymen into captivity. So long a line came forth that it seemed impossible the building could have held so many human beings. Some were strong men, who cast scowling glances at their guards; others were youths, many mere lads and young boys, and there were a considerable number of women, mostly young, many, indeed, being mere girls. Several of the elder women had infants in their arms, and children of various ages trotted by the sides of others, or clung to their hands. The sad procession came towards the vessel. A bridge had been formed from her deck to the shore. The leading slaves hesitated as they reached it, and refused to move forward till urged on by the lash of their guards. Their condition had been bad before, but they knew now that they were to be shut down and crowded together in the dark noisome hold of the slave ship. As they arrived on board they were compelled to go below and take their seats on the bare deck, side by side, with their legs secured to the iron bars, and so closely packed that their knees were drawn up almost to their chins. Still, although nearly a hundred had come on board, a considerable portion of the deck remained unoccupied. I took an opportunity of going on shore, no one interfering with me. As I went through the village I passed a house of some size, in front of which the captain was seated in the verandah with another white man, with whom he appeared to be eagerly bargaining. The latter was, I found, the principle slave-dealer, to whom the sheds or barracoons, in which the slaves were confined, belonged. Going on I looked into one of the barracoons. The heat and odour which proceeded from it made me unwilling to enter. It was full of blacks, seated on narrow benches, with their arms and legs secured to long bars which ran in front of them. Here they had been placed as they were brought down from the interior, and kept in readiness for the arrival of the slaver. This, I suspect, was the gang for whom the captain had been bargaining with their owner, as they were immediately afterwards summoned out and marched down, as the others had been, to the vessel. While I was still on shore I saw coming through the woods another long line of captives. They had come, apparently, a long distance, for they were mostly foot-sore, and several could scarcely move along; not a few were wounded, and many of the men, and even of the women, bore traces on their backs of the cruel lash which had been inflicted to make them hasten their steps when they had showed any unwillingness to proceed. They were allowed but a short time to rest in the barracoons, and having been fed with farinha, mixed into porridge, were marched down to the ship. They gazed at her with looks of dismay, for they knew that she was to convey them away over the wide ocean they had heard of, but never seen, to an unknown land, where they were to toil, unrequited, for hard task-masters. I thought of remaining on shore rather than proceed in the slave vessel; but was unwilling to desert Paul, and he had not been allowed to land. I therefore returned, hoping to obtain his release. "You must remain with us a little longer," said my friend the officer, who spoke English, "and we will land you on another part of the coast, where you are more likely than here to meet with a trader." I was compelled to comply, indeed I knew by his tone and manner, that I should not be allowed to remain behind. All the slaves which had been collected in the depot having been received on board, the schooner cast off from the bank, and proceeded down the river. As we crossed the bar the vessel pitched heavily, and shipped several seas. The poor wretches below, as the water rushed down upon them, fancying that they were about to be drowned, gave vent to piercing shrieks and cries. The Spanish crew heard them with perfect indifference, and no one, with the exception of Paul, took the slightest trouble to calm their fears--he managing to slip down into the hold assured them that there was no danger; but he could offer them very little comfort besides as to their prospects in this world. Still he could speak to them of another and a better land, "where the weary are at rest, and the wicked cease from troubling," and where the shackles of slavery are cast aside, and to which the God of mercy invites all His creatures to come and dwell with Him, and be at rest. He was endeavouring to explain to the miserable beings the simple troths of the gospel, when he was overheard by one of the officers, and ordered on deck, with a threat that should he again be found speaking to the slaves he would be shackled along with them. We ran down the coast and came to an anchorage in-shore. There were numerous huts and several large canoes drawn up on the beach, on which a heavy surf was breaking. In a short time people appeared collecting from all quarters and a canoe came off with a burly negro on board, who, as he climbed up the side was treated with great ceremony. He was, I found, the king of that part of the country, his chief revenue being derived from slave dealing. His business with the captain was quickly concluded. A signal was made from the vessel, and soon afterwards I saw a long line of slaves coming forth from behind a wood which concealed the barracoons where they had been confined. They were marched down to the canoes, and thrust in one after the other in spite of their struggles. The canoes were now launched, and began to make their way through the surf. Three succeeded in getting alongside, but the fourth was overturned by a heavy roller, and the unfortunate passengers thrown out amid the foaming waters. Some, as if thus glad to escape from their persecutors, sank without making a struggle for life; others clung to the canoe, and a few were either washed back on the beach or picked up by the surrounding canoes, to which the crew had already made their way. Eight or ten human beings thus lost their lives, but the event seemed to cause no concern to the captain or his officers. He had only agreed to pay for those brought off to him in safety. The embarkation continued as before, and we were soon surrounded by canoes full of slaves, who were forthwith hoisted on board and stowed below. Their price, chiefly in goods, was then lowered into the canoes, which returned to the shore with much more caution than they had come out. Two days afterwards we obtained an other addition to our cargo still further down the coast. On this occasion we brought up in a sheltered bay. Here the slaves were conveyed on large rafts. Every expedition was used in getting them on board, for news had been received that an English cruiser was in the neighbourhood. The moment they were stowed away the anchor was hove-up and sail was made. As we were going out, and appeared to be clear of the harbour, I heard a grating sound, and felt the vessel's keel touch the ground. At the same moment the look-out from the mast-head gave notice that a sail was in sight in the offing. Every effort was made to get the schooner off, but she stuck fast. One of the officers had gone aloft with a spy-glass. On his return I observed a look of consternation in the countenance of the captain and his mates. After talking eagerly together one of them went aloft. He remained for sometime with his spy-glass turned towards the stranger, which, in a short time, could be seen clearly from the deck, and from the expressions I heard them utter, I found that she was supposed to be a British man-of-war. I endeavoured to conceal my satisfaction, for I hoped that the unfortunate slaves would be rescued, and that Paul and I might be taken on board her. It shortly, however, fell perfectly calm, and the spirits of the slaver's crew revived. The tide was rising, anchors were carried out, and desperate efforts were made to heave the vessel off. A report now came from aloft that several boats were approaching from the direction of the cruiser. The Spaniards, on hearing this, began to stamp about the deck, grinding their teeth and shaking their fists towards where the boats were supposed to be, working themselves into a perfect fury. Arms were got up on deck, and the two guns the vessel carried were loaded and run out. The savage cries and oaths, and fierce gestures of the crew, made them look more like demons than men. I looked anxiously for Paul, fearing that in their fury they might injure him, but he had wisely taken shelter in the berth forward so as to be out of their sight. I had thought of hiding in the cabin where I slept, but felt too anxious to watch the issue of events to do so. Of one thing I felt very sure, that though the Spaniards might fight, the British seamen would soon be in possession of the slaver. The day was drawing to a close, however, and I began to fear that the boats might not reach the schooner before darkness set in. In a short time too, I observed a thick mist gathering over the land, which rose higher and higher, and came moving towards us. We were soon completely enveloped in it. This seemed to give the slaver's crew great satisfaction, and they again began to talk and laugh in their usual tone, while all the time they continued their exertions to get the vessel off. Lazy as the Spaniards are they can work as hard as any one when they have a sufficient motive to arouse them. I observed the captain frequently wetting his finger and holding it up, and soon I felt a light breeze blowing from the land. The sails were let fall, and the crew making another desperate effort, the schooner glided away up to her anchors. No time was lost in weighing them. I thought the crew would have shouted to show their satisfaction, but not a sound was uttered. Onward she glided, keeping close in-shore. My heart sank within me, and my hopes of escaping from the vile slave ship vanished. The lead was kept going. I felt sure that no stranger would venture to stand in so close to the coast as we were doing. On we stood till the Spanish seamen seemed satisfied that they had made good their escape from the boats of the cruiser. As the schooner had by this time nearly a full cargo of slaves, I feared that she would not again touch on the coast, and that I was destined to make a voyage on board the hateful craft across the Atlantic. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE SPANIARDS BELIEVING THE MAN-OF-WAR TO BE FAR AWAY, STEER TO THE WESTWARD.--WE SIGHT HER, AND SHE CHASES US.--CRUEL DEVICE OF THE SLAVER'S CREW TO ASSIST THEIR ESCAPE.--PAUL, AMONG OTHERS, BEING THROWN OVERBOARD THAT THE MAN-OF-WAR MIGHT HAVE TO PICK THEM UP; I FEAR THAT HE HAS BEEN LOST.--MY LIFE PRESERVED BY ONE OF THE OFFICERS, WHEN THREATENED BY THE SLAVER'S CREW.--THE SCHOONER ESCAPES, BUT DISMASTED IN A GALE, AND AGAIN OVERTAKEN.--PAUL AND MY COUSIN JACK COME ON BOARD, AND I JOIN THE CORVETTE AS A MIDSHIPMAN.--RETURNING TO ENGLAND I RESTORE CHEEBO TO HIS MOTHER.--MY ADVENTURES SHOW THAT "ALL WORKS TOGETHER FOR GOOD TO THEM WHO LOVE GOD."--JACK BECOMES A COMMANDER, MARRIES MY SISTER MARY, AND I FIND AMPLE MEANS FOR SUPPORTING THE REST OF MY DEAR SISTERS. The schooner ran on during the night, keeping the coast close aboard to enjoy the advantage of the land breeze. I managed to get a word with Paul to ask him whether he thought there was a probability of her making her escape. "I pray God for the poor slaves," he answered, "and hope English cruiser still catch her." As may be supposed a very bright look-out was kept for the cruiser. As the day advanced she was no where to be seen, and the captain, anxious to make as quick a run as possible across the Atlantic, the vessel's head was turned to the westward, the wind still blowing off shore. Still, however, a haze hung over the ocean, sufficiently thick to prevent objects being seen in the far distance. This seemed still further to favour the escape of the slaver. We had got some distance off the land when the haze lifted, and away to the southward a sail was seen, which the Spaniards at once seemed to know was the British man-of-war. She saw us at the same moment, and crowded all sail in chase. The schooner was put before the wind, which now came from the southward, and every stitch of canvas she could carry was set, men also going aloft with buckets of water to wet the sails. Again the same scene of impotent rage I had before witnessed was enacted, and the fury of the Spaniards increased as they saw the man-of-war gaining on us, she apparently having more wind than we had. I, as I had previously done, kept as much as I could out of their way, and tried to prevent any gleam of satisfaction appearing in my countenance. The man-of-war was a corvette--evidently a powerful and very fast craft, against which the slaver would not have had the shadow of a chance, had even her crew possessed the courage to fight, which I felt very sure, in spite of their bravado, they would not. The corvette had been bringing the breeze up with her, and now the schooner felt it herself, and began to move more rapidly through the water. She, too, was a fast vessel, and her crew might justly have entertained hopes of escaping. I little thought of the cruel device they were contemplating to aid them in so doing. At length the man-of-war had got almost near enough to reach the slaver with her bow-chasers. She tried the range of one of them, but the shot fell short. On this the captain turned, with a savage determination in his eye, and spoke to one of the officers. Directly afterwards I saw him descend to the slave deck with two or three of the men, and they quickly returned with one of the unfortunate captives. Instantly the unhappy slave was secured to a plank, and, in spite of his cries and entreaties, hove overboard. As the poor wretch floated astern I could not help recollecting that the sea swarmed with sharks, and that he would probably be seized before many minutes were over by one of the ravenous monsters. I guessed the object of the Spaniards; it was confiding in the humanity of my countrymen that they would heave-to in order to pick up the poor black, should he escape the sharks, and thus allow the schooner to gain ground. The device answered the expectations of its cruel perpetrators. The corvette hove-to, a boat was lowered, and the slave taken up. The Spaniards seemed delighted with the result of their experiment, and prepared to try it again. Another slave was brought up on deck, and, like the former, hove overboard. Scarcely had he reached the water when a fearful shriek was heard, and the poor wretch and the plank together disappeared below the surface. This, however, did not prevent the Spaniards from again attempting the plan to impede the progress of their pursuer, and three more slaves were brought up. Just then I heard several of the crew shouting out "El heretico!" and what was my horror to see them dragging Paul aft. He spoke to them in such Spanish as he could command, but uttered no cry, and when he understood their object, walked calmly among them to the gangway. I could not restrain myself, but ran up to him and implored my English-speaking friend to plead on his behalf. "Take care my lad, or you may be treated in the same way," was the answer. "Oh, but he has just heard of his mother, who longs to see him, and I have promised to take him to her," I cried out. "Oh, ask them if any of them have mothers from whom they have been long parted, would they not desire to see them again? Will they not have compassion on my poor friend?" "Don't grieve for me, Massa Harry," said Paul, while the sailors were lashing him to the plank. "God take care of me. Give my lub to my moder, and tell her I meet her in heaven, and she know me den." In vain I pleaded. My friend seizing me by the arm, dragged me away, while the savages hove Paul overboard. "Go into my cabin," he exclaimed, "its your only chance of safety." I saw, as he dragged me aft, that the Spaniards were preparing to throw several other slaves into the sea; and, as I turned my head, three in rapid succession were thrust through the gangway, secured, as the others had been, to floats. My friend had not cautioned me without reason, for I heard the crew clamouring for the "Englez." My friend went out to them, and on his return told me that they wished to throw me into the sea, but that he had advised them not to do so lest after all the schooner should be captured, when the captain of the man-of-war would certainly deal more hardly with them for having thus treated a countryman. I thanked him for interfering as far as I was concerned, but, at the same time, could not help observing that the English captain would consider the crime of throwing any one overboard equally great, whatever the colour of the sufferer. "Ah, we think little about the life of a black," he answered carelessly. "So it seems," I said, for I felt utterly horrified at what I had witnessed. A feeling of desperate indifference to my own fate had crept over me. "Poor Paul! that the wretches should have treated you thus," I said to myself. Then I remembered how Paul would have acted, and I prayed that he might be protected, though I confess I had little expectation of his escaping the ravenous jaws of a shark. So eager was I to ascertain what had happened, that had not my friend locked the door on me, in spite of his warnings, I should have gone out again to watch the progress of the chase. Some time elapsed; I longed again to hear the sound of the corvette's guns, but in vain. The wind had increased, as I could judge by the movement of the vessel; and I at length began to fear that she would after all escape. Some hours passed away, my friend at length came back. "You are hungry, I dare say," he said, "and you may come into the cabin and have some supper, but it is not safe for you to go on deck, the crew are angry at your having interfered about the black seaman; although our plan has answered, for your good natured-countrymen, by stopping to pick up the negroes, have enabled us to escape them. A few of the wretches were, to be sure, picked off by the sharks." "Did my friend, the black sailor, escape?" I asked eagerly. "As to that I cannot say," he answered, "undoubtedly some escaped, or the corvette would not have hove-to so often. But come, the supper is on the table." I declared that I had no appetite; but he insisted upon my going into the cabin, and said that he should be offended if I did not. "It would be better for you also to put an indifferent face on the matter," he added. Those of the officers who came to supper were laughing and talking in good spirits, and, as far as I could judge, seemed to be amusing themselves at my expense. I, however, had the wisdom to follow my friend's advice, and showed no signs of annoyance. I confess, too, that the sight of the food quickly restored my appetite. When supper was over my friend advised me to go back to my cabin. "We shall be far away from the corvette by to-morrow morning, and then you can come on deck if you like," he observed. As I lay in my berth the dreadful scenes I had witnessed came constantly before my sight, and I kept alternately hoping that Paul might have been saved, and fearing that he was lost. For a long time too it seemed I could not go to sleep. The vessel also was pitching heavily, the sea dashed against her sides, and I could hear the roaring and whistling of the wind in her rigging; it was evidently blowing very hard. At last I dropped off to sleep. I was awakened by a loud crash, and the fearful shrieks and cries which arose from the hold. No longer heeding my friend's caution, slipping on my clothes, I rushed on deck. The schooner's masts had gone by the board, and she lay helpless on the foaming ocean. The crew were shouting and swearing as they endeavoured to cut away the masts, which were battering against her sides, while ever and anon a heavy sea striking her, swept over her deck, and from the shrieks which came up out of the waters a short distance away to leeward, I had little doubt that several of the people had been washed overboard. Fearing that such might be my fate were I to remain on deck, I hurried back again into the cabin. I knew that nothing could be done till daylight, and that it would be impossible to rig jury-masts until the sea was somewhat smoother. Perhaps before then the slaver and her living freight might be carried down into the depths of ocean. I would not venture to lie down, but sat in the cabin, ready to rush out and make an attempt for my life should such a catastrophe appear imminent. The night seemed very long. At length I saw daylight through the bull's-eye overhead, and the movement of the vessel was less violent than before. I could no longer restrain my curiosity, and made my way on deck. The crew, much diminished, were sheltering themselves under the bulwarks, while the officers were collected in the after part of the vessel. I saw that their eyes were directed to windward, I looked in the same direction, and there to my infinite satisfaction I caught sight of the corvette standing towards us. I was glad to see my English friend among the officers, but the captain and first mate were gone. They had been carried overboard. I felt that they deserved their fate, terrible as it was. The corvette soon came up, and hove-to to windward; a boat was lowered and pulled towards us. I watched her eagerly. A lieutenant was steering, and among her crew I observed a black man. I tried to make out his features, but at that distance it was impossible. The hope rose in my breast that he might be Paul. As the schooner still rolled heavily it was no easy matter for the boat to get alongside without the risk of being swamped. She at length came up under our quarter. I looked anxiously over the bulwarks, and to my joy saw that the black was indeed Paul. He caught sight of me. "All right Massa Harry," he shouted, "we soon aboard, praise God that you safe." "Silence!" said the officer, for Paul had forgotten the discipline of a man-of-war in speaking. At that moment I thought I recognised the lieutenant's countenance; yes, I was nearly certain it was my cousin Jack Haultaught, whose yarns, when he was a midshipman, first made me wish to go to sea. He and his crew soon sprang on to the low deck of the schooner, while the boat, with a couple of hands in her, was veered astern. I first greeted Paul warmly. His joy at seeing me was excessive, for he had been afraid that the slavers would have thrown me overboard as they had him, and as I had not been picked up thought my life had been sacrificed. As my cousin Jack did not know me I had time to talk to Paul. "Oh Massa Harry we must praise God for all His mercy and goodness to us, what we think going to be very bad for us He make turn out for the best. The captain of the corvette, my old friend, he good Christian man, he say he take me to England with him, and then I see my dear moder, and learn more of the Bible, and then come back and preach the gospel to my poor countrymen." The hatches, which had hitherto been kept battened down, were now taken off. The five hundred human beings crowded below were evidence of the character of the vessel, and enabled the lieutenant at once to claim her as a prize to Her Majesty's ship "Triton." I do not wish to dwell on the fearful sight which met our eyes as we looked down below on the mass of humanity jammed, pressed, and huddled together. And oh, the horrible odour which arose from that foul hold! It seemed impossible that human beings could have existed a minute in it, much less the many hours during which those unhappy people had been shut up during the gale. How fearful would have been their sufferings had they been compelled thus to make the passage across the Atlantic. How enormous a proportion of them would have died. As it was, many of them had their limbs broken, and many were sadly crushed and bruised. At length I went up to the lieutenant and put out my hand. "You don't know me, cousin Jack," I said. "What, Harry!" he exclaimed, looking at me hard. "I am delighted to see you my boy. The negro sailor told me that there was a young Englishman on board, but I did not expect to find you. You will be welcome on board the `Triton,' and if you have a fancy for continuing at sea, I think the captain will be able to enter you as a supernumerary, and get you regularly appointed when we return to England." I told him that above all things it was what I should like. I now accompanied him to the "Triton," carrying with us the surviving officers of the slaver. They were treated with scant ceremony, but without any undue harshness, on board, and berthed together in a cabin run up on the lower deck. I was, however, able to speak a good word for the officer who had treated me kindly, and been the means of saving my life, and I was pleased to hear the captain thank him, and afterwards the officers, to show their sense of his conduct, invited him to mess with them. He declined doing so, however. He afterwards told my cousin Jack that in consequence of the scenes he had witnessed he had resolved to have nothing more to do with the slave trade. "It was a great temptation," he said. "I expected to make my fortune in a short time, and that induced me to engage in the accursed traffic." The corvette now took the schooner in tow. As soon as the sea was calm enough hands were sent on board her to rig jury-masts, and a course was steered for Sierra Leone. The slaver, as may be supposed, was condemned, the slaves liberated, and the whole of them settled in the colony. Paul entered on board the "Triton," and I was placed as a midshipman on her quarter-deck. We cruised for a short time longer on the coast, and captured another slaver, and then, as the corvette had been her due time on the station, she was ordered home. Jack, from having been at sea, had not heard of the misfortunes of my family. As soon as the ship was paid off he insisted on accompanying me and Paul back to Liverpool. We reached the house where I had left my sisters under Mammy's care. Flowers bloomed before the windows, and there was an air of neatness and comfort about the little abode which looked very pleasing. I begged Jack and Paul to remain outside while I went in to prepare the inmates for their arrival. Mammy opened the door. She seized me in her arms the moment she saw me, and I did not at all mind the kisses she bestowed on my cheeks, though her lips were thick and her black face shrivelled. "Your sisters up stairs, Massa Harry. They so glad you come back," she exclaimed, and dragged me along. She opened the door where they were seated at work. "I have brought some strangers to see you," I said, after our greetings were over. "You remember our cousin Jack Haultaught; he insisted on coming, he is a first-rate capital fellow, and a true friend of mine." "We shall be very glad to see him and to thank him," said Mary and Jane together. "And I shall be delighted," cried Emily. "I recalled his giving me all sorts of curious things when he came back from his first voyage. I'll run down and ask him in." "Mammy," I said, feeling very doubtful how I could best prepare her for meeting her son. "You remember the commission you gave me, I did my best to execute it. I asked all the people I met if they knew Cheebo." "Ah, you no hear of him," said Mammy, with a sigh. "I did not say that," I answered. "Mammy, you believe that God hears your prayers." "Yes, Massa Harry, I am sure He does," she said, and then it seemed to flash across her that I had something of interest to communicate about her son. "You hear of Cheebo, he become Christian, oh say dat, Massa Harry, say dat." "Yes, Mammy," I answered, taking her hand, "I not only heard of him, but I have seen him; and, Mammy, do you think the joy would not be too much for you if I were to tell you that I hope you will see him too?" "Oh, he is come! he is come!" exclaimed Mammy. I made a sign to my sisters to remain with our old nurse, whispering to Mary that I was going to bring up her long lost son. I hurried down stairs, and found that Emily had already invited Jack and his companion into the house. I led Paul to the door, and my sisters slipping out; we left the old woman and her son together. And now it is time that I should bring my yarn to a conclusion. Jack seemed to find Liverpool a very delightful place; and perhaps it may account for his so doing, when I say that before he went away he asked my sister Mary to marry him. She did not refuse. Soon afterwards he got his promotion, which he well deserved for his activity and zeal during his long service on the African coast. Through the interest of the captain of the "Triton" I got appointed to a man-of-war brig on that station, where, being pretty well up to the tricks of the slavers, I was instrumental in capturing a number of vessels, and assisting to put down the abominable slave trade. As a good deal of prize money came into my pocket, I had the gratification of sending home considerable sums to my sisters. Mammy's joy, when she found that not only had her son become a Christian, but that her husband had accepted the truth, was full. She willingly parted with Paul when she heard of his wish to become a missionary of the gospel. He returned to Sierra Leone, and after remaining a short time there, went on to Abeokuta, to labour with others in spreading the glad tidings of salvation among the dark-skinned sons of Africa. 
62301	----	Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 62301-h.htm or 62301-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62301/62301-h/62301-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62301/62301-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/canoematesstoryo00munriala Transcriber's note: Emphasised text is shown thus: _italics_ =bold= [Illustration: SUMNER AT HOME. (Page 18)] CANOEMATES A Story of the Florida Reef and Everglades by KIRK MUNROE Author of "The Flamingo Feather" "Derrick Sterling" "Dorymates" "Campmates" etc. Illustrated [Illustration] New York Harper & Brothers, Franklin Square 1893 Copyright, 1892, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All rights reserved. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. IN THE FAR SOUTH 1 II. THREE CANOES, AND THE FATE OF ONE 8 III. SUMNER RECEIVES A SECOND OFFER 18 IV. TEACHING A THIEF A LESSON 26 V. THE GREAT FLORIDA REEF 33 VI. PINEAPPLES AND SPONGES 41 VII. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF THE CANOES 49 VIII. LIFE ON THE LONELY ISLAND 57 IX. THE NOCTURNAL VISITOR 64 X. WHOSE ARE THEY? AND WHERE DID THEY COME FROM? 73 XI. SUMNER DRIFTS AWAY ON A RAFT 80 XII. PICKED UP IN THE GULF STREAM 89 XIII. A MYSTERY OF THE REEF 96 XIV. WORTH AND QUORUM ARE MISSING 105 XV. WORTH AND QUORUM IN SEARCH OF SUMNER 112 XVI. A NIGHT IN ALLIGATOR LIGHT 121 XVII. AN ENTERTAINMENT ON THE KEY 128 XVIII. OFF FOR THE EVERGLADES 137 XIX. THE CANOES ARE AGAIN LOST, AND AGAIN FOUND 145 XX. THE PSYCHE AS A LIFE-BOAT 153 XXI. SUMNER'S SELF-SACRIFICE 160 XXII. GOOD-BYE TO THE TRANSIT 168 XXIII. WORTH MEETS A PANTHER 175 XXIV. RATTLESNAKES AND RIFLE-SHOTS 184 XXV. WORTH'S LONELY NIGHT-WATCH 192 XXVI. THE FLORIDA EVERGLADES 201 XXVII. A PREHISTORIC EVERGLADE MOUND 209 XXVIII. WHAT BECAME OF QUORUM AND THE CANOES 218 XXIX. A VERY SERIOUS PREDICAMENT 226 XXX. QUORUM AS AN AMBASSADOR 234 XXXI. A CLOSELY GUARDED CAMP 242 XXXII. CROSSING THE 'GLADES WITHOUT SEEING THEM 250 XXXIII. AN ADVENTUROUS DEER-HUNT 258 XXXIV. HEMMED IN BY A FOREST FIRE 266 XXXV. THE BOYS IN A SEMINOLE CAMP 275 XXXVI. ONE OF THE RAREST ANIMALS IN THE WORLD 284 XXXVII. FISHING FOR SHARKS 292 XXXVIII. LITTLE KO-WIK-A SAILS OUT TO SEA 301 XXXIX. A BLACK SQUALL AND THE STRANDED STEAMER 308 XL. THE HAPPY ENDING OF THE CRUISE 317 ILLUSTRATIONS. SUMNER AT HOME _Frontispiece._ "WITH THE NEXT SEND OF THE SEA THE CANVAS CANOE WAS CRUSHED BENEATH THE PONDEROUS BOWS" _Facing p._ 18 "HE RETURNED TO THE BUOY, ON WHICH THE RECENT FUGITIVE WAS NOW SITTING" " 30 THE "CUPID" AND "PSYCHE" START ON THEIR CRUISE " 32 TORCH-FISHING FOR MULLET " 40 THE CANOES ARE GONE " 48 "'SOME ONE WAS TRYING TO PULL MY GUN AWAY'" " 64 "THE LATTER WAS ROLLING ON THE GROUND AT THE FOOT OF A COCOANUT-TREE" " 68 A GREAT DISCOVERY " 78 QUORUM IS HAPPY " 84 "TWO PAIRS OF POWERFUL ARMS DRAGGED HIM INTO THE BOAT" " 94 "AS HE STEPPED ASHORE A PLEASANT-FACED YOUNG MAN ADVANCED TO MEET HIM" " 108 QUORUM RESIGNS HIMSELF TO FATE " 126 QUORUM DANCES A BREAK-DOWN " 136 "HE FOUND RUST NORRIS CROUCHING IN THE LEE OF THE LITTLE DECK-HOUSE" " 158 REPAIRING THE "PUNKIN SEED" " 168 "A VOLLEY OF RIFLE-SHOTS FLASHED AND ROARED FROM THE FOREST" " 188 "ROUGH-LOOKING CHARACTERS, WHOM HE AT ONCE RECOGNIZED AS SOUTH FLORIDA COWBOYS" " 200 "HIS WRISTS WERE UNBOUND, AND THE CLOTH THAT ENVELOPED HIS HEAD WAS SNATCHED FROM IT" " 220 "DIRECTLY AFTERWARDS A CANOE APPEARED AT THE OPENING IN THE BUSHES" " 240 "THEY WERE SUDDENLY CONFRONTED BY AN INDIAN ARMED WITH A RIFLE" " 248 "THE ORDEAL OF FIRE LASTED BUT A MINUTE" " 272 SUMNER AND WORTH IN THE SEMINOLE CAMP " 282 SUMNER RESCUES KO-WIK-A " 310 "THE SURPRISE AND DELIGHT OF THE TWO GENTLEMEN CAN BETTER BE IMAGINED THAN DESCRIBED" " 322 _CANOEMATES._ _A Story of the Everglades._ CHAPTER I. IN THE FAR SOUTH. "Really, mother, it doesn't seem as though I could stand it any longer! Life in this place isn't worth living, especially when it's a life of poverty, and what people call 'genteel poverty,' as ours is. Our struggle is for bare existence, and there doesn't seem to be any future to it. If you'd only let me go to New York, I'm sure I could do something there that was worth the doing, but I can't do anything here, and I'd almost rather die than live here any longer!" With this Sumner Rankin flung himself into a chair, and his flushed face was as heavily clouded as though life held nothing of hope or happiness for him. "Why, my dear boy," exclaimed his mother, standing beside him and smoothing his tumbled brown curls with her cool hands, "what is the matter? I never knew you to speak so bitterly before." Mrs. Rankin still looked so young and pretty that she might almost be taken for an elder sister of the handsome, seventeen-year-old boy over whom she now bent so tenderly. To the casual observer the Rankins' home was a very pleasant one. It was a pretty, broad-verandaed cottage nestled in the shadows of a clump of towering cocoanut palms, on the far southern island of Key West. It stood on the outskirts of the town, and so close to the beach that the warm waters of the Mexican Gulf rippling on the coral rocks behind it made a ceaseless melody for its inmates. Jasmine-vines clambered over it, glossy-leaved myrtles, a hedge of night-blooming cereus and other sweet-scented tropical shrubs perfumed the air about it. Through these, looking out from the shaded coolness of the verandas, the eye caught fascinating glimpses of blue waters with white sails constantly passing, and stately men-of-war swinging idly at their moorings. It looked an ideal home; but even in this tropical Eden there was one very large serpent, besides several that were smaller though almost equally annoying. The big one was poverty, and it held the Rankins in its dread embrace as though with no intention of relaxing it. Mrs. Rankin was the widow of a naval officer who had been stationed at Key West a few years before. He had sent his wife and only child north to escape a dreadful summer of yellow-fever, while he had stayed and died at his post. Shortly before his death Commander Rankin, believing that Key West property was about to increase rapidly in value, had invested all that he had in the little jasmine-clad cottage, expecting to be able to sell it at a handsome profit when his term of service at that station should expire. Thus it was all that remained to his family, and to this haven Mrs. Rankin, sad-eyed and wellnigh broken-hearted, had returned with her boy. The fever had caused real estate to become of so little value that there was no chance of selling the cottage; so they were forced to live in it, and the widow eked out her scanty pension by letting such rooms as she could spare to lodgers. During the pleasant winter season she rarely had difficulty in filling them, but through the long, hot summer months desirable lodgers were few and far between, and the poverty serpent enfolded them closely. One of the lesser serpents against which the Rankins had to contend was the lack of congenial society; for, with the exception of a few government employés and those whose business compels them to live there, the population of Key West is composed of spongers and wreckers, Cuban and negro cigar-makers. Another was the lack of good schools, and the worst of all was the lack of suitable business openings for Sumner, or "Summer," as his Chinese nurse had called him when he was a baby, and as he had been called ever since on account of his bright face and sunny disposition. He would have loved dearly to go through the Naval Academy and follow the profession that had been his father's, but the Rankins had no political influence, and without that there was no chance. He could not go into a cigar-factory, and though his boyish love of adventure had led him to take several trips on sponging vessels, it was not the business for a gentleman. Born in China, the boy had, with his mother, followed his naval father to many of the principal ports of the world. Both his father and mother had devoted all their spare time to his education, and thus he was well informed in many branches of which the average boy knows little or nothing. He loved the sea and everything connected with it. From his babyhood he had played with and sailed boats. Now there was no better sailor in Key West than he, nor one more at home among the reefs of those southern waters. He knew the secrets of boat-building from keel to truck, and from stem to stern, while his favorite employment was the whittling out of models, the drawing of sail plans, and the designing of yachts. But nobody wanted yachts in Key West, nor did its sailors care to have improved models for their fishing-boats or sponge-vessels. So Sumner was considered a dreamer, and people said he ought to be doing something besides whittling and idling about home. The boy thought so himself, but what to do and how to set about it were problems the attempted solution of which caused him many an unhappy hour. On the perfect winter day that he had come home in such a despairing frame of mind, his own life had just been presented in vivid contrast to that of another boy who seemed to have the very things that Sumner most longed for. He had been down to the wharf to see the _Olivette_, the West Indian fast mail-steamer from Tampa, come in. There he had been particularly attracted by a boy somewhat younger than himself, standing with a gentleman, whom Sumner supposed to be his father, on the after-deck. As the steamer neared the wharf this boy amused himself by flinging silver coins into the water for the fun of seeing little negroes dive after them. "Only think, mother!" exclaimed Sumner in relating this incident, "he threw money away as I would so many pebbles, and didn't seem to value it any more. Just imagine a boy having money to waste like that! And some of those little rascals who dived for it made more in a few minutes than I have to spend in months." "But, Sumner," said Mrs. Rankin, gravely, "I hope your unhappiness does not arise from jealousy of another's prosperity?" "Yes, it does, mother," replied the boy, honestly; "though it isn't only because he could throw money away; it is because he has the very thing that I would rather have than anything else in the world--the prettiest, daintiest, cedar sailing canoe that ever was built. I never saw one before, but I've read of them, and studied their plans until I know all about them. She is as different from my old canvas thing as a scow is from a yacht." "But you thought your canvas canoe very nearly perfect when you built her." "I know I did, but I have learned better since then, and now it seems as though I should never care to look at it again." Yet this same despised canvas canoe, which Sumner had built himself the year before without ever having seen one, had been considered both by himself and his friends a masterpiece of naval construction, and he had cruised in her ever since with great satisfaction. "You have yet to learn, dear, that it is ever so much harder to be satisfied with the things we have than to obtain those for which we long, no matter how far beyond our reach they may seem," said Mrs. Rankin, gently. "I suppose it is, mother, and I know it is horrid to come to you with my miserable complainings; but I wish I had never seen those canoes--for there were two of them just alike--and I wish wealthy people wouldn't come to Key West with such things. They don't do us any good, and only make us feel our poverty the more keenly. Why, there they are now! Turning in here too! What can they want with us, I wonder? I won't see them at any rate. I've no more use for wealthy snobs than they have for me." So saying, Sumner left the room by a rear door, and the steps of the approaching visitors sounded on the front veranda. CHAPTER II. THREE CANOES, AND THE FATE OF ONE. As Sumner's mother opened the door, she saw that the gentleman who, politely lifting his hat, asked if she were Mrs. Rankin, was too young to be the father of the boy by his side. "May I introduce myself as Mr. Tracy Manton, of New York?" he said, when she had answered his question in the affirmative; "and my nephew, Master Worth Manton? We have called to see if we can engage rooms here for a week or so. We will take our meals at the hotel; but we have two canoes that we propose fitting out here for a cruise up the reef, and we want to find a place close to the water where we can keep them in safety, and at the same time be near them. Mr. Merrill advised us to come here, and it looks as though this were exactly the place of which we are in search. So if you can accommodate us we shall esteem it a great favor." With the remembrance of Sumner's last words, Mrs. Rankin hesitated a moment before replying; whereupon Mr. Manton added: "I trust you are not going to refuse us, for I have set my heart on coming here, and will gladly pay full hotel rates for the accommodation." "If my vacant rooms suit you I shall be pleased to let you have them at my regular rate, which is all they are worth," answered the widow, quietly, as she reflected on the poverty which would not allow even a mother's feelings to interfere with honorable bread-winning. "Will you step in and look at them?" "We are in luck, my boy, and our little expedition has begun most prosperously," said Mr. Tracy Manton an hour later, as he and his nephew sat in one of the two pretty back-rooms that they had engaged, surrounded by their belongings, and looking out on the sparkling waters of the Gulf. On the grass of the palm-shaded back yard, and in plain sight from the windows, lay the two canoes that had so excited Sumner's admiration and envy. They were indeed beauties as they lay there divested of their burlap wrappings, and that they were fresh from the builder's hands was shown by their unscratched varnish and gleaming metal fittings. They were fifteen feet long by thirty inches wide amidships, were provided with folding metal centre-boards, metal drop-rudders, foot-and-hand steering gear, water-tight compartments fore and aft, and were decked, with the exception of their roomy cockpits. These were surrounded by stout oak coamings three inches high, sharp-pointed, and flaring outward at the forward ends, but cut down so as to be flush with the deck aft. Beside them lay the confused mass of paddles, sails, spars, canoe tents, rubber aprons, cushions, and cordage, that completed their equipment. They were simply perfect in every detail, and the most beautiful things Sumner Rankin had ever set his eyes upon. At least he thought so, as, returning from a long tramp on which he had tried to walk off his unhappiness, he found them lying in the yard. In spite of his surprise at seeing them there, and a return of his unwelcome feeling of envy, he could not help stopping to admire them and study their details. "Hello!" exclaimed Mr. Manton, again looking from his window. "There's a chap down there staring his eyes out at our boats. I shouldn't wonder if he were our landlady's son--the one, you know, we were advised to engage as a guide. You wait here while I run down and find out." So Worth waited and watched from the window to note the result of his uncle's negotiations. At a first glance one would have said that Worth Manton was an effeminate boy, with a pale face, blue eyes, and fair hair. If, however, the observer looked long enough to note the square chin, the occasional compression of the thin lips, and flash of the eyes, he might form a different opinion. He was the son of Guy Manton, the great Wall Street operator who had made a fortune out of western railroads, and he had all his life been accustomed to lavish luxury. He was rather delicate, and it was largely on his account that his parents had decided to spend a winter at St. Augustine. The boy had taken but slight interest in the gayeties of the Ponce de Leon, nor had he gained any benefit from the chill rain-storms driven in from the ocean by the east winds of midwinter. The doctor had advised his going farther south; and when his uncle Tracy proposed that they make a canoe trip up the great Florida Reef, which lies off the most southerly coast of the United States, Worth had eagerly seconded the proposition, and had finally won the reluctant consent of his parents. He knew nothing of canoeing, nor did his uncle know much more; but the latter was a good yachtsman, and Worth had had some experience of the same kind, so they felt confident they could manage. They intended to devote some time to studying their craft, and learning their possibilities in the waters about Key West; so two canoes, completely equipped, were ordered from the builder by telegraph. Worth's father promised to charter a yacht, sail down the coast in it, and meet them at Cape Florida about the first of April, and the two would-be canoemen started for Key West full of pleasant anticipations. Sumner Rankin started at being asked if that were his name, for he had not heard Mr. Manton's step on the grass behind him, and answered rather curtly that it was. "Well," said the young man, plunging into business at once, as was his habit, "I have been told that you are a first-class sailor, as well as a good reef pilot. My nephew and I are going to cruise up the reef, and I should like to engage your services as boatman and guide. I am willing to pay--" "It makes no difference what you are willing to pay," interrupted Sumner, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. "My services as boatman are not for hire at any price." With this assertion of his pride, or, as he imagined, of his independence, the boy turned and walked into the house. "Whew!" whistled Mr. Manton, gazing after the retreating form in amazement. "There's a bit of dynamite for you! Pride and poverty mixed in equal parts do make a most powerful explosive. However, I haven't forgotten my own days of poverty, and can fully appreciate the boy's feelings. I'll try him on a different tack as soon as this little squall has blown over. He and his mother must be different from the majority of the people down here, for they are the first we have met who don't seem to want to make money out of us." Mr. Tracy Manton had no idea of giving up his purpose of engaging Sumner to accompany them on their trip, for he was the kind of a man who wins his way by sticking to whatever plan he has decided upon, in which respect his nephew Worth strongly resembled him. So the next time he met the lad, which was in the afternoon of the following day, he held out his hand and said: "I beg your pardon for my unintentional rudeness of yesterday, and my forgetfulness of the fact that a gentleman is such, no matter where he is found. Now, I want you to forgive me, forget my offence, and do me a favor. I can't make head or tail of our sails, and they don't seem to me right somehow. If you will come and look at them I shall be greatly obliged." By this time Sumner was so heartily ashamed of his conduct of the day before that he was only too glad to accept this overture of friendship, and a few minutes later the two were busily discussing the sails of the _Cupid_ and _Psyche_, as the Mantons' canoes were named. The spars were much heavier than they need be, while the sails were of the ill-shaped, unserviceable pattern generally furnished by canoe builders, and these defects were quickly detected by Sumner's experienced eye. When he pointed them out to Mr. Manton, the latter readily comprehended them, but was at a loss how to make the improvements that were evidently demanded. In order to explain more thoroughly the idea that he wished to convey, Sumner dragged out his own canvas canoe, stepped her masts, and hoisted her sails. They were of a most ingenious and effective lateen pattern, such as Mr. Manton had never before seen. "Where did you get hold of that idea?" he asked, after studying them carefully a few moments. "It is a capital one." "I got it partly from an Arab dhow that I once saw off Madagascar, and partly from the feluccas at Civita Vecchia." "Madagascar and the Mediterranean!" repeated Mr. Manton, in astonishment. "If you have visited both of those places you must have travelled extensively." "Yes," answered Sumner, quietly, but with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "The son of a naval officer who attempts to follow his father about the world is apt to see a good bit of it before he gets through." Mr. Manton, who had known nothing of Sumner's history, no longer wondered that he had been offended at being taken for a boatman whose services could be hired. He was, however, too wise to make further mention of the subject, and merely said, "Then you have had a splendid chance to study sails." And again turning to the subject under consideration, he asked, "Would you be willing to help us cut out some for our canoes after your models?" Sumner answered that he would not only be willing but glad to lend every aid in his power towards properly equipping the two canoes for their trip. In the mean time the sun had set, and the sky was black with an approaching squall that caused them to watch with some uneasiness for Worth's return. He had gone out in one of the canoes, an hour before, for a paddle, and had not since been seen. Just as the storm broke he appeared around a point and headed towards the little landing-place near which they were standing. As his course lay directly in the teeth of the wind, his struggle was long and hard. They watched him anxiously, and more than once Sumner offered to go to the boy's assistance; but his uncle said he wished Worth to learn self-reliance more than anything else, and this was too good a lesson to be spoiled. Finally the young paddler conquered, and, reaching the landing-place in safety, sprang ashore. He was either too exhausted or too careless to properly secure his canoe, and as he stepped from it a spiteful gust of wind struck it full on the side. In another moment it was beyond reach and drifting rapidly out to sea. Both the Mantons were confused by the suddenness of the mishap. Before they could form any plan for the recovery of the runaway, Sumner had shoved his own canvas canoe into the water, jumped aboard, and was dashing away in pursuit of the truant. He was almost within reach of his prize, and his tiny sail was almost indistinguishable amid the blackness of the squall, when the watchers on shore were horrified to see another and much larger sail come rushing down, dead before the wind, directly towards it. Then the tiny canoe sail disappeared; and as the larger one seemed to sweep over the spot where it had been, the Mantons gazed at each other with faces that betokened the dread they dared not put into words. CHAPTER III. SUMNER RECEIVES A SECOND OFFER. For a few minutes Sumner Rankin's peril was most imminent. He was almost within reach of the drifting canoe, which he had been watching too closely to take note of any other object, when he became conscious of the clumsy, wood-laden schooner rushing down on him before the squall. She was manned by a crew of two negroes, and by the manner in which she yawed, heading one moment this way and the next another, he saw that they had but little control of her movements. In vain did he shout to them to lookout. His voice was lost in the shriek of the wind, and they did not hear him. He tried to cross their bows, and might have succeeded in so doing, but at that moment their main-sail gybed over with a crash, and the heavy craft, looking as large as a man-of-war in comparison with his cockle-shell, headed directly for him. With the next send of the sea the canvas canoe was crushed beneath the ponderous bows, and blotted from existence as though it had been a drifting leaf. [Illustration: "WITH THE NEXT SEND OF THE SEA THE CANVAS CANOE WAS CRUSHED BENEATH THE PONDEROUS BOWS."] As Sumner saw the black mass towering above him, and before it could descend, he rose to his feet, and taking a straight header, dived deep into the angry waters. When he again came to the surface he was swimming in the foaming wake of the schooner, and drifting down towards him from the windward was the beautiful cedar canoe which was the cause of all the trouble, and which he had passed in his effort to save his own from destruction. A few strokes took him to her, and with a feeling of devout thankfulness he clutched her gunwale. Worth Manton, or any other inexperienced canoeman, would have attempted to climb up over the bow or stern, and, sitting astride the slippery deck, to work his way into the cockpit. Such an attempt would have been almost certain to roll the light craft over and fill her with water, in which case she would become wholly unmanageable. But Sumner knew better than to do such a thing. He had practised capsizing so often in his crank canvas canoe that to get into this comparatively broad-beamed and stable craft was the easiest kind of a performance. Seizing hold of the coaming directly amidship, he placed his left hand on the side of the cockpit nearest him, and reaching far over, grasped the other side with his right. Then kicking in the water behind him until his body lay nearly flat on its surface, and bearing as much weight as possible on his right hand, he drew himself squarely across the cockpit, and in another moment was seated in it, without having shipped a drop of water over the coaming. There was no paddle in the canoe, and though she rode the waves like a cork, she was entirely at the mercy of the wind and tide. Although the squall was passing, the darkness of night was rapidly shutting out all familiar objects, and Sumner was on the point of resigning himself to a night of aimless drifting, with an interesting uncertainty as to when he should be picked up, when a distant shout, that sounded exceedingly like his own name, was borne to his ears. He sent back an answering cry, the shout was repeated, and a few minutes later the shadowy form of the _Psyche_, with Mr. Manton wielding a double-bladed paddle, shot out of the darkness. "I never was so glad to find any one in my life!" exclaimed the new-comer. "We were afraid that clumsy schooner had run you down. I tell you what, boy, the last ten minutes have been the most anxious I ever passed, and I wouldn't go through with them again for all the canoes in the world. But what has become of your own boat?" "She has gone to the bottom, like many a good ship before her," replied Sumner; "and it wasn't the fault of those lubbers on the schooner that I didn't go with her. Have you an extra paddle with you?" "No; I neglected to bring one, and I shall have to take you in tow." They had already drifted down past the fort that commands the harbor from the south-west point of the island, and as they could not hope to make their way back against wind and tide, they were compelled to work in behind it, and make a landing on the south beach a mile or more from where they started. Here Mr. Manton remained in charge of the canoes, while Sumner ran home to announce his own safety, obtain a change of clothing and another paddle. He found his mother and Worth in a terrible state of anxiety concerning him; but he made so light of his recent adventure that it was not until after the canoes were brought safely back, an hour later, that they learned the full extent of his recent peril. This incident seemed to cement a firm friendship between Sumner and the Mantons, and while the former stubbornly refused to accept the recompense for his lost canoe that Mr. Manton tried to force upon him, declaring that it was only his own carelessness in not keeping a sharper lookout, the latter made up his mind that, in spite of his pride, the boy must and should be rewarded in some way for what he had done. The following week was busily and happily spent in making new sails for the two canoes, rerigging them, and in teaching Worth how to manage his. It struck Sumner as a little curious that, even after the new sails were made, Mr. Manton was always too busy to go out on these practice trips with his nephew, and invariably asked him to take the _Psyche_ and act as instructor in his place. Of course he could not refuse to do this, nor did he have the slightest inclination to do so; for what boy who loved boats would not have jumped at the chance of sailing that dainty craft? How Sumner did appreciate her speed and seaworthy qualities! He raced with every sponger and fisherman in the harbor, and caused their eyes to open with amazement at the ease with which he beat them. How fond he became of the canoe that bore him to so many victories! How, with all his heart, he did wish he were going in her on the cruise up the reef, for which such extensive preparations were being made! Much as he wished this, however, he was very careful not to express the wish to any person except his mother, to whom he always confided all his hopes, fears, and plans. After his refusal of Mr. Manton's offer to accompany them as guide, he would not for anything have let that gentleman know how eagerly he longed to have the offer repeated in such form that his pride would allow him to accept it. Still, as he had no canoe now, it would be impossible for him to go, and there was no use in thinking of it. So he tried to make the most of his present opportunities, and gain all the pleasure that they held. Nor did he neglect Worth, but instructed him so thoroughly in the art of canoe-handling, that at the end of a week the boy was as much at home in his canoe as he had ever been on a yacht. One day, as the two beautiful craft, with their perfect setting lateen-sails, were glancing in and out among the anchored sponge fleet on the north side of the island, like white-winged sea-birds, a young sponger, named Rust Norris, called out from one of the boats, "Say, Sumner, come here a minute, will yer?" As the latter sailed alongside and asked what he wanted, the sponger answered: "I want to try that fancy trick of yourn. Let me take her a few minutes, will yer?" "No," replied Sumner; "I can't, because she isn't mine to lend. Besides, as you are not accustomed to this style of craft, you couldn't sail her, anyhow; and you'd upset before you had gone a length." "Oh, I would, would I? Well, I'll bet I can sail anything you can, or any other landlubber that thinks he knows it all because his daddy belonged to the navy." Then, as Sumner, with a flushed face, but disdaining any reply, sheered off and sailed away, he added, "I'd jest naturally hate myself if I was as mean as you be, Sumner Rankin, and I won't forget your disobligingness in a hurry, neither!" In the mean time Mr. Manton had studied Sumner's character carefully, and the more he did so the more he was pleased with the boy. He found him to be proud and high-tempered, but also manly, straightforward, and honest to a fault, as well as prompt to act in emergencies, self-reliant, and a thorough sailor. In the course of several conversations with the boy's mother he learned much of Sumner's past history and of his dreams for the future. To her he finally confided a plan, formed on the day that Sumner saved Worth's canoe at the expense of his own, and after some discussion won her assent to it. It was nothing more nor less than that Sumner should take his place on the proposed cruise up the reef, and act the part of guide, companion, and friend to the younger canoeman. "I shall not for a second time be guilty of the mistake of trying to hire you to take this cruise," said Mr. Manton, smiling, as he unfolded this plan to Sumner; "but I ask you to do it as a favor to both me and Worth. Indeed, it will be a great favor to me," he added, hastily, as he saw an expression of doubt on the lad's face; "for I really ought to be in New York at this very minute, attending to some important business, which I was only willing to neglect in case Worth could not take this trip without me. Now, however, I am confident that he will be safer with you than he would be with me alone, and if you will take my canoe and accompany him to Cape Florida, where I shall try to meet you about the first of April, you will place me under an obligation. Will you do it?" CHAPTER IV. TEACHING A THIEF A LESSON. Was there ever such a chance to do the very thing he most longed to do offered a boy before? Sumner did not believe there ever had been, and with a quick glance at his mother's smiling face, in which he read her assent to the plan, he answered: "I don't know how to thank you, sir, for making me such a splendid offer, and not only will I gladly accept it, but I promise to do everything in my power to make Worth have a good time, and see that no harm befalls him. But I wish you were going too. I hate to think of taking your place and depriving you of all the pleasure of the trip." "My dear boy," replied Mr. Manton, "you must not look at it in that way, for, as I said before, you will be doing me a real favor in taking my place. I am more of a yachtsman than a canoeman anyway, and I look forward with fully as much pleasure to cruising down the Indian River from St. Augustine in the yacht that my brother proposes to charter, and meeting you at Cape Florida, as I should to running up the reef in a canoe. There is one more thing, however. I must insist upon your sailing your own canoe, for I make it a rule never to lend my boats to any one, and you will have enough responsibility in looking after Worth, without having the added one of caring for another person's canoe. So, from this moment, the _Psyche_, and all that she contains, is yours." "Oh, Mr. Manton!" "That will do. Not another word," laughed the young man. "I am as obstinate as a mule when I have once made up my mind to a thing, and so there is nothing for you to do but take the canoe, and make the best use you can of her." Sumner's protests against this generosity were but feeble ones, and were quickly disposed of by Mr. Manton, who simply refused to listen to them. He cut them short by saying, "Now that this matter is settled, and everything is in readiness for a start, I propose that you get off in the morning, for I want to take to-morrow night's steamer for Tampa." That night, after everybody had gone to bed and the house was still, Sumner lay wide awake, thinking over the good-fortune that had befallen him. At length he could not resist the temptation of getting up, partly dressing himself, and slipping out for a look at his canoe, his very own! the most beautiful craft he had ever seen, and such a one as in his wildest dreams he had never hoped to possess. The two canoes had been drawn up on the grass not far from the water's edge, and covered with some bits of old canvas. Although it was a moonlit night, the moon was occasionally obscured by drifting clouds, and when Sumner left the house everything was in shadow from this cause. He moved very quietly, for he did not wish any one to know of the weakness that led him to look at something with which he was already familiar, merely because it had acquired the new interest of possession. To his amazement, when he reached the place where the canoes had been left, he could find but one of them. In vain did he lift the canvas that had covered them both, and look hurriedly about the little yard. One of them was certainly gone, and no trace of it remained. As the boy stood irresolute, wondering what he ought to do, he was startled by a slight splash in the water. At the same moment the cloud passed from the face of the moon, and by the light thus afforded Sumner saw the figure of a man seated in the missing canoe, and cautiously paddling from the shore. Without an instant's hesitation he slid the remaining canoe over the grass and into the water, sprang into it, seized a paddle, and started in pursuit. Of course the paddler in the first canoe might be one of the Mantons, but Sumner did not believe it was either of them. He thought it more than likely that the stranger was some one who only desired to try the canoe, but it might be a thief. At any rate, the boy determined to discover who he was, and what he meant by his stealthy performance before they were many minutes older. The stranger did not realize that he was pursued until Sumner had shoved off from shore, and was urging his own craft forward with vigorous strokes of his double-bladed paddle. When, by a glance over his shoulder, he discovered this, he redoubled his efforts to escape, and by his clumsy splashings proved himself a novice in the art of paddling. Still he made fair headway, and it was not until they were several hundred yards from shore that Sumner overtook him. Here was anchored an immense mooring-buoy, with a round, slightly conical top, having in its centre a great iron ring. It did not rise more than a foot from the surface of the water, and in trying to watch Sumner, the occupant of the leading canoe did not notice it until his light craft struck it a glancing blow, and very nearly upset. The next instant an effort to recover his equilibrium had precipitated the fellow into the water, and as Sumner shot past him he was wildly clutching at the buoy, with desperate efforts to gain its upper surface. Satisfied that he could not drown so long as he clung to the buoy, Sumner first picked up the drifting canoe. With it in tow he returned to the buoy on which the recent fugitive was now sitting, clinging tightly to the iron ring, and presenting a comical picture of misery. "Don't leave me here, Sumner!" he cried, in an imploring tone, in which the boy at once recognized the voice of Rust Morris. "I didn't mean no harm. I only just wanted to try the trick, and I meant to put her back again where I found her. Honest I did!" [Illustration: "HE RETURNED TO THE BUOY, ON WHICH THE RECENT FUGITIVE WAS NOW SITTING."] "Well, I don't know," replied Sumner, who could not help laughing at the other's plight, in spite of his anger at him for taking the canoe without leave, and his suspicion that it would not have been returned so promptly as Rust claimed it would. "You look quite as comfortable as you deserve to be; besides, you will have a nice quiet chance out here to learn the lesson that it is better to leave other people's property alone than to take it without permission. So, on the whole, I think I will leave you where you are for a while. I did think of having you arrested for stealing, but I guess this will do just as well." Thus saying, the boy began to paddle towards shore, and at the same time Rust changed his pleading tone to one of bitter invective, uttering loud threats of what he would make Sumner suffer in the future. Without paying any attention to these, the young canoeman continued on his way to the shore. From there he watched until he saw the dim form of a fishing-boat come silently drifting down the harbor with the tide. As she neared the spot where he knew the buoy with its unwilling occupant to be, he heard shouts, saw the boat alter her course, and stop for a minute. As she again proceeded, and he was satisfied that his prisoner had been rescued, Sumner again went to bed, this time to sleep soundly until morning. When he related this adventure at breakfast-time, Mr. Manton said he had served the rascal right; but Mrs. Rankin was fearful lest some future mischief should come of it. At this Sumner laughed, and said he thought the lesson would teach Rust Norris to let his things alone in the future, also that he was not afraid of anything the young sponger could do anyhow. The morning was spent in loading the canoes and in making final preparations for the start. By noon all was in readiness, and after a hasty lunch the two young canoemates stepped aboard their dainty craft. Then, amid a waving of handkerchiefs and a chorus of hearty good-byes from the group of spectators assembled to see them off, they hoisted sail, and bore away on the first reach of what was to prove one of the most eventful and exciting cruises ever undertaken up the Florida Reef. [Illustration: THE "CUPID" AND "PSYCHE" START ON THEIR CRUISE.] CHAPTER V. THE GREAT FLORIDA REEF. The great Florida Reef, up which our young canoemates had just started on their adventurous cruise, is about 230 miles long. It extends from Cape Florida, on the Atlantic coast, completely around the southern end of the peninsula, and far out into the Gulf of Mexico on the west. The island of Key West lies some 70 miles off the main-land, and about the same distance from the Dry Tortugas, which group of little coral islets forms the western extremity of the reef. Between Key West, on which is a city of the same name containing nearly 20,000 inhabitants, who live farther south than any one else in the United States, and Cape Florida, 150 miles east and north, a multitude of little keys or islands, covered to the water's edge with a dense growth of mangroves and other tropical trees and shrubs, stretch in a continuous line. Between these keys[A] and the main-land lies a vast shallow expanse of water known as the Bay of Florida. Outside of them is the narrow and navigable Hawk Channel, running along their entire length, and bounded on its seaward side by the almost unbroken wall of the outer reef. This rarely rises above the surface, and on it the busy coral insects pursue their ceaseless toil of rock-building. Beyond the reef, between it and the island of Cuba, eighty miles away, pours the mighty flood of the Gulf Stream. [A] The word "key" is a corruption of the Spanish _Cayo_ or island. Thus Key West was originally "Cayo Hueso," or Bone Island, so called from the quantity of human bones found on it by the first white settlers. For nearly 300 years these peaceful looking keys, with their bewildering net-work of channels, kept open by the rushing tide-currents, and coral reefs were the chosen resorts of pirates and wreckers, both of whom reaped rich rewards from the unfortunate vessels that fell into their hands. Now the pirates have disappeared, and the business of the wreckers has been largely taken from them by the establishment of a range of light-houses along the outer reef, at intervals of twenty to thirty miles. The first of these is on Loggerhead Key, the outermost of the Tortugas. Then comes Rebecca Shoal, half-way between Loggerhead and Sand Key Light, which is just off Key West. From here the lights in order up the reef are American Shoal, Sombrero, Alligator, Carysfort, and Fowey Rocks, off Cape Florida. With this chain of flashing beacons to warn mariners of the presence of the dreaded reef, the palmy days of wreckers and beach-combers have passed away, and they must content themselves with what they can make out of the occasional vessels that are still drawn in to the reef by the powerful currents ever setting towards it. Consequently most of those who would otherwise be wreckers have turned their attention to sponging in the waters behind the keys, which form one of the great sponge-fields of the world, or to the raising of pineapples and cocoanuts on such of the islands as afford sufficient soil for this purpose. There are four ways by which one may sail up the reef. The first is outside in the Gulf Stream, or by "way of the Gulf;" the second is between the reef and the keys, through the Hawk Channel; the third is through the narrow and intricate channels among the keys, or "inside," as the spongers say; and the fourth is the "bay way," or through the shoal waters behind the keys. Of all these, the third, or inside way, was the one chosen by Sumner as being the most protected from wind and seas, the most picturesque, the one affording the most frequent opportunities for landing, the most interesting, and in every way best adapted to canoes drawing but a few inches of water. As the _Psyche_ and _Cupid_ are running easily along the north shore of the key before a light southerly breeze, there is time to take a look at the "duffle" with which they are laden. In the first place, each has two lateen-sails, the long yards of which are hoisted on short masts rising but a few feet from the deck. These sails can be hoisted, lowered, or quickly reefed by the canoeman from where he sits. The two halves of the double-bladed paddles are held in metal clips on deck, on either side of the cockpit. Also on deck, securely fastened, is a small folding anchor, the light but strong five-fathom cable of which runs through a ring at the bow, and back to a cleat just inside the forward end of the coaming. On the floor of each canoe is folded a small tent made of gay-striped awning-cloth, and provided with mosquito-nettings at the openings. Above these are laid the pair of heavy Mackinaw blankets and the rubber poncho that each carries. These, which will be shelter and bedding at night, answer for seats while sailing. Under the deck, at one side of each cockpit, hangs a double-barrelled shot-gun; and on the other side are half a dozen tiny lockers, in which are stowed a few simple medicines, fishing tackle, matches, an alcohol lamp (Flamme forcé), loaded shells for the guns, etc. In the after-stowage lockers are extra clothing and toilet articles. The _Psyche_ carries the mess-chest, containing a limited supply of table-ware, sugar, coffee, tea, baking-powder, salt, pepper, etc., and a light axe, both of which are stowed at the forward end of the cockpit. The _Cupid_ carries in the same place a two-gallon water-keg and a small, but well-furnished tool chest. The provisions, of which bacon, flour, oatmeal, sea-biscuit, a few cans of baked beans and brown bread, dried apples, syrup, cocoa, condensed milk, corn-meal, rice, and hominy form the staples, and the few necessary cooking utensils, which are made to fit within one another, are evenly divided between the two canoes and stowed under the forward hatches. By Sumner's advice, many things that the Mantons brought with them have been left behind, and everything taken along has been reduced to its smallest possible compass. Besides the shot-gun that Mr. Manton had given him as part of the _Psyche's_ outfit, Sumner was armed with a revolver that had been his father's. Late in the afternoon they passed the eastern point of the island of Key West, and crossing a broad open space, in the shoal waters of which, but for Sumner's intimate knowledge of the place, even their light canoes would have run aground a dozen times, they approached the cocoanut groves of Boca Chica, a large key on which they proposed to make their first camp. The western sky was in a glory of flame as they hauled their craft ashore, and from the tinted waters myriads of fish were leaping in all directions, as though intoxicated by the splendor of the scene. "We will catch some of those fine fellows a little later," said Sumner, as they began to unload their canoes and carry the things to the spot they had already chosen for a camp. "But it will be dark," protested Worth. "So much the better. It's ever so much easier to catch fish in the dark than by daylight." There was plenty of drift-wood on the beach, and in a few minutes the merry blaze of their camp-fire was leaping from a pile of it. While waiting for it to burn down to a bed of coals, each of them drove a couple of stout stakes, and pitched their canoe tents near a clump of tall palms, just back of the fire, looped up the side openings, and spread their blankets beneath them. "Now let's fly round and get supper," cried Sumner, "for I am as hungry as a kingfish. You put the coffee water on to boil, while I cut some slices of bacon, Worth, and then I'll scramble some eggs, too, for we might as well eat them while they are fresh." With his back turned to the fire, the former did not notice what Worth was doing, until a hissing sound, accompanied by a cry of dismay, caused him to look round. "I never saw such a miserable kettle as that!" exclaimed Worth. "Just look; it has fallen all to pieces." For a moment Sumner could not imagine what had caused such a catastrophe. Then he exclaimed: "I do believe you must have set the kettle on the coals before you put the water into it." "Of course I did," answered Worth, "so as to let it get hot. And the minute I began to pour water into it, it went all to pieces." "Experience comes high," said Sumner, "especially when it costs us the loss of our best kettle; but we've got to have it at any price, and I don't believe you'll ever set a kettle on the fire again without first putting water or some other liquid inside of it." "No, I don't believe I will," answered Worth, ruefully, "if that is what happens." In spite of this mishap, the supper was successfully cooked, thanks to Sumner's culinary knowledge, and by the time it was over and the dishes had been washed, he pronounced it dark enough to go fishing. First he cut a quantity of slivers from a piece of pitch-pine drift-wood, then, having emptied one of the canoes of its contents, he invited Worth to enter it with him. "But we haven't a single fish-line ready," protested Worth. "Oh yes, we have," laughed Sumner, lighting one end of the bundle of pine slivers, and giving it to Worth to hold. "You just sit still and hold that. You'll find out what sort of a fish-line it is in a minute." Then he paddled the canoe very gently a few rods off shore, at the same time bearing down on one gunwale until it was even with the surface of the water. "Look out, here they come!" he shouted. [Illustration: TORCH-FISHING FOR MULLET.] CHAPTER VI. PINEAPPLES AND SPONGES. The next instant Worth uttered a startled cry and very nearly dropped his torch, as a mullet, leaping from the water, struck him on the side of the head, and fell flapping into the canoe. "Never mind a little thing like that," cried Sumner. "Hold your torch a trifle lower. That's the kind!" Now the mullet came thick and fast, attracted to the bright light like moths to a candle-flame. They leaped into the canoe and over it, they fell on its decks and flopped off into the water, they struck the two boys until they felt as though they were being pelted with wet snowballs; and at length one of them, hitting the torch, knocked it from Worth's hand, so that it fell hissing into the water. The effect of this sudden extinguishing of the light was startling. In an instant the fish ceased to jump, and disappeared, while the recent noisy confusion was succeeded by an intense stillness, only broken by an occasional flap from one of the victims to curiosity that had fallen into the canoe. "Well, that is the easiest way of fishing I ever heard of," remarked Worth, as they stepped ashore, and turning the canoe over, spilled out fifty or more fine mullet. A dozen of them were cleaned, rubbed with salt, and put away for breakfast. Then the tired canoemates turned in for their first night's sleep in camp. Sumner's eyes were quickly closed, but Worth found his surroundings so novel that for a long time he lay dreamily awake watching the play of moonlight on the rippling water, listening to the splash of jumping fish, the music of little waves on the shell-strewn beach, and the ceaseless rustle of the great palm leaves above him. At length his wakefulness merged into dreams, and when he next opened his eyes it was broad daylight, the sun had just risen, and Sumner was building a fire. "Hurrah, Worth! Tumble out of bed and tumble into the water," he called at that moment. "There's just time for a dip in the briny before this fire'll be ready for those fish." Suiting his actions to his words, he began pulling off his clothes, and a minute later the two boys were diving into the cool water like a couple of frisky young porpoises. Oatmeal and syrup, fresh mullet, bread-and-butter (which they had brought from home), and coffee, formed a breakfast that Sumner declared fit for a railroad king. The sun was not more than an hour high before they were again under way, this time working hard at their paddles, as the breeze had not yet sprung up. Having left their first camp behind them, they felt that their long cruise had indeed begun in earnest. For the next three days they threaded their way, under sail or paddle, among such numberless keys and through such a maze of narrow channels, that it seemed to Worth as though they were entangled in a labyrinth from which they would never be able to extricate themselves. Whenever a long sand-spit or reef shot out from the north side of one key, a similar obstruction was certain to be found on the south end of the next one. Thus their course was a perpetual zigzag, and a fair wind on one stretch would be dead ahead on the next. Now they slid through channels so narrow that the dense mangroves on either side brushed their decks, and then they would be confronted by a coral reef that seemed to extend unbrokenly in both directions as far as the eye could reach. Worth would make up his mind that there was nothing to do but get out and drag the canoes over it, when suddenly the _Psyche_, which was always in the lead, would dash directly at the obstacle, and skim through one of the narrow cuts with which all these reefs abound. For a long time it was a mystery to Worth how Sumner always kept in the channel without hesitating or stopping to take soundings. Finally he discovered that it was by carefully noting the color of the water. He learned that white water meant shoals, that of a reddish tinge indicated sand-bars or reefs, black water showed rocks or grassy patches, and that the channels assumed varying shades of green, according to their depth. They camped with negro charcoal-burners on one key, and visited an extensive pineapple patch on another. Having heard this fruit spoken of as growing on trees, Worth was amazed to find it borne on plants with long prickly leaves that reached but little above his knees. The plants stood so close together, and their leaves were so interlaced, that he did not see how any one ever walked among them to cut the single fruit borne at the head of each one; and when he tried it, stepping high to avoid the bayonet-like leaves, his wonder that any human being could traverse the patch was redoubled. "I would just as soon try to walk through a field covered with cactus plants," he said. "So would I," laughed Sumner, "if I had to walk as you do. In a pineapple patch you must never lift your feet, but always shuffle along. In that way you force the prickly leaves before you, and move with their grain instead of against it." Although the crop would not be ready for cutting much before May, they found here and there a lusciously ripe yellow "pine," and after eating one of these, Worth declared that he had never before known what a pineapple was. He did not wonder that they tasted so different here and in New York, when he learned that for shipment north they must be cut at least two weeks before they are ripe, while they are hard and comparatively juiceless. At the end of three days an outgoing tide, rushing like a mill-race, swept the canoes through the green expanse of "The Grasses," that looked like a vast submerged meadow, and into the open waters of the Bahia Honda, or, as the reef-men say, the "Bay o' Hundy." Here they first saw spongers at work, and devoted an entire day to studying their operations. Worth had always supposed that sponges were dived for, but now he learned his mistake. He found that in those waters they are torn from the bottom and drawn to the surface by iron rakes with long curved teeth attached to slender handles from twenty to thirty feet in length. The sponging craft are small sloops or schooners, each of which tows from two to six boats behind it. When a sponge bed is discovered, two men go out in each of these boats. One of them sculls it gently along, while the other leans over the gunwale with a water-glass in his hands, and carefully examines the bottom as he is moved slowly over it. The water-glass is a common wooden bucket having a glass bottom. This is held over the side of the boat so that its bottom is a few inches below the surface of the water, or beyond the disturbing influence of ripples. With his head in this bucket, the sponger gazes intently down until he sees the round black object that he wants. Then he calls out to the sculler to stop the boat, and with the long-handled rake that lies by his side secures the prize. It is black and slimy, and full of animal matter that quickly dies, and decomposes with a most disgusting odor. To this the spongers become so accustomed that they do not mind it in the least, and fail to understand why all strangers take such pains to sail to windward of their boats. When the deck of a sponge boat is piled high with this unsavory spoil of the sea, she is headed towards the nearest key on which her crew have established a crawl, [B] and her cargo is tossed into it. The crawl is a square pen of stakes built in the shallow water of some sheltered bay, and in it the sponges lie until their animal matter is so decomposed that it will readily separate from them. Then they are stirred with poles or trodden by the feet of the spongers until they are free from it, when they are taken from the crawl, and spread on a beach to dry and whiten in the sun. When a full cargo has been obtained, they are strung in bunches, and taken to Key West to be sold by the pound at auction. There they are trimmed, bleached again, pressed into bales, and finally shipped to New York. [B] Crawl is a corruption of corral, meaning a yard or pen. Sponges are of many grades, of which the sheep's wool is the finest, and the great loggerheads the most worthless. As spongers can only work in water that is smooth, or nearly so, half their time is spent in idleness; and though they receive large prices for what they catch, the average of their wages is low. One hot afternoon at the end of a week found our canoemates half-way up the reef, and approaching a key called Lignum Vitæ, which is for several reasons one of the most remarkable of all the keys. It is a large island lifted higher above the surface of the water than any of the other keys, and it contains in its centre a small fresh-water lake. It is covered with an almost impenetrable forest growth, and concealed by this are ancient stone walls, of which no one knows the origin or date. Sumner had told Worth so much concerning this key as to arouse his curiosity, and they both looked forward with interest to reaching it. All day they had seen it looming before them, and when they finally dropped sail close beside it, Worth proposed that they take advantage of the remaining daylight to make a short exploration before unloading their canoes and pitching camp. To this Sumner agreed, and as they could not drag the laden boats up over the rocky beach, they decided to anchor them out and wade ashore. So the _Psyche's_ anchor was flung out into the channel, the _Cupid_ was made fast to her, and a light line from its stern was carried ashore and tied to a tree. Then, taking their guns with them, the boys plunged into the forest. When, an hour later, they returned from their exploration, bringing with them a brace of ducks and half a dozen doves that they had shot, they gazed about them in bewildered dismay. The canoes were not where they had left them, nor could any trace of them be discovered. [Illustration: "THE CANOES ARE GONE!"] CHAPTER VII. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF THE CANOES. "The canoes are gone!" cried Worth. "It looks like it," replied Sumner, in an equally dismayed tone. "Are you sure this is where we left them?" "Yes; sure. There is the stern line that we made fast to the _Cupid_, or what is left of it." Sure enough, there was a portion of the light line still fast to the tree, and as Sumner pulled it in, both boys bent over to examine it. It had been broken, and not cut. From its length it must also have been broken close to the canoe. "Oh, Sumner, what shall we do?" asked Worth, in a tone of such despair that the former at once realized the necessity of some immediate action to divert his comrade's thoughts. "Do?" he cried. "There's plenty to do. First, we'll go down to that point and take a look to seaward; for, as the tide is running out, they are more likely to have gone in that direction than any other. It would be a comfort even to catch a glimpse of them. Then, perhaps, they have only drifted away, and are stranded on some bar near by. Besides looking for the canoes, we must build some kind of a shelter for the night, cook supper, and discuss our plans for the future. Oh yes, we've plenty to do!" While he spoke, the boys were making their way to the point in question, and when they reached it, they eagerly scanned every foot of water in sight. Diagonally to the right from where they stood stretched the long reach of Lower Metacumba, desolate and uninhabited as they knew. Almost directly in front, but several miles away, rose the palm-crowned rocks of Indian Key, with its two or three old shed-like buildings in plain view. These had been used and abandoned years before by the builders of Alligator Light, the slender tower of which they could see rising from the distant waters above the outer reef. Diagonally on the left was the tiny green form of Tea Table Key, and dimly beyond it they could make out the coast of Upper Metacumba, which Sumner said was inhabited. In all this far-reaching view, however, there were no signs of the missing canoes. "I'm glad of it!" said Sumner, after his long searching gaze had failed to reveal them. "It would be rough to have them in sight but out of reach." Already the sun was sinking behind the tree-tops of Lower Metacumba, fish were leaping in the placid waters, and a few pelican were soaring with steady poise above them. Every now and then these would swoop swiftly down, with a heavy splash that generally sealed the fate of one or more mullet off which the great birds were making their evening meal. A flock of black cormorants, uttering harsh cries, flew overhead with a rushing sound, returning from a day's fishing to their roosts in the distant Everglades. With these exceptions, and the faint boom of the surf on the outer reef, all was silence and desertion. Besides the light-house tower there was no sign of human life, not even the distant glimmer of a sail. While the boys still looked longingly for some trace of their canoes, the sunset, and a red flash, followed at short intervals by two white ones, shot out from the vanishing form of Alligator Light. "Come!" cried Sumner, heedful of this warning. "Night is almost here, and we have too much to do in every precious minute of twilight to be standing idle. I'll take the bucket and run to the pond for water, while you cut all the palmetto leaves you possibly can, and carry them to the place where we landed." "The bucket?" repeated Worth, looking about him inquiringly. "Where are you going to find it?" Without answering, Sumner sprang down the rocks to the water's edge, where he had noticed a stranded bamboo, and quickly cut out a short section of it with the hatchet that he had thrust into his belt before leaving the canoes. As he made the cuts just below two of the joints, his section was a hollow cylinder, open at one end, but having a tight bottom and capable of holding several quarts of water. With this he plunged into the forest in the direction of the pond, handing Worth the hatchet as he passed, and bidding him be spry with his palmetto leaves. A few minutes later, as Sumner emerged from the trees, carrying his full water-bucket, and breathless with his haste, he indistinctly saw the form of some animal at the very place where they had left their guns and birds. As the boy dashed forward, uttering a loud cry, the alarmed animal scuttled off into the bushes. "Oh, you vil-li-an!" gasped Sumner as he reached the place, "I'll settle with you to-morrow, see if I don't." Four of the doves had disappeared, and the head was torn from one of the ducks. "What is it?" cried Worth, in alarm, as he entered the clearing from the opposite side, staggering beneath an immense load of cabbage-palm leaves. "A rascally thieving 'coon," answered Sumner, "and he has got away with the best part of our provisions, too; but I'll get even with him yet. Now give me the hatchet, and then pick up all the drift-wood you can find, while I build a house." Worth would gladly have helped erect the house, as Sumner called it, for he was very curious as to what sort of a structure could be built of leaves, but he realized the necessity of doing as he was bidden, and at once set to work gathering wood. Sumner, after carefully propping his water-bucket between two rocks, so as to insure the safety of its contents, began cutting a number of slender saplings, and turning them into poles. The stoutest of these he bound with withes to two trees that stood about six feet apart. He fastened it to their trunks as high as he could reach. Then he bound one end of the longer poles to it, allowing them to slant to the ground behind. Crosswise of these, and about a foot apart, he tied a number of still more slender poles, and over these laid the broad leaves. He would have tied these securely in place if he had had time. As he had not, for it was quite dark before he finished even this rude shelter, he was forced to leave them so, and hope that a wind would not arise during the night. For himself alone he would not have built any shelter, but would have found a comfortable resting-place under a tree. Knowing, however, that Worth had never in his life slept without a roof of some kind above him, he thought it best to provide one, and thereby relieve their situation of a portion of the terror with which the city-bred boy was inclined to regard it. It was curious and interesting to note how a sense of responsibility, and the care of one younger and much more helpless than himself, was developing Sumner's character. Already the selfishness to which he was inclined had very nearly disappeared, while almost every thought was for the comfort and happiness of his companion. Worth, accustomed to being cared for and having every wish gratified, hardly appreciated this as yet; but the emergencies of their situation were teaching him valuable lessons of prompt obedience and self-reliance that he could have gained in no other way. As Sumner finished his rude lean-to, and placed the guns within its shelter for protection from the heavy night dews, Worth came up from the beach with his last load of drift-wood. It was now completely dark, and the notes of chuck-wills-widows were mingling with the "whoo, whoo, whoo ah-h!" of a great hoot owl in the forest behind them. "Now for a fire and some supper," cried Sumner, cheerily. "You've got some matches, haven't you?" "I don't believe I have," replied Worth, anxiously feeling in his pockets. "I thought you must have some." "No, I haven't a sign of one!" exclaimed Sumner, and an accent of hopelessness was for the first time allowed to enter his voice. "They are all aboard the canoes, and without a fire we are in a pretty pickle sure enough. I wonder how hungry we'll get before we make up our minds to eat raw duck? This is worse than losing the canoes. I declare I don't know what to do." "Couldn't we somehow make a fire with a gun? Seems to me I have read of something of that kind," suggested Worth. "Of course we can!" shouted Sumner, springing to his feet. "What a gump I was not to think of it! If we collect a lot of dry stuff and shoot into it, there is bound to be a spark or two that we can capture and coax into a flame." So, with infinite pains, they felt around in the dark until they had collected a considerable pile of dry leaves, sticks, and other rubbish that they imagined would easily take fire. Then, throwing a loaded shell into a barrel of his gun, and placing the muzzle close to the collected kindlings, Sumner pulled the trigger. There was a blinding flash, a loud report that rolled far and wide through the heavy night air, and the heap of rubbish was blown into space. Not a leaf remained to show where it had been, and not the faintest spark relieved the darkness that instantly shut in more dense than ever. "One cartridge spent in buying experience," remarked Sumner, as soon as he discovered the attempt to be a failure. "Now we'll try another. If you will kindly collect another pile of kindling, I'll prepare some fireworks on a different plan." Thus saying, he spread his handkerchief on the ground, cut off the crimping of another shell with his pocket-knife, carefully extracted the shot and half the powder, and confined the remainder in the bottom of the shell with one of the wads. Then he moistened the powder that he had taken out, and rubbed it thoroughly into the handkerchief, which he placed in the second pile of sticks and leaves that Worth had by this time gathered. A shot taken at this with the lightly charged blank cartridge produced the desired effect. Five minutes later the cheerful blaze of a crackling fire illumined the scene, and banished a cloud of anxiety from the minds of the young castaways. CHAPTER VIII. LIFE ON THE LONELY ISLAND. The influence of a brisk wood-fire on a dark night is remarkable. Not only does it give freely of its heat and light, but gloom and despair are banished by its ruddy glow, while cheerfulness and hope spring forward as if by magic to occupy their vacant places. At least, this was the effect of the cheery blaze our canoemates had at length succeeded in coaxing into life, and though it had cost them two of their half-dozen cartridges, they felt that these had been well expended. Their prospects had looked dismal enough when they had been compelled to contemplate an existence without a fire; but with it to aid them, they felt equal to almost any emergency, and they turned to the preparing of their ducks for supper with renewed energy. Surely fire is well worthy of being classed with air and water as one of the things most necessary to human life and happiness. Now that they had time to think of it, the boys were very hungry, for since an early breakfast they had eaten but a light lunch of crackers and jam. So they barely waited to assure themselves that their fire was going to burn, before the feathers from their ducks were flying in all directions. When the birds were plucked and cleaned, two sharpened sticks were thrust through their bodies. These were rested on one rock, with another above them to hold them in place, so that the ducks were lifted but a few inches above a great bed of glowing coals. Then the hungry lads sat down to watch them, and never, to their impatient belief, had two fowls taken so long to roast before. They began testing their condition by sticking the points of their knives into them long before there was a chance of their being done. At length Sumner declared that he was going to eat his even if it were still raw, and the half-cooked ducks were placed on two broad palm leaves that served at once as tables and plates. "My! but isn't this fowl tough!" exclaimed Worth, as he struggled with his share of the feast. "Sole-leather and rubber are nothing to it." "Yes," replied Sumner; "ten-ounce army duck would be easier eating than this fellow. I wish we could have stewed them with rice, a few bits of pork, a slice or two of onion, and a seasoning of pepper and salt. How do you think that would go?" "Please don't mention such things," said Worth, working at a drumstick with teeth and both hands. "Ducks ought always to be parboiled before roasting," remarked Sumner, wisely. "I believe this fellow would be like eggs," replied Worth; "the more you boiled him the harder he would get." However, hunger and young teeth can accomplish wonders, so it was not very long before two little heaps of cleanly-picked bones marked all that was left of the ducks, and though they could easily have eaten more, the boys wisely decided to reserve the doves for breakfast. Although the darkness rendered it a difficult task, Sumner managed to cut a few armfuls more of palmetto leaves. These, shredded from their heavy stalks and spread thickly over the floor of the lean-to, made a couch decidedly more comfortable than a bed on the bare ground would have been. They could do nothing more that night, and lying there in the firelight they had the first opportunity since discovering the loss of their canoes to thoroughly discuss the situation. "What would our mothers say if they could see us now, and know the fix we are in?" queried Worth, after a meditative silence. "I'm awfully glad they can't know anything about it," replied Sumner. "But I wish some one could know, so that they could send a boat for us. I am sure that we don't want to stay on this island for the rest of our lives." "Of course not, and I don't propose to, even if no boat comes here." "What do you propose to do?" inquired Worth, leaning on his elbow, and gazing at his companion with eager interest. "Well, in the first place, I propose to explore this key thoroughly to-morrow, and see if any traces of the canoes are to be found, as well as what it will afford in the way of food and lumber. Then, if we don't find the canoes, and no boat comes along, I propose to build some kind of a raft, on which we can float over to Indian Key. While boats rarely pass this way, some are certain to pass within a short distance of it almost every day. So from there we would have little difficulty in getting taken off." "Well," said Worth, regarding his companion admiringly, "I'm sure I couldn't build a raft with only a hatchet, and I'm awfully glad that I'm not here all alone. What can possibly have become of our canoes, anyway?" "I'm sure I can't imagine," replied Sumner, "unless some one stole them, and I don't know of any one on the reef mean enough to do that. Besides, we haven't seen a sail all day, nor a sign of a human being. They couldn't have gone adrift, either--at least, I don't see how they could. So, on the whole, it's a conundrum that I give up. You'd better believe that I feel badly enough, though, over losing _Psyche_. That worries me a great deal more than how we are going to get away from here, for I never expect to own another such beauty as she is. But there's no use crying over what can't be helped, so let's go to sleep, and prepare for a fresh start to-morrow. Whenever you wake during the night you want to get up and throw a fresh stick on the fire, and I will do the same, for we can't afford to let it go out." "All right," said Worth. "But, Sumner, there aren't any wild beasts or snakes on this key, are there?" "I don't believe there are any snakes," was the reply, "while there certainly aren't any animals larger than 'coons, and they won't hurt any one. No, indeed, there is nothing to be afraid of here, and you may be as free from anxiety on that score as though you were in your own room in New York City. More so," he added, with a laugh; "for there you might have burglars, while here there is no chance of them. I only wish there was; for burglars in this part of the country would have to come in boats, and we might persuade them to take us off the key. Now go to sleep, old man, and pleasant dreams to you." "Good-night," answered Worth, and closing his eyes, the boy made a resolute effort to sleep. Somehow he found it harder to do so now than it had been on his first night of camping out. The loss of the canoes seemed to have removed an element of safety on which he had depended, and to have suddenly placed him at an infinite distance beyond civilization, with all its protections. It was so awful to be imprisoned on this lonely isle, in those far-away southern seas. He wondered what his father and mother and Uncle Tracy were doing, and if there was a dance at the Ponce de Leon that night, and what his school-fellows in New York would say if they knew of his situation. He wondered and thought of these and a thousand other things, until finally he, too, fell asleep, and the silence of the lonely little camp was unbroken save by the voice of the great hoot owl, who called at regular intervals, "Whoo, whoo, whoo-ah!" It still wanted an hour or so of moonrise, when the waning firelight half disclosed a human figure that emerged from the woods behind the lean-to, and stealthily crouched in the black shadow beside it. For some moments it remained motionless, listening to the regular breathing of the boys. Then it moved noiselessly forward on hands and knees. Suddenly Worth awoke, and sprang into a sitting posture. At the same time he uttered a startled cry, at the sound of which the creeping figure drew quickly back, and disappeared behind the trunk of a tree. "What is it?" asked Sumner, who, awakened by Worth's cry, was also sitting up. "I don't know," answered the boy, "but I am almost certain that some one was trying to pull my gun away." CHAPTER IX. THE NOCTURNAL VISITOR. For a full minute the boys sat motionless, listening intently for any sound that should betray the presence of the intruder who, Worth was positive, had visited their camp. Once they both heard a slight rustling in the bushes behind them, and Worth, putting his hand on Sumner's arm, whispered, breathlessly, "There!--hear that?" "That's nothing," answered Sumner. "Probably that 'coon has come back to look for the rest of his supper." "But a 'coon wouldn't pull at a gun," insisted Worth. "Oh, you must have been dreaming," returned Sumner. "Your gun hasn't disappeared, has it?" [Illustration: "SOME ONE WAS TRYING TO PULL MY GUN AWAY."] "No, but I am sure I felt it move. I threw my arm across it before I went to sleep, and its moving woke me. I felt it move once after I was awake, as though some one were trying to pull it away very gently. Then I sat up and called out, 'Who's there?' but there wasn't any answer, and I didn't hear a sound. But, Sumner, there's some one on this island besides ourselves, I know there is, and he'll kill us if he gets the chance. Can't we get away somehow--can't we? I shall die of fright if we have to stay here any longer!" "Yes, of course we can," answered Sumner, soothingly, "and we'll set about it as soon as daylight comes. Until then we'll keep a sharp lookout, though I can't believe there is a human being on the key besides ourselves. We surely would have seen some traces of him." As the boy finished speaking he went outside and threw some more wood on the fire. In another minute a bright blaze had driven back the shadows from a wide circle about the little hut, and rendered it impossible for any one to approach without discovery. Then the canoemates sat with their precious guns in their hands, and talked in low tones until the moon rose above the trees behind them, flooding the whole scene with a light almost as bright as that of day. By this time Worth's conversation began to grow unintelligible; his head sank lower and lower, until at length he slipped down from his sitting position fast asleep. Then Sumner thought he might as well lie down, and in another minute he, too, was in the land of dreams. Worth was very restless, and occasionally talked in his sleep, which is probably the reason why the dark form still crouching in the shadows behind the camp did not again venture to approach it. It was broad daylight, and the sun was an hour high, when the boys next awoke, wondering whether their fright of the night before had been a reality or only a dream. Under the fear-dispelling influence of the sunlight even Worth was inclined to think it might have been the latter, while Sumner was sure of it. After replenishing their fire, they went down to the beach in the hope of seeing a sail, and for their morning plunge in the clear water. There was nothing in sight; but while they were bathing, Sumner discovered a fine bunch of oysters. These, roasted in their shells, together with the birds saved from the evening before, made quite a satisfactory breakfast. After eating it, and carefully banking their fire with earth, they set forth to explore the island. As they were most anxious to search for traces of the lost canoes, and had already penetrated the interior as far as the central pond of fresh-water, they decided to follow the coast-line as closely as possible. Accordingly, with their loaded guns over their shoulders, they set out along the water's edge. Their progress was slow, for in many places the mangroves were so thick that they found great difficulty in forcing a way through them. Then, too, they found a quantity of planks, many of which they hauled up, as well as they could, beyond the reach of the tide for future use. While thus engaged, the meridian sun and their appetites indicated the hour of noon before they reached a small grove of cocoanut-trees on the north end of the island, beneath which they decided to rest. Sumner climbed one of the tall, smooth trunks, and cutting off a great bunch of nuts, in all stages of ripeness, let it fall to the ground with a crash. As he was about to descend, his eye was arrested by something that instantly occupied his earnest attention. It was only the stem of another bunch of nuts; but it had been cut, and that so recently that drops of fresh sap were still oozing from it. From his elevated perch he could also see where other bunches had been cut from trees near by, and he slid to the ground in a very reflective frame of mind. He could not bear, however, to arouse Worth's fears by communicating his suspicions until he had reduced them to a certainty. The nuts might have been taken by some passing sponger, though he did not believe they had been. So he said nothing of his discovery while they lunched off of cocoanuts, ripe and partially so, and took refreshing draughts of their milk. He did, however, keep a sharp lookout, and finally spied what resembled a dim trail leading through the bushes behind them towards the interior. Finally, on the pretext that he might get a shot at some doves, and asking Worth to remain where he was for a few minutes, Sumner entered the bushes, determined to discover the mystery, if that trail would lead him to it. He had not gone more than a hundred yards when his foot was caught by a low vine, and he plunged head first into a thick ty-ti bush. He fell with a great crash, and made such a noise in extricating himself from the thorny embrace that he did not hear a quick rush and a rustling of the undergrowth but a short distance from him. What he did hear, though, a minute after he regained his footing, was a startled cry, and the roar of Worth's gun. Then came a succession of yells, mingled with cries of murder, and such shouts for help, coupled with his own name, that for a moment he was paralyzed with bewilderment and a sickening fear. Then he bounded back down the dim trail, just in time to see Worth throw down his gun and rush towards the struggling figure of a negro. The latter was rolling on the ground at the foot of a cocoanut-tree, and uttering the most piercing yells. [Illustration: "THE LATTER WAS ROLLING ON THE GROUND AT THE FOOT OF A COCOANUT-TREE."] As Worth became aware of Sumner's presence, he turned with a white, frightened face, exclaiming: "Oh, Sumner, what shall I do? I've killed him, and he is dying before my very eyes! Of course I didn't mean to, but he came on me so suddenly that I fired before I had time to think. The whole charge must have gone right through his body, judging from the agony he is in. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" "Well, he isn't dead yet, at all events," said Sumner. "Perhaps, if he will keep still for a minute and stop his yelling, we can find out where he is hurt and do something for him." With this he attempted to catch hold of the struggling figure at his feet; but the negro rolled away from him, crying: "Don't tech me, Marse Summer! Don't yo' tech me! I's shot full o' holes, an' I's gwine ter die. Oh Lordy! Oh Lordy! Sich pain as I's a-suff'rin'! An' I didn't kill nobody, nuther. I didn't nebber do no harm. An' now I's full ob holes. Oh Lordy! Oh Lordy!" "Why, it's Quorum!" exclaimed Sumner, mentioning the name of one of the best cooks known to the Key West sponging fleet. Sumner had sailed with him, and knew him well. About a month before, the captain of the schooner on which he was employed had been found dead in his bunk. Quorum was accused of poisoning him for the sake of a sum of money that the captain was known to have had, but which could not now be found. The cook had been arrested, and an attempt was made to lynch him for the alleged crime. He had, however, succeeded in escaping, and had disappeared from the island. That no active search was made for him was because the money was found concealed in the captain's bunk, and it was proved that heart-disease was the cause of his death. At length the negro, exhausted by his struggles, lay still, though groaning so heavily that Worth imagined him to be dying, and Sumner, bending over him, searched for the fatal wound. His face became more and more perplexed as the examination proceeded, until finally, in a vastly relieved tone, he exclaimed: "You good-for-nothing old rascal! What do you mean by frightening us so? There isn't a scratch anywhere about you. Come, get up and explain yourself." "Don't yo' trifle wif a ole man what's dyin', Marse Summer," said Quorum, interrupting his groans and sitting up. "You are no more dying than I am," laughed Sumner, who was only too glad to be able to laugh after his recent anxiety. "I don't know what Worth, here, fired at, or what he hit; but it was certainly not you." "Didn't I, really?" cried Worth. "Oh, I'm so glad! I don't know what possessed me to fire, anyhow; but when he came dashing out of the woods right towards me, my gun seemed to go off of its own accord." "Yo' say I hain't hit nowheres, Marse Summer?" asked the negro, doubtfully; "an' not eben hurted?" "No," laughed Sumner, "not even 'hurted.' You know, Quorum, that I wouldn't hurt you for anything. I like your corn fritters and conch soup too much for that." "Why for yo' a-huntin' de ole man, den?" "Hunting you? We're not hunting you. What put such an idea into your head?" "Kase ebberbody er huntin' him, an' er tryin' ter kill him for de murder what he nebber done." "Of course you didn't do it. Captain Rube died of heart-disease. Everybody knows that now." "What yo' say?" cried the negro, springing to his feet, his face radiant with joy. "He die ob he own sef, an' ebberybody know hit, an' dey hain't er huntin' ole Quor'm any mo'? Glory be to de Lawd! Glory be to de Lawd! an' bress yo' honey face, Marse Summer, for de good news! De pore ole niggah been scare' 'mos' to def ebber sence he skip up de reef in a ole leaky skiff, what done got wrack on dis yer key. Now he free man, he hole he head up an' go cookin' agin. Bress de Lawd! Bress de Lawd!" CHAPTER X. WHOSE ARE THEY? AND WHERE DID THEY COME FROM? "Look here," said Sumner, sternly, to the negro, after his excitement had somewhat subsided, "didn't you try to steal one of our guns last night?" "Yes, honey, I's afeared I did," confessed the black man, humbly. "But I didn't know hit war you, Marse Summer, an' I did want er gun so powerful bad." "I'm glad that mystery is cleared up, at any rate," said Worth, with a relieved air. "And I'm glad to find out that I was right about some one being in the camp, too. Now I wonder if he doesn't know something about our canoes?" "Do you, Quorum, know anything about the canoes that we came here in?" asked Sumner. "No, I don't know nuffin' 'bout no cooner. I's bin wonderin' what sort of er boat you'll come in, an' er lookin' fer him, but I don't see him nowhere." "I suppose you would have stolen it if you had found it?" "Maybe so, maybe so. Ole Quor'm not 'sponsible fer what him do when he bein' hunted like er 'possum or er 'coon. Yo' like 'possum when he roasted, Marse Summer?" "Indeed I do when you roast him, Quorum. Why? Have you got one?" "Yes sah, cotch him in er trap dis berry mawnin'. I jist settin' hit agin when yo' come er trompin' troo de trees an' scare de pore ole niggah 'mos' to def. Now, if yo' say so, we go roas' him, and hab berry fine suppah." "Certainly I say so. You lead the way, and we'll follow you. I tell you what, Worth, we've struck it rich in falling in with one of the best cooks on the reef." "I don't know how I shall like 'possum," replied Worth, "for I have never eaten any; but I am sure it will make fully as good a meal as raw cocoanut. I do wish, though, that we had some bread, or at least some crackers, and a little butter." "And sugar and coffee and bacon, and a cooking outfit," laughed Sumner. "I wouldn't mind spending a few days here if we had all those things." "Wouldn't it be fine?" replied the boy, who had all his life revelled in luxuries that he hardly cared for, but would now have appreciated so highly the commonest of what are generally regarded as necessities. As they talked in this strain, they followed the negro through the narrow trail leading back from the cocoanut grove to his camp. It was but a short distance from the place where Sumner had taken his header into the ty-ti bush. Here Quorum had built himself a snug palmetto hut in a place capitally concealed from observation, and had managed to surround himself with a number of rude comforts. A fire was smouldering in a rough stone fireplace, and from an adjoining limb hung the 'possum that they were to have for supper. "Well," exclaimed Sumner, looking about him, "I don't see but what you are living like an African King, Quorum. Have you had plenty to eat since you came here?" "Yes, sah. Plenty such as hit is--'possum, 'coon, turtle, fish, oyster, conch, cocoanut, banana, limes, lemons, an' paw-paw; but no terbakker. I tell yo', sah, dat a berry pore place what hab no terbakker." "So you want tobacco to make you happy, and Worth wants bread and butter, and I want coffee. It seems that we all want something that we haven't got, and aren't likely to get in this world, doesn't it? But, Quorum, what on earth are you throwing all that iron into the fire for? It won't burn." "No, him won't burn," answered the negro, chuckling at the idea, "but him good to bile de wattah." As neither of the boys had the least idea what he meant, they watched him curiously. The iron that he had thrown into the fire, which he now heaped with wood, consisted of a number of old bolts that he had obtained from some wreckage on the beach. While these were heating, he filled a small hollow place in the rocks with water, and when the bolts were red-hot he dropped them into it. In about two seconds the water was boiling. Throwing a few handfuls of ashes into the boiling water, he soused the 'possum in it and held him there several minutes. After this he scraped the animal with a bit of iron hoop, and to the surprise of the boys, its hair came off almost without an effort. In a minute it was as bare as a suckling pig, which it greatly resembled. Shortly afterwards it was cleaned, washed, and ready for roasting. Just here Sumner proposed that they return to their own camp, and do the roasting there, as from where they now were they had no chance of seeing any boats that might pass the island. As Quorum no longer felt the necessity for hiding, he readily agreed to this, and carrying with them the few articles belonging to him that were worth removing, they started through the woods towards what the boys already called home. The afternoon was nearly spent when they entered the clearing and came in sight of their own little lean-to. Sumner, who was some distance in the lead, was the first to reach it. The others saw him suddenly stop, gaze at the hut as though fascinated by something inside of it, and then, without a word, start on a run towards the beach. This curious action excited Worth's wonder; but when he reached the hut he did exactly the same thing. When Quorum, who came last, reached it, he gazed in open-eyed wonder, but did not move from the spot. A smile gradually overspread his face, and, with a long-drawn sigh of happy anticipation, he uttered the single word, "Terbakker." "Do you see it?" asked Worth, breathlessly, as he joined Sumner on the beach. "No; but perhaps it is behind the point. Let's go and take a look." But when they reached the point there was no sign of the vessel that they fully expected to find there. More greatly puzzled than they had ever been before in all their lives, even at the mysterious disappearance of their canoes, the boys slowly retraced their steps towards the hut. It was completely filled with barrels, boxes, and various packages, most of which evidently contained provisions. "There is a sack of coffee," remarked Sumner. "And a box of crackers. And, yes, here is butter!" cried Worth, lifting the cover of a tin pail. "Dat ar am sholy a box ob terbakker," put in Quorum, pointing to the unmistakable box, from which his eyes had not wandered since they first lit upon it. "It certainly is," replied Sumner, in a voice expressive of the most unbounded amazement. "And there, if my eyes do not deceive me, are cases of milk, canned fruit, baked beans, and brown bread." "Hams and bacon," added Worth. "Kittles and pans," said Quorum. "In fact," concluded Sumner, "there is a bountiful supply of provisions for several months, and a complete house-keeping outfit into the bargain. There is no doubt as to what these things are. The only unanswered questions are, Whom do they belong to, and how did they get here?" [Illustration: A GREAT DISCOVERY.] "Perhaps whoever stole our canoes has left them here in part payment," suggested Worth. "You might just as well say that Elijah's ravens had brought them," laughed Sumner. "Marse Summer, sah, 'scuse me, but do hit 'pear to yo' like hit would be stealin' to bang de kiver offen dat ar box, an' let de ole man hab jes one smell ob dat terbakker?" asked Quorum, humbly. "No, Quorum, under the circumstances I don't believe it would," replied the boy, who forthwith proceeded to attack the box in question with his hatchet. CHAPTER XI. SUMNER DRIFTS AWAY ON A RAFT. The display of layer upon layer of black plug tobacco such as Quorum had been accustomed to using for longer than he could remember caused the negro's eyes to glisten as though they saw so many ingots of pure gold. For more than two weeks he had longed unavailingly for a fragment of the precious weed. Now to have an unlimited quantity of it placed before him so very mysteriously and unexpectedly seemed to him the climax of everything most desirable and best worth living for. He sniffed at it eagerly, inhaling its fragrance with long, deep breaths. Then, producing a stubby black pipe from some hidden recess of his tattered clothing, he asked, pleadingly, for "jes one lilly smoke." "After supper," said Sumner. "Get supper ready first, and then you shall smoke as much as you want to." At this Quorum's countenance fell, and seating himself on the ground, he remarked, stubbornly: "No, sah. Ole Quor'm do no cookin' wifout him hab a smoke fust. No smoke, no cookin', no cookin', no suppah. Why yo' no gib one plug ob terbakker fur dat 'possum, eh? Him monstrous fine 'possum, but I willin' to sell him fur jes one lilly plug ob terbakker. Yo' can't buy him so cheap nowhar else, specially on dis yer oncibilized Niggly Wity Key." "But it is not my tobacco," laughed Sumner, greatly amused at the old man's attitude and arguments. "Who he b'long to, den?" demanded Quorum, quickly. "I'm sure I don't know," answered the boy. "Den he yourn. You fin' him. You keep him. Hit all de same like er wrack. Yo' catch him, nobody else want him, yo' keep him. Jes one lilly smoke, Marse Summer--jes one; den de ole man go to cookin' de berry bestes yo' ebber seen. Come, Marse Summer, jes one; dat's a honey-bug." There was no resisting this pleading appeal, and cutting off enough for a single pipeful from one of the plugs, Sumner handed it to the negro, saying: "Well, then, if you must have it, take that, and hurry up with supper the very minute you have finished your smoke. I never was so hungry in my life, while Worth begins to look dangerously like a cannibal. Come, Worth, we must fly round, and build another palmetto shanty before dark. At this rate we'll have a town here before long." Two hours of hard work found a second hut, much more pretentious than the first, nicely roofed in. By this time the sun was setting, and what was of infinitely more importance to the young canoemates, Quorum announced that supper was ready. And what a feast he had prepared! Had there ever been one half so good before? In the opinion, of the boys, there certainly had not. Quorum had felt no scruples about helping himself to the provisions so liberally provided, and if the boys had noticed what he was doing, they had not possessed the moral courage to interfere. As a result, he had baked the 'possum stuffed with cracker-crumbs, bits of pork and onions cut up fine, and well seasoned with salt and pepper, in a Dutch-oven. The oven had been set on a bed of coals, and a fire of light-wood knots built on its heavy iron lid. The 'possum had been surrounded with sweet-potatoes, and both were done to a brown crisp. Then there was coffee, with sugar and condensed milk, toasted hardtack with butter, and bananas for dessert. "Talk about eating!" said Sumner. "Or Delmonico's!" added Worth. As Quorum sat and watched them, a broad grin of happiness overspread his features, while wreaths of blue smoke curled gently upward above his woolly head. His pipe was again full, and he now had possession of an entire plug of tobacco, for which he felt profoundly grateful to some unknown benefactor. Among other things in the hut, which the boys now called the storehouse, they had discovered a bale of blankets. These they did not hesitate to appropriate to their own use, and as they lay stretched on them, under their new roof, blinking sleepily at the fire, their comfort and happiness seemed almost to have attained perfection. "Except for our canoes," said Sumner. "If we only had them, I, for one, should be perfectly happy; and to-morrow I am going to make preparations for finding them." "How?" asked Worth; and for an hour or so they talked over their plans for the future. The intervals between their remarks became longer and longer, until finally, when Worth asked, "Whom do you suppose all those provisions belong to, anyway, Sumner?" the latter answered: "Give it up. I'm too sleepy to guess any more riddles to-night." The boys slept almost without moving until sunrise; but Quorum was frequently aroused to repel the invasions of certain 'coons that, but for his watchfulness, would have made free with the contents of the storehouse. He also had to protect the fire against a heavy shower that came on towards morning; and on each of these occasions he rewarded himself with a few whiffs of smoke from his black pipe. The next morning the two boys, leaving Quorum to devise traps for the capture of the 'coons and prepare dinner, started out to collect some of the planks they had seen the day before. With these Sumner proposed to build a raft on which they could drift over to Indian Key with that afternoon's ebb-tide. Once there, he anticipated no difficulty in hailing some passing craft that could be chartered to search for their canoes, and carry them back to Key West in case the search proved fruitless. [Illustration: QUORUM IS HAPPY.] As the channel from Lignum Vitæ, through which the strongest tide-currents flowed, led directly past Indian Key and close to it, this plan seemed feasible. By noon the boys had towed around to the cove in front of their camp two heavy squared timbers and a number of boards. These they lashed together in the form of a rude raft. They had no nails, and but a limited supply of line for lashing, so that the raft was by no means so strong as they could wish. Neither was it very buoyant, the material of which it was built being yellow pine, already somewhat water-soaked and floating very low. To their dismay, when it was completed, the boys found that instead of supporting three persons, as they hoped it would, it was awash and unsafe with but two of them on board. "There's only one thing to be done," said Sumner, when this state of affairs became evident, "and that is for me to go alone. When I get hold of a craft of some kind, I can bring her here after you two; and if I don't find one, it will be an easy matter for me to come back on a flood-tide." "But, Sumner, it seems awful for you to go 'way off there alone on such a crazy raft at this. Do you think it is absolutely necessary?" "Yes," answered the other, whose mind was now intent only upon recovering his beautiful canoe, "I do think it is necessary for one of us to go. We can't stay here forever, living off of some unknown person's provisions. Besides, supposing those canoes should be wrecked and discovered in that condition, and the report that we were lost should reach Key West, how do you think our mothers would feel? Yes, indeed, it is necessary that I should go, and I mean to start the minute the tide serves." Neither Worth nor Quorum could move Sumner from this determination, and it was with heavy hearts that they watched him, about four o'clock in the afternoon, step aboard the raft and shove out into the current, that had just begun to run ebb. He was provided with a long pole and a small box of provisions, the latter being placed in the middle of the raft. Its movement was at first heavy and sluggish, but as soon as it felt the influence of the current, it was borne along with comparative speed. Thus a few minutes served to take the solitary voyager beyond earshot of his companions. For some time he could see them waving their hats, but at length their forms faded from his sight, and he realized that he was beyond reach of their assistance in case his undertaking should fail. Now that he could no longer note the speed with which he had left the island, his progress seemed irritatingly slow. The channel was very crooked, and his clumsy craft frequently grounded on the projecting sand-bars at its many turns. In each case valuable time was lost in pushing it off and getting it again started. From this cause his rate of progress was so slow that Indian Key was still some distance ahead when the sun sank from sight in the western waters. Now, for the first time, Sumner experienced a feeling of uneasiness, and a doubt as to the success of his venture. He strove to add to the speed of his raft by poling, but as the depth of water was generally too great for him to touch bottom, nothing could be accomplished in that way. Now he began to notice the numbers of sea-monsters that were going out with the tide and using his channel as their pathway to deeper waters. On all sides were to be seen the triangular fins of huge sharks rising above the surface so close to him that he could have touched them with his pole. He also saw hundreds of sawfish, stingarees, devil-fish with vampire-like wings, the vast bulks of ungainly jew-fish, porpoises, and other evil-looking creatures of great size and phenomenal activity. He shuddered to think what would be his fate if a slip or a mis-step should precipitate him into the water among them. At length their forms were hidden from him by the darkness, and only their splashings and the gleaming trails of their progress through the phosphorescent water denoted their swarming presence. Suddenly, while his attention was fixed upon these, he became aware that he was abreast of Indian Key and passing it. There was a shoal on the opposite side, and plunging his pole into it, he made a mighty effort to direct his raft towards land. All at once, without the slightest warning, the brittle pole snapped, and only by a violent effort did he save himself from plunging into the cruel waters. CHAPTER XII. PICKED UP IN THE GULF STREAM. The snapping of that pole marked the bitterest moment of Sumner Rankin's life. With it went his only hope of navigating his rude craft to the friendly shore of the key, past which he now seemed to be drifting with terrible rapidity. He could make out the dim forms of its trees, and of the deserted buildings, in one of which he had proposed to spend the night. He could even hear the rustle of its palm leaves in the light evening breeze, and the gentle plash of waters on its rocky coast. It was so near that he could easily have swum to it. He thought of making the attempt, but a single glance at the phosphorescent flashes beneath him convinced him of its hopelessness. No, it was safer to remain where he was, even though he should be carried out to sea through one of the numerous channels in the outer reef. Supposing his raft should strand on the reef, what chance was there of its holding together until daylight, or even for a few minutes? He knew that if a sea should arise there was none. Now Indian Key was lost to sight behind him, and he was alone, with only his own unhappy thoughts for company. He knew that those waters were seldom traversed by vessels of any description in the night-time, most of the reef sailors preferring to come to anchor at sunset. Above him shone the stars, and far ahead gleamed the white and red flashes of Alligator Light. All else was darkness and utter desolation. The poor lad sat on the box containing his slender store of provisions, and buried his face in his hands. How thankful he was that his mother could not see him now! She was at least spared that sorrow. He wondered what she was doing. Then his thoughts turned to those whom he had left but a few hours before. Why had he not been content to stay with them, and await patiently the relief that must come to them sooner or later? Perhaps even now the mysterious owner of those goods had arrived, and Worth was sitting with a merry party beside the fire, while old Quorum was preparing supper. No, they must have already eaten supper, and now Quorum was blissfully smoking his pipe, while Worth was comfortably stretched out on his bed of blankets. Oh, what a fool he had been to let a false pride in his own strength and ability get the better of his prudence! He might have known that there were a hundred chances of being swept past the little rocky key to one of successfully landing on it. He had known it, but his obstinate pride in his own superior skill had not allowed him to acknowledge it, and now it was too late. At length, feeling faint from hunger, the poor boy roused himself, and ate a few mouthfuls of food from his provision chest. As he contrasted this meal and its surroundings with the merry supper of the evening before, the wretchedness of his situation was forced upon him more strongly than ever. By this time a breeze that caused little waves to break upon and occasionally wash completely over the raft had sprung up in the south-west, and by the changing position of Alligator Light, Sumner became aware that he was drifting up the reef. The steadily increasing roar of its breakers informed him at the same time that he was approaching closer to it with each moment. Finally he was abreast of the light, and a mile or so from it, while the sound of the breakers was all about him. He was on the line of the reef. In a few minutes more he would either have passed into the open sea beyond it, or his ill-built raft would strand and be broken to pieces on its cruel rocks. During the succeeding five minutes he almost held his breath. The strain of the suspense was awful, and the boy hardly knew which fate he dreaded the most. At the end of that time it was decided. The sound of the breakers certainly came from behind him. He had passed out through some channel, and was now on the open sea. At the same time the waves that washed over his raft were larger, so that before long he was thoroughly drenched by them, and sat shivering in the chill night wind. Now the strong current of the Gulf Stream aided the wind to bear him up the reef, and after a few hours the brightness of Alligator Light was so sensibly diminished that he knew he must be several miles from it. Once during the night he saw the light of a steamship passing at no great distance from him; but his frantic cries for help were either unheard or unheeded, for no attention was paid to them. Then he began to pray for the daylight that seemed as though it would never come. How wearily the hours dragged and how cold he was! He was wet through, and chilled to the bone. When at length the welcome dawn began to tinge the eastern sky, it found the lad half-lying on the raft, clinging to the lashings of the little provision chest, and lost to consciousness in the sleep of utter exhaustion. In this condition he was discovered by the keen-eyed lookout of a west-bound steamer that was hugging the reef to escape as much as might be the force of the Gulf Stream. With reversed engines and slackening speed, the great ship passed within a hundred yards of him, but he knew nothing of it. Nor did he awake until he heard a gruff, but pitying voice close beside him, saying, "Poor fellow, he must be dead!" The next moment two pairs of powerful arms had dragged him into the boat that had been lowered for him, and as he sat up in its bottom rubbing his eyes, he seemed to have just awakened from a hideous nightmare. A few minutes later the boat with its crew had been hoisted to the deck, the steamer was again pursuing her way towards Key West, and Sumner, wrapped in hot blankets, was occupying a berth in a vacant stateroom, surrounded by the sympathizing faces of those who were anxious to anticipate his every want. He was sound asleep when, half an hour from that time, the steamer neared Alligator Light, and a small boat was seen pulling off from it so as to intercept her. At the sight of this boat the first officer immediately began to collect such late papers and magazines as the passengers were willing to contribute, and tying them into a package. This he lashed to a bit of wood, which he intended to toss overboard for the light-keeper to pick up. In this way the reef lights are kept supplied with New York papers only three or four days old. The same papers, passing through the mails, do not reach the scattered dwellers on the keys for ten days or two weeks from the date of their publication. As the steamer neared the boat from Alligator Light its occupant was seen to hold up a small package wrapped in canvas, which was at once understood to contain despatches that he wished to send to Key West. So the end of a light line was flung to him, he skilfully made the package fast to it without delaying the ship a moment, and it was hauled aboard. Among the letters that it contained was one directed to the editor of the only daily paper in Key West, and this was delivered promptly on the steamer's arrival at that port. [Illustration: "TWO PAIRS OF POWERFUL ARMS DRAGGED HIM INTO THE BOAT."] Late that afternoon, when Mrs. Rankin was slowly regaining her composure after the shock of Sumner's sudden and unlooked-for appearance at home, and was listening with breathless interest to an account of his recent adventures, a copy of the evening paper was left at the house. Sumner was too busy assuring his mother that he was not suffering the slightest ill effect from his exposure of the night before, to look at it then. When, an hour later, he found time to do so, the leading item on the first page at once attracted his attention. It was headed, "A Mystery of the Reef," and after glancing hastily through it, the boy sprang to his feet, shouting: "Hurrah, mother! The disappearance of the canoes is explained at last, and they are safe and sound, after all." CHAPTER XIII. A MYSTERY OF THE REEF. As Mrs. Rankin came into the room, on hearing Sumner's exclamation, he read aloud the article in the daily _Equator_ that had so excited him, and which was as follows: "A MYSTERY OF THE REEF. "By the steamship _Comal_, which arrived in this port to-day, we receive a curious bit of news from Keeper Spencer, of Alligator Light. On the evening of the 15th, as he was in the lantern of the tower preparing to light the lamp, he noticed two small craft of a most unusual description rapidly approaching from the direction of the keys. One appeared to be in tow of the other, but in neither could a human being be discovered. There were no signs of oars, sails, paddles, or steam, and yet the movement of the boats through the water was at the rate of about ten knots an hour. It was also very erratic, and though their general course was towards the reef, they approached it by a series of zigzags, now taking a sharp sheer to port, and directly another to starboard. As the keeper could not leave the tower at that moment, he directed Assistant Albury to take the light-house skiff, intercept the craft, if possible, and investigate their character. "With great difficulty, and after an exciting chase, Mr. Albury succeeded in getting alongside the leading boat of the two, and in making fast to it. It proved to be a decked canoe, of exquisite workmanship and fittings, completely equipped for cruising, bearing the name _Psyche_ in silver letters on either bow. The second canoe, which was a counterpart of the first, was named _Cupid_. Both were in tow of an immense Jew-fish, which had succeeded in entangling itself in the cable with which the _Psyche_ had evidently been anchored. It is probable that one of the flukes of the anchor caught in the creature's gills, though just how it happened will never be known, as Mr. Albury, being unable to capture the monster, was obliged to cut the cable and let him go. Nothing is known as to the fate of the owners of these canoes, and they are now at the light-house awaiting a claimant. "Just as we go to press we learn that early this morning the _Comal_ picked up a young man drifting in the Gulf, not far from Alligator Light. We were unable to obtain his name in time for insertion in to-day's paper, but will give it, with full particulars concerning him, in to-morrow's issue. He may be able to throw some light on the mystery of the canoes." "I should rather think he could!" laughed Sumner, as he finished reading. "But did you ever hear of such a thing, mother? The idea of a rascally Jew-fish running off with our canoes! I never thought of such a thing as that happening. And how wonderfully it has all turned out! I should have looked everywhere for them rather than at Alligator Light. I should never have dared attempt to navigate the raft that far, either. To think, too, that I should have been picked up by the very steamer that brought the news! How dreadfully you would have felt on reading it, if I hadn't got here first! Wouldn't you, mother dear?" "Indeed I should, my boy; and I shall never be able to express my gratitude for your wonderful preservation." "But poor Worth!" exclaimed Sumner. "How I wish he knew all about it, and how awfully anxious he must be! I only hope he won't attempt to go to Indian Key to look for me before I can get back there. That's something I must see about at once, and I must take the very first boat that goes up the reef. Just think how I should feel if anything were to happen to him, when Mr. Manton placed him in my care, too! If it wasn't for the way things have turned out, I should feel guilty at having left him there. I wouldn't have done it, though, if Quorum hadn't been on hand to look after him. He surely will keep him out of harm's way until I can get back." "I hate to think of your going back there again," said Mrs. Rankin, with a sigh, "though of course it is your duty to do so. But you will be careful, and not run into any more such dreadful perils, won't you, dear?" "Yes, mother; I promise not to run into a single peril that I can help, and if I meet one, I will try my best to get out of its way," laughed the boy, whose high spirits had quickly returned with the prospect of recovering his beloved canoe. "Well," sighed Mrs. Rankin, "so long as you must go, I shouldn't be surprised if Lieutenant Carey would take you in the _Transit_. I believe he intends to leave to-morrow morning for a trip up the reef, and to make some kind of a survey in the Everglades. He has been staying here for a few days, and is up in his room now." "Oh, mother!" cried the boy, springing to his feet, "the Everglades! How I should love to go!" "Now, Sumner--" began Mrs. Rankin, in a tone of expostulation; but the boy had already left the room, and was on his way up-stairs. Lieutenant Carey was an old friend, who had served under Commander Rankin, and had known Sumner ever since the boy was twelve years old. He had heard of his unexpected return, and only waited until the first interview between the young canoeman and his mother should be ended before going down to greet him. Now he listened to Sumner's story with the deepest interest, and when it was ended, he said: "Of course I will take you up the reef as far as Alligator, my boy, and shall be glad of your company. I only wish you would go with us as far as the main-land, and act as pilot through the Keys. They are not charted, you know, and as I have never been through them, I was on the point of engaging a fellow named Rust Norris as pilot, but I'd much rather have you. What do you say? Can't I enlist you in Uncle Sam's service for a week or so?" "I should like nothing better," answered Sumner, "only, you see, I am bound just now to look after Worth Manton, and take him up the reef to Cape Florida, where we are due by the first of April." "Perhaps we can persuade him to go along too. It won't be much out of your way, and you've lots of time to finish your trip between now and the first of April. I'll risk it anyhow, for I don't like the looks of that fellow Norris, and am only too glad of an excuse for not engaging him." "Then there is Quorum, the cook," added Sumner, reflectively. "I wonder what will become of him?" "A cook, do you say? What sort of a cook? A good one?" "One of the best on the reef," replied Sumner. "Then he is just the man I want to get hold of for our trip. I am only waiting now for a cook, and should start this evening if I had found one to suit me. If you will guarantee him, we'll get away at once, and make the old _Transit_ hum up the reef in the hope of capturing him before he makes any other engagement." "There is not much chance for him to make an engagement where he is now," laughed Sumner. "And, at any rate, I'm sure he wouldn't leave Worth until I get back. I shall be only too glad to start to-night though, for poor Worth must be terribly anxious, and the sooner I get to him the better." Thus it was settled, and as soon as supper was over, after a loving, lingering farewell from his mother, who repeated over and over again her charges that he should shun all perilous adventures, the boy found himself once more afloat. Mrs. Rankin had promised to write a long letter to the Mantons that very evening, assuring them of Worth's safety up to the date of the day before, and being thus relieved from this duty, Sumner set forth, with a light heart on his second cruise up the reef. The _Transit_ was a comfortable, schooner-rigged sharpie, about sixty feet long, built by the Government for the use of the Coast Survey in shallow southern waters. She had great breadth of beam, and was a stanch sea-boat, though she drew but eighteen inches of water, and Lieutenant Carey had no hesitation in putting her outside for a night run up the Hawk Channel. The especial duty now to be undertaken was an exploration of the Everglades to ascertain their value as a permanent reservation for the Florida Seminoles. These Indians, hemmed in on all sides by white settlers, were being gradually driven from one field and hunting-ground after another. In consequence they were becoming restive, and the necessity of doing something in the way of assuring them a permanent location had for some time been apparent. Thus a survey of the 'Glades was finally ordered, and Lieutenant Carey had been detailed for the duty, with permission to make up such a party to accompany him as he saw fit. His present command on the _Transit_ consisted of Ensign Sloe, and six men forward. It was intended that three of these should be taken into the 'Glades, while Mr. Sloe, with the other three, was to take the sharpie, from the point where the exploring party left her, around to Cape Florida, and there await their arrival. On the deck of the schooner and towing behind her were three novel craft, in which Lieutenant Carey intended to conduct his explorations of the swamps and grassy waterways of the interior. One of these was an open bass-wood canoe built in Canada, shaped very much like a birch bark, and capable of carrying four men. The others were the odd-looking boats, with bottoms shaped like table-spoons, that are so popular as ducking-boats on the New Jersey coast, and are known as Barnegat cruisers. One of these was named _Terrapin_ and the other _Gopher_, while the open canoe bore the Seminole name of _Hul-la-lah_ (the wind). Before a brisk southerly breeze, in spite of the boats dragging behind her, the _Transit_ made rapid progress. Ere it was time to turn in, Key West Light was low in the water astern, while that on American Shoal shone steady and bright off the starboard bow. The wind held fresh all night, so that by morning both American Shoal and Sombrero had been passed, and the sharpie was off the western end of Lower Metacumba, with Alligator Light flashing out its last gleam in the light of the rising sun. CHAPTER XIV. WORTH AND QUORUM ARE MISSING. As Sumner was anxious to reach Lignum Vitæ by the shortest possible route, the _Transit_ was headed in through the channel between Lower Metacumba and Long keys. Both tide and wind being with her, the nimble-footed sharpie seemed to fly past the low reefs and sand-spits on either side. Now she skimmed by the feeding-grounds of flocks of gray pelicans, whose wise expressions and bald heads gave them the appearance of groups of old men, and then passed an old sponge crawl, or the worm-eaten hull of some ancient wreck, both of which were covered with countless numbers of cormorants, gannets, and gulls. Waiting, with outstretched necks and pinions half spread, until the schooner was within a stone's-throw, these would fly with discordant cries of anger, wheel in great circles, and return to the places from which they had been driven the moment the threatened danger had passed. Even after the sharpie was well inside the bay, and the island they sought was in sight, they could not lay a direct course towards it on account of a reef several miles in length that presented an effectual barrier to anything larger than a canoe. But one narrow channel cut through it, and this was away to the northward, close under a tiny mangrove key. Towards this then they steered, with Sumner at the tiller, for he was the only one on board familiar with the intricate navigation of those waters. "You are certain that you are right, Sumner?" inquired Lieutenant Carey, anxiously, as they seemed about to drive headlong on the bar, and an ominous wake of muddy water showed that they were dragging bottom. "Certain," answered the boy, quietly. "All right, then; I've nothing to say." Inch by inch the great centre-board rose in its trunk, and the slack of its pennant was taken in, as the water rapidly shoaled. Now she dragged so heavily that it seemed as though she were about to stop. Again the lieutenant looked at Sumner, and then cast a significant glance at the man stationed by the fore-sheet. But the boy never hesitated nor betrayed the least nervousness. An instant later the tiller was jammed hard over, there was a sharp order of "Trim in!" and, flying almost into the teeth of the wind, the light vessel shot through an opening so narrow that she scraped bottom on both sides, and in another moment was dashing through deep water on the opposite side of the bar. From here the run to Lignum Vitæ was a long and short leg beat, with numerous shoals to be avoided. In spite of being kept busy with these, Sumner found time to note and wonder at a great column of smoke that rose from the island. What could Worth and Quorum be about? It looked as though they had managed to set the forest on fire. Filled with an uneasy apprehension, he jumped into a boat the moment the _Transit's_ anchor was dropped in the well-remembered cove, and sculled himself ashore. To his amazement he heard the sound of many voices, and discovered a dozen or so of men hard at work apparently cutting down the forest and burning it. As he stepped ashore, and looked in vain for the familiar figures of his friends, a pleasant-faced young man advanced from where the laborers were at work to meet him. "Can you tell me, sir, what has become of a boy named Worth Manton and an old colored man whom I left here the day before yesterday?" Sumner inquired, anxiously. "If you mean the two whom I found camped here, and helping themselves to my provisions, I think I can," answered the young man, with a smile. "They went over to Indian Key last evening on the boat that brought me here yesterday. They were very anxious concerning the fate of a friend who left them the evening before, and went over there on a raft, I believe they said. Can it be that you are the person they are seeking?" "Yes, sir, I am." "Then you are Sumner Rankin, and I am very happy to meet you. My name is Haines. I have bought this key, and am clearing it, preparatory to having it planted with cocoanuts. The provisions and camp outfit that appeared here so mysteriously to you and your companions belong to me, and were left here by the mail-schooner on her way up the reef. I expected to arrive, with my men, about the same time, but was detained. I am very glad, however, that they came in time to relieve your distress. I am also much obliged to you for affording them a shelter from the rain, without which some of the things would have been injured. Now will you pardon my curiosity if I ask how you happen to arrive here in a schooner from that direction when your friends said you had gone the other way, and were confident of finding you on Indian Key?" [Illustration: AS HE STEPPED ASHORE A PLEASANT-FACED YOUNG MAN ADVANCED TO MEET HIM.] When Sumner had given a brief outline of his recent adventure, Mr. Haines said: "You certainly have had a most remarkable experience, and I am glad your friends did not know of it, for young Manton was worried enough about you as it was. However, you will soon rejoin them, and when you have recovered your canoes, if you feel so inclined, I should be pleased to have you return here as my guests for as long as you choose to stay." Sumner thanked him, and said he should be happy to stop there on his return from the main-land. Then, begging to be excused, as he was impatient to go in search of his comrades, he jumped into his boat and returned to the _Transit_. Lieutenant Carey was perfectly willing to proceed at once to Indian Key, but the tide was still running flood, and the breeze, which was each moment becoming lighter, was dead ahead for a run out through the channel. Under the circumstances, it would be useless to lift the anchor, and the impatient boy was forced to wait for the tide to turn. When it finally began to run ebb, the breeze had died out so entirely that there was not even the faintest ripple on the water, and another season of waiting was unavoidable. By the lieutenant's invitation Mr. Haines came off and dined with them. He proved a most charming companion, and laughed heartily at Sumner's description of the amazement with which he, Worth, and Quorum had discovered the mysterious godsend of provisions. Mr. Haines declared that it was one of the best jokes he had ever known; though he was in doubt as to whether it was on him or on them. He appreciated Sumner's impatience to be off, and when, late in the afternoon, a fair breeze sprang up, he made haste to take his leave that their departure might not be delayed. It was nearly sunset when the _Transit_ approached Indian Key so closely that objects the size of a man could be distinguished on it. Sumner was again at the helm, and he tried not to neglect his steering; but he could not keep his eyes from scanning anxiously every discernible foot of its surface. To his great disappointment not a soul appeared. "They may be on the other side, keeping a lookout for passing vessels," suggested Lieutenant Carey. Hoping that this might be the case, but still heavy-hearted and anxious, Sumner went ashore, accompanied by the lieutenant. For an hour they searched over every foot of the key, and through its deserted buildings, shouting as they went, but their search was in vain. Nothing was seen of the lost ones, nor had they left a trace to show that they had ever been on the island. "It's no use," said Sumner at length; "they evidently are not here, and must have gone on in the boat that brought them when they failed to find me. Now, I don't know of anything to do but to go out to the light-house after the canoes, and then come back here and wait. If Worth has gone on up the reef, he must pass here on his way back, while if he has gone the other way, he will hear of me at Key West and come back here again. I'm awfully sorry that I can't go with you to the main-land, but I don't see how I possibly can under the circumstances." Although the boy tried to speak cheerfully, and to take the brightest possible view of the disappearance of his young comrade, he was filled with anxiety, and it was with a heavy heart that he turned into his berth on board the schooner _Transit_ that night. CHAPTER XV. WORTH AND QUORUM IN SEARCH OF SUMNER. On the evening that Sumner left Worth and Quorum, and started on his adventurous voyage towards Indian Key, they watched him until distance and the approaching twilight hid him from their view. Quorum was the first to turn away and begin preparations for supper, while Worth still remained on the point straining his eyes towards the key, on which he fondly hoped that his friend was safely landed. At length it, too, disappeared in the gathering darkness, and he reluctantly turned his steps towards the camp. He was heavy-hearted, and had but little appetite for the bountiful supper that Quorum had so skilfully prepared. Noticing this, the old man tried to cheer him, saying: "Don't yo' be so down in de mouf, Marse Worf. Dey hain't no 'casion fur worriment. I know Marse Summer Rankin fur a long time, an' I nebber know him in a fix yit what he don't slip outen, de same as er eel. I see him git in er plenty scrapes, but I don't see him git stuck. Him all right, and yo' no need to go er frettin' an' er mo'nin'. He be back ter-morrer bright an' smilin'. Now eat your suppah, honey, 'kase if yo' don't, ole Quor'm t'ink he cookin' no good." In spite of the negro's consoling words, Worth's sleep that night was broken, and he started at every sound. Towards morning a crash and a smothered cry from the edge of the forest behind the camp caused him to start to his feet in alarm, and wake his companion. Although no further sound was heard, the boy was not satisfied until Quorum, taking a torch, discovered a thieving 'coon, caught and killed by the dead-fall that he had prepared for it. This was a simple figure =4= trap, set under a bit of board that was weighted with a heavy rock. As soon as breakfast was over the next morning, Worth returned to his outlook station on the point, and remained there, with his eyes fixed on Indian Key, for several hours. It was nearly noon when he was startled by a shout from Quorum, who called out: "Here him comin', honey! Here him comin' in er big schooner!" Running back to the cove, which was not visible from where he had been sitting, Worth saw the schooner at which Quorum was gazing so eagerly. She was not more than a mile from them, and was bearing rapidly down towards the island, though from a direction opposite to that in which Indian Key lay. Still that did not dispel their hope that Sumner might be on board and coming to their relief. They could see that the schooner's deck was crowded with men, most of whom, as she approached more closely, proved to be negroes. Among them Worth's keen eyes distinguished, besides the whites composing her crew, one young white man who for a few minutes he was certain must be Sumner. As the schooner dropped anchor, and this person was sculled ashore in a small boat by one of the negroes, they saw, to their great disappointment, that he was a stranger. He seemed surprised at seeing them on the key, and still more so when a glance at their camp showed the use they had been making of the stores they had so unexpectedly found there two days before. "Oh, sir," exclaimed Worth, as the stranger landed, "have you seen anything of Sumner Rankin? I mean of a boy on a raft?" "No, I have not," was the answer. "But I see that some one, and I expect it is the boy before me, has been making a free use of my stores." "Are they yours?" asked Worth, flushing. "We didn't know whose they were or who left them here, and as we were almost starving, we ventured to take what we needed; but I shall be glad to pay for whatever we have used." With this the boy produced a roll of bills, and looked inquiringly at the stranger. "That's all right," laughed the other. "If you were starving, and had need of them, of course you acted rightly in taking them. I am only too glad that they were of use to you. I see, too, that you have sheltered them from the weather." "Yes," replied Worth, "and it rained so hard night before last, that if they had not been under cover some of them would have been spoiled." "Then we are quits," said the stranger; "and you have already more than paid for what you can have used in so short a time. I have bought this key, and intended to get here as soon as those things, which I sent up on the mail-boat, but was unexpectedly delayed. My name is Haines, and yours is--" "Worth Manton," answered the boy; "and I was cruising up the reef in a canoe with my friend Sumner Rankin. When we got here, some one stole our canoes, or they got lost in some way, and so we were obliged to stay. We found this old negro Quorum here. Yesterday Sumner went over to Indian Key on a raft, to see if he could find the canoes, or get a vessel to take us off. We haven't seen anything of him since he left, and I am awfully afraid that something has happened to him." "Oh, I guess not!" said the new-comer; "but if you like you can go over there on this schooner and look for him. The captain is in a great hurry to go on up the reef, as he is already two days late; but I guess he will drop you at the key, and stop there for you on his way back to Key West, if you want him to. But what is it that smells so good?" Here the speaker sniffed at an appetizing odor that was wafted to them from the direction of the little camp. "I expect it is Quorum's 'coon that he is roasting for dinner," replied Worth. "'Coon? That is something I have never tasted; but I should be most happy to experiment with it if it is half as good as it smells. Don't you want to invite me to dine with you?" "Of course I do," laughed Worth; "especially as most of the dinner will consist of your own provisions." A few minutes later they sat down to dinner together, and Mr. Haines declared it to be the best he had eaten since coming to that part of the country. He also praised the construction of the hut in which they ate, and thanked Worth for having provided him with such comfortable quarters. While they were occupied with the meal, the black passengers of the schooner landed. Among them Quorum discovered friends who confirmed Sumner's statement that he was no longer suspected of the death of the sponging captain. After dinner several hours were spent in landing the lumber and other freight with which the schooner was loaded. During this time Mr. Haines learned all the details of Worth's experience in canoeing up the reef, to which he listened with the greatest interest. He advised the boy to remain patiently where he was until Sumner's return, or at least until some word should be received from him. He was also anxious to engage the services of such a capital cook as Quorum had proved himself by the preparation of the dinner they had just eaten. But the boy was so heart-sick with anxiety that he could not bear the thought of a further period of inaction, and Quorum declared he could not think of deserting the lad whom Sumner had left in his care. So when the schooner was again ready to sail, they went on board, taking with them their guns and a supply of provisions with which Mr. Haines kindly provided them. He also insisted upon their taking a couple of blankets, which, he said, they could return whenever they had no further use for them, and he begged them to come back to the island in case they should be disappointed in their search. Thus they parted with an interchange of good wishes, and an hour later Worth and Quorum were set ashore on Indian Key. Although they had seen no sign of Sumner as they approached it, and the captain of the schooner had advised them to keep on with him up the reef, they could not make up their minds to do so until they had made a thorough examination of the key for traces of their lost comrade. Nor were they inclined to leave those parts so long as there was the faintest hope of hearing from him. So they were hurriedly set ashore, and the schooner continued on her way, the captain promising to stop there for them on his return trip. Of course their search over the key was fruitless, and it was with heavy hearts that they made themselves comfortable for the night in one of its old buildings. The next morning they wandered aimlessly over the narrow limits of the little island, or sat in the rickety porch of their house watching the column of smoke that, rising above Lignum Vitæ, marked the beginning of the cocoanut planter's operations. Turning from this, they would gaze longingly out to sea without knowing what they hoped to discover. Several schooners, bound both up and down the reef, passed during the morning, but none of them came within hailing distance of the key. At length Worth called out excitedly that he saw a canoe approaching from the direction of Alligator Light. At that distance the sail that he was watching certainly looked small enough to belong to a canoe; but as it came closer it grew larger, until it resolved itself into that of a good-sized cat-boat. As it finally rounded to and came to anchor under the lee of the key, a man who was its sole occupant sculled ashore in a dingy containing several empty barrels. He was Assistant Keeper Albury, of Alligator Light, who had come to the key for a supply of water from its old cistern, the one belonging to the light having sprung a leak, and being nearly empty. He was surprised to find strangers on the key, and inquired at once what had become of their boat. After listening to their story and eager questions, he said: "Well, if that doesn't beat all! No, we haven't seen anything out at the light of any young fellow floating on a raft; but we have got two canoes out there that answer pretty well the description of them you say you lost. What did you say their names were?" "_Cupid_ and _Psyche_," replied Worth. "Then they are yours, for them's the very names. If you want to go out there with me after I fill my barrels, I've no doubt Mr. Spencer will give them up to you." This they decided to do. So, after helping the man fill his water-barrels, they set sail with him for the light-house, which they reached late that afternoon, after some hours of tedious drifting in a calm. CHAPTER XVI. A NIGHT IN ALLIGATOR LIGHT. While taking Worth and Quorum out to the light, Assistant Keeper Albury told them how the canoes had been towed out to sea by a Jew-fish, and described the difficulty he had had in capturing them. Although Worth listened to all this with interest, his pleasure in having the mystery cleared up, and at the prospect of recovering the canoes, was sadly dampened by his increasing anxiety concerning Sumner's fate. What can have become of him? was the question that he asked over and over again, but to which neither of the men could give an answer. They were cordially welcomed to the light by the keeper, who was always glad to have visitors to his lonely domain, and Worth easily proved his ownership of the canoes by describing their contents. The light-house was a skeleton frame-work of iron, with its lower platform about twelve feet above water that surrounded it on all sides. On this platform lay the two canoes, side by side, looking as fresh and unharmed as when Worth had last seen them at anchor off Lignum Vitæ. If Sumner had only been there, how he would have rejoiced over them! As it was, he gave them but a hurried examination to assure himself that they were all right, and then followed the keeper up the flight of iron steps leading to the house. The portion of this in which the men lived was a huge iron cylinder, surrounded by a balcony, and divided into several rooms. Above it rose a slender iron shaft, in which was a circular stairway leading to the lantern at its top. Worth ascended this with the keeper to witness the lighting of the great lamp, and the movements of the revolving machinery by which the red and white flashes were produced. From this elevation a long line of keys was visible, while the one they had so recently left seemed quite close at hand. While gazing at it, Worth saw a schooner come down the channel from the direction of Lignum Vitæ, and lower her sails, as if for the night, under its lee. "Oh, Mr. Spencer!" he cried, "there's a schooner come to anchor close to Indian Key. Perhaps her people are looking for us, and perhaps they have brought news of Sumner. Can't we take the canoes now and sail over there?" "Bless you, no, lad! I wouldn't for anything have it on my conscience that I'd let you go sailing around these waters at night in those cockle-shells. There's no doubt but what she'll stay there till morning, and if the weather is good, you can make a start as soon after daylight as ever you like; but you'll have to content yourself here till then. I couldn't think of letting you go before." To this decision Worth was forced to submit, and after the lamp was lighted he followed the keeper to the living-rooms below. Here he found Quorum hard at work at his favorite occupation of cooking. He was preparing a most savory fish chowder, and when they sat down to supper both the keepers declared that in all their experience they had never tasted its equal. The second assistant keeper was then absent on the two-weeks' vacation, to which each of them was entitled after two months of service in the light. They only regretted that Quorum could not remain until his return, that he too might learn the possibilities of a fish chowder. Worth was so charmed with his novel surroundings, and by the quaint bits of light-house experience related by the keepers, that until bed-time, he almost forgot his anxiety. When he had gone to bed in the scrupulously neat and clean guest-chamber, after charging the keepers to waken him at the earliest dawn, it returned in full force, and for a long time drove sleep from his eyes. As he lay listening to the keeper on watch making his half-hourly trips up to the lantern, and to the lapping of the waves about the iron piling of the foundation, he imagined all sorts of dreadful things as having happened to Sumner, and even after he fell asleep his dreams were of the same character. From this unhappy dreaming he was awakened while it was still quite dark, though the keeper, who was standing beside his bed, assured him that day was breaking. At this, and remembering his cause for haste, the boy sprang out of bed and quickly dressed himself. In the outer room he found Quorum already up and waiting for him, and he also found a steaming pot of coffee. Fortified by a cup of this and a biscuit, he declared himself ready for the voyage back to Indian Key. As they stepped outside, the light was sufficiently strong for them to dimly discern the distant line of keys, and preparations were at once made to place the canoes in the water. Worth's was the first swung from the platform davits and lowered, while he, descending a rope-ladder, one end of which touched the water, was ready to cast off the falls and step into her. Then Quorum was invited to do the same thing with the _Psyche_; but the old negro drew back apprehensively, exclaiming: "No, sah, gen'l'men. De ole niggah am a big fool, but him no sich fool dat him t'ink hese'f er monkey, an' go climbin' down er rope wha' don' lead nowhar, 'cep' to er tickly egg-shell wha' done copsize de berry instink he tetch foot to um. No, sah, gen'l'men; ole Quor'm too smart fo' dat." "Well, then, sit in the canoe where she is, and we'll lower you down in her." To this plan the old man was finally induced to agree, and with great trepidation seated himself in the frail craft. The moment the men began to sway away on the falls, he would have jumped out if he could. As he was already swinging in mid-air, it was too late to do aught save remain where he was. Clutching the sides of the cockpit tightly with both hands, he closed up his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. His face assumed an ashen tinge, and his lips moved as though he were praying. He gave a convulsive start as the canoe dropped into the water, but he did not open his eyes nor relax his clutch of the coamings. "Come, Quorum, get out your paddle. I'll show you how to use it," shouted Worth, after he had cast off the falls. But he might as well have addressed the light-house for all the notice the old man took of him. Finally, realizing that Quorum was utterly helpless, and incapable of action, from fright, Worth took the _Psyche_ in tow, and paddling out from the light-house, bade the friendly keepers a cheery good-bye, and started on his laborious trip to Indian Key. Although the sea was perfectly smooth, paddling two deeply laden canoes proved heavy work for one person, and Worth would have doubtless become exhausted long before reaching his destination had not a light breeze sprung up at sunrise. Aided by this, he made such good progress that in less than an hour he was rounding the point of Indian Key, behind which the _Transit_ lay at anchor. Sumner, who had just turned out, was gazing wistfully back at Lignum Vitæ, as though it still held the young comrade whose loss caused him to feel so depressed, when he started as though he had been shot, at the sound of his own name, uttered with a joyous shout but a short distance from him. [Illustration: QUORUM RESIGNS HIMSELF TO FATE.] He could hardly credit his senses, or believe that he saw, sailing merrily towards him, the long-lost canoes, bearing the very friends on whose account he had been so anxious but a moment before. At the same time Worth was equally bewildered and overcome with joyful emotions. "Hurrah! Glory hallelujah!" shouted Sumner, in the fulness of rejoicing. At this sound Quorum started as though from a trance, and opened his eyes for the first time since leaving the light. Whether he tumbled out of the canoe accidently or on purpose, no one, not even himself, ever found out; but the next instant he was in the water, puffing like a porpoise, and swimming towards the land. Fortunately the distance was short, so that in a few minutes he reached the rocks and pulled himself out on them. There, scrambling to his feet, and with the water pouring from him, he shook his fist at the craft he had so unceremoniously deserted, exclaiming: "Dat's de fustes an' de lastes time ole Quor'm ebber go sailin' in er baby cradle! Yes, sah, de fustes an' de lastes!" CHAPTER XVII. AN ENTERTAINMENT ON THE KEY. How Quorum managed to tumble out of the _Psyche_ without upsetting her is a mystery, but he did it somehow. Seeing that he was easily making his way to the land, Worth continued on his course to the _Transit_, which he reached a minute later. The moment he stepped abroad, Sumner threw his arms about the boy with what was intended for a joyful hug. Worth returned it with interest. For a few seconds the two staggered about the deck in what looked decidedly like a wrestling match to the amused spectators of the scene, who had been attracted from below by Sumner's shout. Finally they tripped and rolled with a crash into the cockpit, where they scrambled to their feet, greeted by shouts of laughter from Lieutenant Carey and Ensign Sloe, while even the men forward were chuckling with ill-suppressed mirth. Had Sumner and Worth been a few years older, they would probably have expressed their joy over this happy and unexpected meeting with a cordial hand-shake, and a few inquiries after each other's welfare during their separation. That would have been a man's way. Happily, all boys are not men, nor are their ways men's ways. Any genuine boy will understand that nothing short of a wrestling match would have served to express the joy with which these two young hearts were relieved of the load of anxiety that had weighed so heavily upon them during the past three days. "But how did you know the canoes were out at the light, Worth?" inquired Sumner, after the first boisterous greeting was over. "Excuse me! Let me introduce you to Lieutenant Carey and Ensign Sloe. And how did you get there? And how did you know that we were here?" exclaimed Sumner, in a breath, as soon as he had regained his feet. "The keeper told us," answered Worth, shaking hands with those to whom he had just been introduced. "And I didn't know you were here. How did you get here, and what became of the raft? Did you ever see anything so absurd as Quorum? I don't believe he has opened his eyes since we left the light, and I actually thought he was turning white, he was so scared. Oh, Sumner, I never was so happy in my life!" "Nor I," answered Sumner; "and if I ever leave you again, you young scamp, before delivering you safe and sound to your lawful guardians, you'll know it." "And you may be mighty sure I won't be left again," answered Worth. "No, siree! From this time on, you'll think I'm your shadow, I'll stick to you so close." By this time Quorum had been brought aboard, and Sumner, shaking hands with him, gravely congratulated him upon having formed the habit of taking a plunge bath before breakfast. With a reproachful look at the lad, and without deigning to reply to his banter, Quorum turned away and dived into the little forward galley. Here he quickly made himself at home, and all the time he was drying by the galley stove he could be heard entertaining the colored cook of the _Transit_ with a thrilling description of his recent voyage in "dat ar tickly nutshell. Mo' like er wash-basin dan er 'spectible boat; an' ef I don't hole her down wif bofe han's till dey done achin', she flop ober like er flapjack. I tell yo', chile, hit's er sperience sich as I don't want no mo' ob in all my sailin'." Around the breakfast-table in the tiny after-saloon Sumner and Worth were comparing experiences and discussing their plans for the future. "I tell you what it is, Sumner," exclaimed Worth, "I don't know about cruising any farther up this reef, where we are likely at any time to be seized and carried off to sea by some Jew-fish or other marine monster. Seems to me it's taking a big risk." "Then why not come with us through the 'Glades?" laughed Lieutenant Carey. "There aren't any Jew-fish there. It will be almost the same as cruising on dry land all the way, and we'll bring you out at Cape Florida, the very point you are aiming for." "I think that would be fine," answered Worth, who had no more idea of the nature of the Everglades than he had of the moon. "What do you say, Sumner?" "It's the very thing I should most love to do," replied Sumner. "Then you will go with us?" asked the Lieutenant. "Yes, sir, we will," answered both the boys. "Good! That settles it. Now do you suppose we can persuade your old darkey to go along as cook? I think you said he was a good one, Sumner?" "Indeed he is!" exclaimed Worth; "the very best I ever knew. Oh yes, we must have Quorum along by all means." When the plan was laid before him, Quorum shook his head doubtfully, and said: "I allus hear dem Ebberglades is a ter'ble place. Dey's full ob lions an' tigers, sayin' nuffin' ob wild Injuns an' cannon-balls" (probably Quorum meant cannibals). "But ef dem two chilluns boun' ter go, I spec' ole Quor'm hab ter go 'long ter look after um, an' see dat dey's kep' outen danger. Hit's er mighty owdacious undertaking fer de ole man; but dish yere er peart-looking wessel, an' maybe she take us troo all right." "But we are not going in this vessel," laughed Sumner. "We couldn't take her through the 'Glades." "How yo go, den?" asked the negro, looking up quickly. "Not in them tickly li'l' cooners?" "Yes, some of us will go in the canoes, but you will have a much larger boat; one that you can't possibly upset." "When I see him, den I tell yo' ef I er gwine." And this was the only promise that Quorum could be induced to give. "Very well," said Lieutenant Carey, when this was reported to him; "we will rig up the cruisers, and let Quorum sail one of them in to Lignum Vitæ. One of the men shall take the other, you two will sail your own canoes, and I will sail mine, while Mr. Sloe shall follow with the _Transit_. When Mr. Haines sees us coming he'll think he is looking at a regatta of the Reef Yacht Club." This plan suited the boys perfectly, and the next two hours were spent in getting all the boats into the water, overhauling sails, spars, etc. When Quorum saw the Barnegat cruiser that was assigned to him, he declared, "Hit done look like er punkin seed, an' I don't beliebe hit fit fer sailin' nohow." It was only with the greatest difficulty that he could be persuaded to try the strange-looking craft. When he finally did so, his eyes opened wide with astonishment at her speed and stiffness, and the ease with which she was handled. Each of the cruisers carried a large sprit-sail, and was fitted with a pair of oars. They were provided with centre-boards, were fair sailers, easy to row, practically non-capsizable, and capable of carrying heavy loads without materially increasing their draught. Quorum was a good sailor, and as soon as he became somewhat accustomed to his craft he began to handle her in a way that showed an appreciation of her qualities. When he shot ahead, after a little brush with the other cruiser, the _Melon Seed_--as he termed her--his black face fairly beamed with delight. "Your man is as tickled with that boat as a child with a new toy," remarked Lieutenant Carey to Sumner, "and I guess there is no doubt now but what he will go with us." The Lieutenant's open paddling canoe was fitted with a leg-of-mutton sail, but no centre-board. Thus the sail was only available for running before the wind, which on this occasion happened to be fair. The three canoes and the two cruisers, starting on their race to Lignum Vitæ, formed a very pretty sight. As they were followed by the _Transit_, and by the schooner that had carried Worth and Quorum to Indian Key, which came along on her return trip just then, it is no wonder that Mr. Haines regarded the approaching fleet with astonishment. The race was won by Sumner in the _Psyche_, with Quorum in his _Punkin Seed_, and wildly excited, close behind. The other three were well bunched, and the two schooners were worked under foresails only, to keep from running them down. All hands were made heartily welcome by the proprietor of Lignum Vitæ, who was made happy by the information that they proposed to stay there that night. On hearing this he immediately began to plan a grand dinner to which everybody was invited, and an entertainment for the evening. He and Lieutenant Carey spent the afternoon in arranging for the entertainment, the four cooks, with Quorum at their head, spent it in preparing a most elaborate dinner, and the others spent it fishing and sailing match races between the various small boats. As the hours flew busily and happily by, Sumner and Worth wondered how they could ever have felt wretched and forlorn in such a pleasant place. The dinner, which was served shortly before sunset, was a veritable feast. On its bill of fare appeared oysters, green-turtle soup, fish chowder, turtle steaks, baked kingfish, stewed ducks, roasted 'possum, a variety of canned vegetables, an immense plum duff, canned fruits, crackers, cheese, and coffee; while the whole was seasoned with the sauce of hearty appetites and capital digestions. It was a substantial meal, as well as a merry one, and it gave Worth Manton a new insight into the possibilities of life on the Florida Keys. By hard work Mr. Haines had succeeded in raising the frame of the little one-story house that he intended to occupy, and in getting the floor laid. This was to be the scene of the entertainment, and an hour or so after dinner all hands were collected here. Several large bonfires shed a cheerful light on the circle of expectant faces, and cast wavering shadows over the platform. The first number on the programme was an overture by the Lignum Vitæ Band, which consisted of Mr. Haines's banjo, Lieutenant Carey's guitar, Ensign Sloe's violin, and a flute played by one of the _Transit's_ men. Then Worth danced a clog, and was received with immense applause. He was followed by Sumner, who performed a number of sleight-of-hand tricks that drew forth exclamations of astonishment from the negroes. A mouth-organ quartet by four of the negro hands, was followed by Mr. Haines's banjo solo. This was of such an inspiring character that all the negroes patted time to it, and finally Quorum sprang upon the platform and, with his beloved pipe still held tightly between his teeth, began to shuffle a breakdown in such a comical manner that it was received with tumultuous applause and roars of laughter. Solo and chorus singing followed, and the entertainment wound up with the singing of "Annie Laurie" by a quartet of sailors. Both Sumner and Worth were certain that they had never passed a more enjoyable evening, and were almost sorry that they had promised to leave there and start for the Everglades on the following morning. [Illustration: QUORUM DANCES A BREAK-DOWN.] CHAPTER XVIII. OFF FOR THE EVERGLADES. Both Sumner and Worth were by this time quite used to being turned out of bed while it was still dark, and told that it was morning and time to make a start. So, when the familiar summons was heard, a few hours after their evening of fun, they obeyed them, though not without some sleepy grumblings and protests. The stars were still shining when they went on deck for a look at the weather, and they shivered with the chill of the damp night air. There were faint evidences of daylight, however, and the welcome fragrance of coffee was issuing from the galley. They felt better after drinking a cup of it, but did not consider themselves fairly awake until the sails were hoisted, the anchor lifted, and the _Transit_ began to move slowly out from under Lignum Vitæ. Just as they were getting fairly under way, a sleepy hail of "Good-bye, and good-luck to you!" came from the edge of the forest on the key where the night shadows still lingered. Then, with answering shouts of "Good-bye, Mr. Haines! Good-bye to Lignum Vitæ!" they were off. The reason for such an early start was that, with four boats in tow, even the _Transit_ could not be expected to make very good speed, and Mr. Carey was anxious to cover the sixty-mile run to Cape Sable before dark. For the first three hours Sumner was kept constantly at the helm, directing the course of the schooner through a multiplicity of tortuous channels, between coral reefs, oyster-bars, and a score of low-lying mangrove keys. All this time Lieutenant Carey stood beside him, keeping track of the courses steered and noting on his chart the position of the channels, together with the names of the keys, so far as Sumner was able to give them. The knowledge that the lad displayed of these uncharted waters, and the skill with which he handled the schooner, so excited the lieutenant's admiration that he finally said: "I declare, Sumner, I don't believe there is a better pilot in the whole Key West sponging fleet than you! How on earth do you remember it all?" "I don't know," laughed Sumner, "I expect it comes natural, as the man said when asked what made him so lazy." "Well," said the lieutenant, "I am mighty glad to have you along instead of that fellow Bust Norris, though he did intimate that your ignorance of the reef would get us into trouble. He was greatly cut up when I told him that, as you were going with me, I should not require his services, and tried to say some mean things about you; but I shut him up very quickly. He doesn't seem to be a friend of yours, though." "I don't know why he shouldn't be," replied Sumner, "I am sure I feel friendly enough towards him. I suppose it must be because I wouldn't let him try my canoe the other day, and left him on the buoy that night. I only meant that as a joke though, and was just about to start out for him, when I saw a fisherman pick him up." Here Sumner related the incident referred to, and the lieutenant said, as Mr. Manton had, that the fellow was rightly served. Then the subject was dropped, and they thought of it no more. As they were now in open water, with all traces of land rapidly fading in the distance behind them, Sumner laid a course for Sandy Key, the only one they would see before reaching Cape Sable, resigned the tiller, and invited Worth to try his hand at trolling. The _Transit_ being well provided with fishing tackle they soon had two long trolling lines towing astern. Worth said he was going in for big fish, and so attached to the end of his line a bright leaden squid terminating in a heavy, finely-tempered hook. Sumner, believing that there would be as much sport and more profit in trying for those that were smaller, but more plentiful, used a much lighter hook, baited with a bit of white rag. Worth would not believe that any fish could be so foolish as to bite at such a bait. His incredulity quickly vanished, however, as Sumner began to pull in, almost as fast as he could throw his line overboard, numbers of Crevallé, or "Jack," beautiful fellows tinted with amber, silver, and blue, and Spanish mackerel, one of the finest fish in southern waters. Seeing that Sumner was having all the fun, while he could not get a bite, Worth began to haul in his line with a view to putting on a smaller hook, and baiting it with a bit of rag. Suddenly there was a swish through the water, a bar of silver gleamed for an instant in the air, a hundred feet astern, and Worth's line began to whiz through his hands with lightning-like rapidity. With a howl of pain, he dropped it as though it had been a red-hot coal, and began dancing about the cockpit, wringing his hands and blowing his fingers. "Snub him, Worth, quick! or he'll have your line," cried Sumner, springing to his friend's assistance. "It's a barracuda, and a big one!" He got a turn around the rudder-post just in time to save the line, and then began a fight that set the young fisherman's blood to tingling with excitement. In spite of his smarting fingers, Worth insisted upon pulling in his own fish; while the barracuda seemed equally intent upon pulling his captor overboard. Such leaping and splashing, such vicious tugs and wild rushes ahead, astern, and off to one side, as that barracuda made, were far beyond anything in the way of fishing that Worth had ever experienced. For ten minutes the fight was maintained with equal vigor on both sides. Every inch of slack was carefully taken in. With the stout rudder-post to aid him, Worth was slowly but surely gaining the victory, and the great, steely-blue fish was drawn closer and closer to the schooner. At length he was within fifty feet, and Worth's flushed face was lighting with triumph, when, all at once there came a rush of some vast, white object astern. A huge pair of open jaws, lined with glistening rows of teeth, closed with a vicious snap, and a moment later Worth, whose face was a picture of bewildered amazement, pulled in the head of his fish minus its body. "Was it a whale, do you think?" he asked, soberly, turning to Sumner. "No," replied the other, laughing at his companion's crestfallen appearance, "but it was the biggest kind of a shark, and he would have snapped you in two as easily as he did that barracuda, if you had been at that end of the line." By noon they had left Sandy Key astern, and before sunset they had passed the stately cocoanut groves on Cape Sable and Palm Point, and were rounding Northwest Cape. Just at dusk they headed into a creek, not more than twenty feet wide, and directly afterwards came to anchor in the deep, roomy basin to which it was the entrance. The basin was already occupied by a small sloop, and as Sumner's knowledge of those waters did not extend beyond that point, Lieutenant Cary anticipated being able to gain some information from her crew. With this in view he anchored but a short distance from her, and after everything was made snug for the night, he hailed her with: "Hello on board the sloop!" "Hello yourself! What schooner is that?" "The Government schooner _Transit_, and I should be very glad to see any of you on board." "Where are you bound?" "Into the 'Glades. Will you come over after a while, or shall I go aboard the sloop? I want to have a talk with you." "I reckon we'll come over." "Those fellows don't seem inclined to be very sociable," remarked the Lieutenant to Ensign Sloe, as they went down into the cabin to supper. At the same time Sumner was saying to Worth, "I wonder who that fellow is? His voice sounded very familiar." When they again came on deck after supper, the night was so dark that they could not see the sloop, though they supposed her to be lying close to them. "Hello aboard the sloop!" again hailed Lieutenant Carey. There was no answer, nor did several hails serve to bring a reply of any kind. "Let's take my canoe and go for a look at those fellows, Sumner," said the Lieutenant. "They have quite excited my curiosity." In a few minutes the canoe was afloat, and its occupants were paddling in the direction of where the sloop was thought to lie. For half an hour they paddled back and forth, and in circles, being guided in their movements by the bright riding light of the _Transit_. Once they struck a floating oar that seemed to be attached to a cable; but they could discover no trace of the sloop, nor did their repeated hailings bring forth a single answer. At length, greatly perplexed by such unaccountable behavior on the part of the sloop's crew, and nearly devoured by the clouds of mosquitoes that swarmed above the lagoon, they returned to the schooner, and thankfully sought the shelter of her wire-screened cabin. CHAPTER XIX. THE CANOES ARE AGAIN LOST, AND AGAIN FOUND. In that snug harbor there was so little chance of danger that no watch was kept, and all hands turning in, after a pleasant evening spent in smoking and discussing plans, slept soundly until morning. Although the sun had gone down in a blaze of ominous glory the evening before, and the breeze had died out in an absolute calm, no one was fully prepared for the wonderful change of scene disclosed by the morning. While their land-locked harbor was still as placid as a mill-pond where they were anchored, it was blackened and roughened by the gusts of fierce squalls but a short distance from them. The continuous roar of breakers outside denoted a furious sea, the cause of which was shown by the lashing tree-tops and the howlings of a gale overhead. The sky was hidden behind masses of whirling clouds, while after the tropical weather to which they had become accustomed, the air seemed very cold, though the mercury had not fallen below 50°. The gale was a typical Norther, that, sweeping down from Texas prairies, had gathered strength in its unchecked progress across the Gulf, and was now hurling itself with furious energy against the low Florida coast. "Whew! What a day!" cried Sumner, as he emerged from the warm cabin and stood shivering in the cockpit. "I tell you what, old man, I'm glad we are in this snug haven, instead of outside." "So am I," said Worth, who had followed Sumner, and to whom these remarks were addressed. "I'm afraid canoes would stand a pretty sorry chance out there just now." "Canoes! Well, I should say so! They'd be--Great Scott! Where _are_ the canoes and the cruisers?" Sumner had just taken his first glance astern, and as he uttered this exclamation he sprang to the little after-deck, and stared about him. The three canoes and the two cruisers had been left for the night attached to a single stout line which was made fast to the _Transit's_ rudder-post. Now they were gone, and not a sign of them was to be seen as far as the eye could reach. "If that doesn't beat anything I ever heard of!" exclaimed Sumner, in bewilderment. "I should think a jew-fish big enough to take them all might just as well have taken the schooner, too," said Worth. "Yes, I expect she will be stolen from under us the next thing we know," replied Sumner, "and I expect if we ever get our canoes again we'd better put them into a burglar-proof safe and hire a man with a dog to watch them nights. I never heard of anybody losing canoes as easily as we do. Where do you suppose they can have gone to, sir?" This question was addressed to Lieutenant Carey, who, together with Ensign Sloe, had been attracted to the deck by Sumner's first dismayed exclamation. "I've no more idea than you have," replied the Lieutenant, gravely. "The jew-fish is not to blame this time, at any rate, for there was no anchor down that he could get hold of, and this rope has evidently been cut." Here the speaker displayed the end of the rope that had hung over the stern, and pointed to the clean cut by which it had been severed. "It is evident that some human agency has been at work," he continued, "and I am inclined to connect it with the strange behavior of the fellows on that sloop; though what their object in stealing our boats was, I can't imagine. It is a very serious matter to us, however, and one that calls for prompt investigation. As this wind must have sprung up early in the night, it is hardly probable that the boats can have been taken out to sea, and if they were not they must be somewhere in this lagoon, perhaps concealed in the mangroves, or in one of the sloughs that empty into it. It is lucky that we have the canvas boat left, for I should hate to try and navigate the _Transit_ in these unknown waters with such a gale blowing." The canvas boat, of which the Lieutenant spoke, was a folding affair that was stowed under the cockpit floor, and was a part of the schooner's regular outfit. Although it was very light, it could easily accommodate three persons, and was a capital thing to fall back on in an emergency like the present. Mr. Carey ordered it to be got out and put in shape at once. After breakfast he and Sumner, with one of the crew to row, stepped into it and started on their search. They skirted the shore as closely as possible, both to escape the force of the wind, and that they might the more carefully examine the dense mangrove thickets that, with occasional stretches of white beach, formed the coast-line. The mangrove, which here attains the size of oaks, is one of the most curious of trees, and in one particular closely resembles the banyan. Its small yellow blossom, which is eagerly sought by honey-bees, forms a long brown seed about the size and shape of a cigar. This, falling off, readily takes root in mud-flats, beneath shallow salt or brackish water, and shoots up a straight slender stem having numerous branches. Some of these branches bend downward to the water, sending their tips into the mud, where they in turn take root. At length the tree is thus surrounded by a circle of woody arches that soon become strong enough to support the weight of a man. As the tree increases in height, the upper branches send down long straight shoots that also take root and form independent trunks. Mangroves grow with marvellous rapidity, and quickly cover large areas, where their thickly interlaced, arching roots hold all manner of drift and sea-weed, until finally a soil is formed in which the seeds of coarse grasses and other vegetation sprout and flourish. Thus, in the course of time, an island of dry land appears and is lifted above the water. In this way the coral reefs of the Florida coast are gradually transformed into verdant keys, the mangrove taking up and continuing the work of island building just below the surface of the water, where the coral insect leaves off. The mangrove is covered with a thick foliage of small glossy leaves, that is such a favorite haunt for mosquitoes, that wherever mangroves grow, mosquitoes are found in countless millions. Skirting this wonderful mangrove forest, and occasionally penetrating shallow bayous in which herons, cranes, ibises, pelicans, and curlews swam and waded, the occupants of the canvas boat searched for several hours in vain. Finally, as they were on the opposite side of the broad lagoon from their starting-point, and exposed to the full force of the wind, Sumner called out that he saw something that looked like masts on the edge of a distant clump of mangroves. It was no easy task to navigate successfully through the heavy sea running at this point; but when they had accomplished it, they were rewarded by seeing the entire missing fleet piled up in the greatest confusion among the mangroves, which at this place extended far out into the water. Before they reached them both the Lieutenant and Sumner were obliged to jump overboard in water above their waists, to prevent the canvas boat from swamping in the breakers. The picture presented by their stranded fleet looked like one of utter ruin. Sumner trembled for the fate of his precious canoe, and the Lieutenant wondered if his expedition had thus been brought to an untimely end. There was a small beach but a short distance away, to which the sailor took the canvas boat, and then returned to help them clear the wrecks. One by one the several craft, all of them full of water, were extricated from the tangled mass, and dragged to the beach for examination. The three canoes were found to be badly scratched, and damaged so far as looks went; but still sound and seaworthy. This was undoubtedly owing to their lightness, and the exceeding care with which canoes are built. In their construction the question of expense is not considered; consequently, being built of the best material, by the most skilful workmen, they are stronger than ordinary craft many times their size. Their sails were muddied and torn, and some of their slender spars were broken; but as most of their cargoes had been transferred to the _Transit_ before leaving Lignum Vitæ, this was the extent of their injury. Sumner was jubilant when a careful examination of every part of them revealed this fact; but Mr. Carey, who was devoting his attention to the cruisers, looked very grave. Both of them were badly stove, and it was evident that only extensive repairs could render them again fit for service. "Who could have done this thing, and why was it done?" he repeated over and over again in deep perplexity; while Sumner, equally at fault, tried to recall whose voice it was that had seemed so familiar when they had exchanged hails with the sloop. After emptying the canoes, and hauling the cruisers high up on the beach, where they were to be left for the present, the party set forth on their return trip. The Lieutenant went in his own canoe, Sumner in his, while the sailor in the canvas boat towed the _Cupid_. As they neared the schooner they saw her people pointing eagerly towards a bit of beach near the head of the creek through which they had entered the lagoon the evening before. Looking in that direction, they saw a white man beckoning to them and shouting, though they could not distinguish his words. Readily understanding that he was in distress of some kind, the Lieutenant and Sumner headed their canoes in his direction. As they neared him, they saw that he was hatless, and clad only in a shirt and trousers that were torn and water-soaked. The first words they could distinguish were: "Our boat is going to pieces outside, and Rust Norris is in her with a broken arm." "Rust Norris!" That was the name Sumner had been racking his memory for, and his was the voice that had come to them from the sloop on the preceding evening. CHAPTER XX. THE _PSYCHE_ AS A LIFE-BOAT. "Just where does the sloop lie?" asked Sumner, as the bow of his canoe ran on to the beach where the man stood. The latter explained the position of the stranded vessel so clearly that the boy, who was familiar with the locality, comprehended it in a moment. "She's about a mile from the mouth of the creek, and a quarter off shore," said the man. "When the tide went down I partly swum and partly waded to the beach. I don't know how I ever got ashore alive, but the thought of poor Rust out there kinder nerved me on, and so I made it at last. I wouldn't do it again, though, for all the money in Key West. Now I've been here so long waiting for help, and the tide's rising again so fast, that I'm afraid it's all day with poor Rust. If he ain't swept off the wrack by this time he soon will be, and I don't know as there is anything can be done for him. It wouldn't be possible for the schooner to get anywhere near the wrack, she's dragged in so fur over the reefs, and the small boat isn't built that could live in them seas." "Yes, she is," said Sumner, quietly, but with a very pale face; "this boat that I am sitting in can live out there, and she's got to do it, too." So saying, he set his double-bladed paddle into the sand, and with a vigorous shove sent the light craft gliding backward into deep water. The man stared at him in speechless amazement, while the Lieutenant called out: "Don't try it, Sumner! You must be crazy to think of such a thing! You'll only be throwing away your own life for nothing! Come back, and we'll think of some other plan." "There isn't time to think of another plan," Sumner called back over his shoulder. "I must go, and I know I can do it. If you will have some of the men out there on the beach, ready to help us land, we'll make it easy enough. Good-bye!" Impelled by vigorous strokes of Sumner's paddle, the _Psyche_ was already gliding down the smooth waters of the sheltered creek, and it was too late to restrain the impetuous young canoeman from carrying out his project. Realizing this, and also that Sumner's plan, hazardous as it seemed, was the only feasible one, Lieutenant Carey, with a heavy heart, set about doing his own share of the work in hand. He took the stranger off to the schooner, and after swallowing a cup of hot coffee, of which he stood greatly in need, the man declared himself ready to guide a party to the beach opposite the place where the sloop lay. Dinner was ready and waiting on board the _Transit_, but nobody thought of stopping to eat a mouthful after learning the news of what was taking place. The sole anxiety was to reach the beach as quickly as possible. The instant the stranger said he was ready, all hands, except those ordered to remain by the schooner, began to tumble into the available canoes, eager to be set ashore. Poor Worth was sadly distressed when he heard of the terrible task undertaken by his friend, but he tried to cheer himself and the others by declaring that if any boat could live outside it was the canoe _Psyche_, and if any living sailor could carry her through the seas, whose angry roar filled the air, it was Sumner Rankin. In the mean time the brave young fellow who was the object of all this anxiety had reached the mouth of the creek. There, in a sheltered spot, he paused for a few minutes to take breath and make his final preparations for a plunge into the roaring breakers outside. He set taut the foot steering gear, took double reefs in both his sails, saw that the halyards were clear and ready for instant service, adjusted the rubber apron so that the least possible water should enter the cockpit, and then, with a firm grasp of his paddle, he shoved off. In another minute he was breasting the huge, combing breakers of the outer bar, and working with desperate energy to force his frail craft through or over them. The roar of waters was deafening, while the fierce gusts rendered breathing difficult. At one moment the sharp bow of the canoe would point vaguely towards the sky, while the next would see it directed into a watery abyss, and plunging downward as though never to rise again. At such moments the rudder would be lifted from the water, and only the most skilful use of the paddle prevented the canoe from broaching to and being rolled over and over, to be finally dashed in fragments on the beach. Again and again the wave crests broke on her deck, sweeping her fore and aft with a blinding mass of hissing water. Still the boy's strength held out, still his paddle was wielded with regular strokes, and finally he came off victorious in this first bout of his fierce, single-handed struggle. The line of breakers was passed, and riding over the comparatively regular seas beyond, he began working dead to windward for an offing. Not until he was a good half-mile off shore, and very nearly exhausted by his tremendous efforts, did he push back the rubber apron, drop his centre-board, and then, steadying the canoe with his paddle, seize a favorable opportunity for hoisting the tiny after-sail that should keep her momentarily headed into the wind. Then, quickly unjointing his paddle and thrusting its parts into the cockpit, he grasped the halyard, and with a single pull set the double-reefed main-sail. Now was a most critical moment, for as he pulled in on the main-sheet, and the sail began to feel the full force of the wind, the little craft heeled over gunwale under. Only by promptly scrambling to the weather-deck, and sitting with his feet braced under the lee coaming, while his whole body was thrown out far over the side, did he prevent her from capsizing. Then she gathered headway and dashed forward. With one hand on the deck tiller, and holding the main-sheet in the other, the boy peered anxiously ahead. Yes, there was the wreck! Oh, so far away! with clouds of white spray dashing high above it. Could he ever reach it through those tumultuous seas? Lifting him high in the air, where he was exposed to the full force of the wind at one moment, they towered above the deep trough into which he sank at the next, and left his bits of sails shaking as if in a calm. With full confidence in himself and his boat, he believed he could reach it--and he did. He had no time to look at the anxious watchers on the beach, but they noted his every movement with painful eagerness. They almost held their breath as some huge wave tossed him high aloft, and again as he was completely hidden from them behind its foam-capped crest. At length they saw him reach a point abreast the wreck, round sharply to under its lee, and seize his paddle. In another minute he was on board, with the first half of his task accomplished. He found Rust Norris crouching in the lee of the little deck-house, nearly exhausted with pain, hours of cold drenching, and the terror of his position. The wreck was trembling so violently with each shock of the seas that it seemed as though she must break up beneath their feet. Rust's left arm was supported in a rude sling made from a strip of his shirt knotted about his neck. He did not speak as the boy bent over him, but an expression of glad surprise and renewed hope lighted his haggard face. [Illustration: "HE FOUND RUST NORRIS CROUCHING IN THE LEE OF THE LITTLE DECK-HOUSE."] "Come, Rust," shouted Sumner; "with one big effort you'll be all right. They are waiting for you on the beach, and the canoe will carry you that far easy enough, if you can only manage to get into her. You will have to sit low down and steer with your feet while you hold the sheet in your hand. All you'll have to do is to run her in dead before the wind, head on for the beach." With infinite difficulty the wounded man was finally seated in the narrow cockpit of the frail craft. A moment later it was shoved off from the trembling wreck, and was racing with fearful speed towards the beach. It seemed to leap from the top of one huge wave to the next without sinking into the intervening hollow. Not until it was dragged safely ashore by those who rushed into the breakers to meet the flying craft did Rust Norris realize that he was her sole occupant. CHAPTER XXI. SUMNER'S SELF-SACRIFICE. If Rust Norris had not been rendered so nearly helpless by his broken arm, Sumner would have endeavored to make the _Psyche_ bear them both safely to land, if not by carrying them, at least by supporting them while they swam alongside. On his way to the wrecked sloop he had thought that perhaps this might be done, but as soon as he discovered Rust's real condition he knew that he might as well leave him there to drown as to attempt to burden the light craft with their double weight. At that moment the lad made up his mind that Rust should have the canoe to himself, and that he would take whatever chance of escape still remained. Thus he had resolutely shoved the canoe off, with its single occupant, while he stayed behind, clinging to the leeward mast-stay, and watching with eager eyes the perilous passage to the beach of the man for whom he had risked so much. The act was a bit of that coolly-planned self-sacrificing heroism that stamps true bravery, and distinguishes it from recklessness. In his exhausted and partially dazed condition, Rust did not realize the sacrifice made by his young deliverer until the canoe had been snatched from the breakers by a dozen willing hands, and drawn high on the beach beyond their cruel grasp. Then, on looking for the boy and seeing that he had remained behind, he uttered a great cry, and sank down limp and helpless on the wet sand. Those on shore had seen from the first that only one was coming in the canoe, while one was left behind, but they had not known which was approaching them until the _Psyche_ was dragged from the breakers. Worth was in an agony of despair at his friend's peril. "Let me go to him!" he cried. "I would rather drown than stand here without trying to save him!" "No; let me go! Let me go!" cried the others; and they made frantic attempts to again launch the canoe through the breakers; but they might as well have tried to launch it through a stone wall. Again and again was it hurled back, while those who strove to launch it were torn from their footing and flung upon the beach. Then there was a shout of "Here he comes! He is in the water!" and then they strained their eyes in vain for another glimpse of their well-loved young comrade. Sumner had indeed taken the plunge, but not voluntarily. He had determined to remain by the sloop until she broke up and he was compelled to swim, or until the falling tide should render the passage of that seething maelstrom less terrible. Thus thinking, he was about to seek the poor shelter in which he had found Rust, when a great wave, rushing over the wreck, swept him from it, and buried him beneath tons of its mighty volume. As he came gasping to the surface he was again almost immediately overwhelmed and borne under. Still, he had drawn a breath of air, and had noted the direction of the beach. He knew that, sooner or later, alive or dead, the waves would cast him ashore. So, without trying to swim forward, he devoted all his energies to reaching the surface, and breathing as often as possible. It seemed as though he were merely rising and sinking, without moving forward an inch, and it required all his self-control to keep from exhausting himself by violent struggles to make a perceptible headway. He retained his presence of mind, however, and after a half-hour of battle the very waves seemed to acknowledge his victory, and tossed him up within sight of the watchers, who had given up all hope except that of finding his lifeless body. They uttered a glad shout; but it was checked as he was again buried from their sight. Again he appeared, and this time much nearer. Then Lieutenant Carey rushed into the water. Behind him Worth, Quorum, and the others formed a line, tightly grasping each other's hands, and at length the swimmer was within their reach. With cries of exultant joy, they bore him up the beach and laid him on the sand; but their rejoicing was quickly succeeded by consternation. He lay with closed eyes, cold, and apparently lifeless. "Hurry to the schooner, Worth, and tell them to have hot water, hot blankets, and a roaring fire ready by the time we get there," demanded the Lieutenant. "We will bring him as quickly as possible." For hours they worked over the senseless form of the brave lad. So nearly had the sea accomplished its cruel purpose that, but for the lessons learned by the workers years before at Annapolis, Sumner Rankin's life would have been given in exchange for that of Rust Norris. At length a faint color tinged his cheeks, a faint breath came from between his lips, and they knew that their efforts had not been in vain. An hour later he was sleeping quietly, and it was certain that Nature would complete the work of restoration. Then the same skill that had snatched life from apparent death was directed to the setting and proper bandaging of Rust's broken arm. The Norther continued to blow all that night and the following day, and during this period of enforced idleness Sumner was not allowed to leave his berth. His every want was anticipated, and those who surrounded him vied with each other in their tender care of the lad who had so well won their regard and admiration. As for Rust Norris, his whole nature seemed to have undergone such a change that his former intimates would hardly have recognized him. He sat and watched constantly beside the boy to whom he owed so much, and could hardly be persuaded to leave him for the briefest intervals. During that second day of storm he made a full confession of how and why he had attempted to thwart the objects of Lieutenant Carey's expedition. His enmity had been particularly directed towards Sumner, and when the latter instead of himself had been chosen to pilot the _Transit_ up the reef, he had formed a plan of revenge that he immediately proceeded to carry out. This was to visit the Everglade Indians, and inform them that the expedition was for the purpose of spying out their lands and preparing for their removal to a far-away country of cold and snow, where they would certainly die. To accomplish this he had joined a Bahama smuggler, and with a cask of rum as a cargo, they had sailed in the small sloop owned by the latter for Cape Sable. Here they met a party of Indians who had come down from the 'Glades on a deer-hunt, and after plying them with rum, roused them to anger by their lying tale concerning the coming expedition. The Indians had departed to spread the report to the rest of their band, and to devise plans for frustrating the supposed purpose of the expedition. Their departure had taken place on the day of the _Transit's_ arrival on the coast, and but for the signs of the approaching Norther, Rust Norris and his companion would have left the lagoon in which they were so snugly anchored that afternoon. Noting these signs they decided to remain where they were until it should blow over. They had no idea when the _Transit_ would reach the cape, nor did they suppose that Sumner was aware of the passage into the lagoon. It was therefore with surprise and consternation that they found those whom they had attempted to injure anchored close beside them. They at once determined to take advantage of the darkness to run out of the lagoon before the storm broke, and seek another shelter among the mangrove keys a short distance farther inland. They slipped their cable, not daring to lift the anchor for fear the sound might be heard on board the schooner, and drifted down to the mouth of the creek with the last of the ebb-tide. Here, while waiting for a breeze, Rust conceived the idea of effectually crippling the expedition by stealing their boats, and went back up the creek for that purpose. He cut them loose from the schooner and attempted to tow them silently down to where the sloop lay, but as the tide had turned and was flooding strongly up the creek, he found it impossible to do so. So he turned them adrift in the belief that they would be driven to the farther side of the lagoon, and dashed to pieces by the storm that was about to break. At any rate, the expedition would be so long delayed in recovering their boats that the news of their coming would be spread over the length and breadth of the Everglades before they could enter them. So much time had thus been wasted that before the sloop could be taken to the proposed place of safety the storm burst in all its fury. They were forced to seek refuge in another place that was partially exposed, but where with two anchors they could probably have ridden out the gale. With but one, they were dragged from their moorings soon after daylight, and driven on the reef where the sloop now lay. Rust's arm had been broken by the gybing of the main boom, and, left alone, exposed to the fury of those raging seas, he had given up all hope long before Sumner came to his rescue. "And to think," said Rust, in conclusion, "that the fellow to whom I was doing all this meanness should have come after me and offered to throw away his own life to save mine! I tell you, gentlemen, it makes me feel meaner 'n a toad-fish!" CHAPTER XXII. GOOD-BYE TO THE _TRANSIT_ That night the Norther broke, and by the following morning the weather was of that absolutely perfect character that makes the winter the most delightful season of the year in southern Florida. The sun shone with unclouded splendor, fish leaped from the clear waters, gay-plumaged birds flitted among the mangroves, and made the air vocal with their happy songs. All nature was full of life and rejoicing. [Illustration: REPAIRING THE "PUNKIN SEED".] Although Lieutenant Carey was much disturbed by learning that false reports had been spread among the Indians concerning the nature of his expedition, and realized that its difficulties would be greatly increased thereby, he had no thought of abandoning it. Therefore, by the earliest daylight, preparations were made for repairing the damaged cruisers, and putting them in condition for a new start. The stanch little _Psyche_ had been brought down the beach the day before. There was a good supply of tools aboard the schooner, and Sumner, who had fully recovered his strength, was found to be so expert a shipwright that he was intrusted with planning and directing the repairs to the cruisers, while the Lieutenant, with several men, went to examine into the condition of the wrecked sloop, and see what could be done with her. They found her injuries so much less than was expected, that within three days she had been hauled off the reef and rendered sufficiently seaworthy for the voyage back to Key West. In this time also Sumner finished his job on the cruisers, and they were again in thorough order for the work required of them. Rust Norris was able to render them one service, by guiding them to some cisterns from which they obtained the supply of fresh-water, without which they would not have dared proceed on their cruise. His companion, who was a good hunter and well acquainted with the game resorts of that vicinity, provided them with plenty of fresh venison. He also won Worth's regard by giving him a turkey call, or whistle, made from one of the wing-bones of a wild turkey, and taking him off before daylight one morning on a turkey hunt. From this the boy returned fully as proud as the fine gobbler he had shot had been a short time before. So elated was he by this success that he declared himself to be the hunter of the expedition from that time forth, and promised to provide it with all necessary meat. By the close of the third day after the storm everything was in readiness for a new start. That evening was spent in writing letters to be sent back by the sloop, and daylight of the following morning saw both vessels standing out of the lagoon. Once outside, the sloop bore away to the westward, its occupants waving their hats and shouting good wishes to those whom but a few days before they had tried their best to injure. "I declare!" said Sumner to Worth, "I don't know of anything that makes a fellow feel better than to succeed in turning an enemy into a friend. Now I shall always like Rust Norris, and he will always like me, while if no difficulty had arisen between us we might have been on speaking terms all our lives without caring particularly for each other." "But, Sumner!" exclaimed Worth, in a grieved tone, "aren't you ever going to care particularly for me, because we have never been enemies?" "Care for you, old man! After all we have gone through with together, and after all the anxiety we have had on account of each other? Why, Worth, if I cared any more for you than I do, I'd pack you up in cotton and send you home by express, for fear you might get hurt." "Then please don't," laughed the boy, "for I want to see the Everglades, and do some more hunting before I am sent home." Although Worth was so impatient to see the 'Glades, and though the _Transit_ was headed directly for them, he was obliged to content himself with seeing other things for some days to come. For a whole week the little schooner threaded her way through the most bewildering maze of islands, reefs, and channels known to this continent. There were thousands of keys of all sizes and shapes, and all covered with the mangroves that had built them. As for the oyster-bars, sand-bars, and reefs, they were so numerous that, in finding her way through them, the _Transit_ was headed to every point, half-point, and quarter-point of the compass during each hour of her sailing time. The number of times that she ran aground were innumerable, as were those that she was compelled to turn back from some blind channel and seek a new one. Through all this bewildering maze of keys and channels great tide rivers of crystal water continually ebbed and flowed. In them uncounted millions of fish, from huge silvery tarpon, vampire-like devil-fish, and ravenous sharks, down to tiny fellows, striped, spotted, or mottled with every hue of the rainbow, rushed and sported, chased and being chased, devouring and being devoured, but always affording a fascinating kaleidoscope of darting forms and flashing colors. Nor was the bird-life of these Ten Thousand Islands less interesting. It seemed as though the numbers of the great Wader and Soarer families collected here were almost as many as the fish on which they feasted. Whole regiments of stately flamingoes, clad in their pink hunting-coats, stood solemnly on the mud-flats. Squadrons of snow-white pelicans sailed in company with fleets of their more soberly plumaged comrades. Great snowy herons, little white herons, great blue herons, little blue herons, green herons, and yellow-legged herons mingled with cranes and curlews on the oyster-bars. Ducks of infinite variety, together with multitudes of coots and cormorants, floated serenely on the placid waters. Overhead, clouds of snowy ibises, outlined in pink by edgings of roseate spoon-bills, rose and fell and glinted in the bright sunlight. Gannets, gulls, and ospreys hovered above the fishing-grounds. Bald-headed eagles watched them from the tops of tall mangroves, ready at a moment's notice to pounce down and rob them of their prey. Far overhead, black specks against the brilliant blue of the sky, sailed, on motionless pinions, stately men-of-war hawks or frigate-birds--most graceful of all the soarers. All these, and many more, the mere naming of which would fill a chapter, flocked to these teeming fishing-grounds, and afforded a never-ending source of wonder and amusement to our young canoemates and their companions. Still, with all these, besides the unending difficulties of the navigation to occupy their minds, the end of a week found the boys heartily tired of mangrove keys and blind channels, and anxious for a change of scene. It was, therefore, with a feeling of decided relief that a dark, unbroken line, stretching north and south as far as the eye could reach, was finally sighted and pronounced to be the pine woods of the main-land. Approaching it with infinite difficulty on account of the rapidly shoaling water, they at length discovered a large stream, the water of which was brackish. It was evidently one of the numerous waterways draining the vast reservoirs of the 'Glades into the sea. Here the exploring party was to leave the _Transit_ and take to the smaller craft, in which they proposed to penetrate the interior. Again an evening was devoted to writing letters to be sent back by the schooner, and again all hands were ordered to turn out by daylight. Lieutenant Carey had decided to send one of the cruisers back, and to take but one besides the three canoes into the 'Glades. The recent difficulties of navigation had shown him that a full crew would be needed to carry the schooner back to deep water, and he also imagined that the fewer boats the explorers had to force through the 'Glades the easier they would get along. The Indians, too, would be less suspicious of a small party than of a large one. Thus he decided to limit the party to himself and the two boys in the canoes, with Quorum and one other man in the cruiser, or five in all. With a breakfast by lamplight, and the final preparations hurried as much as possible, the sun was just rising when the little fleet shoved off from the _Transit_, and with flashing paddles entered the mouth of the dark-looking river, the waters of which, in all probability, the keels of white men's boats were now to furrow for the first time. "Good-bye, Mr. Sloe! You want to hurry round to Cape Florida, or we'll be there first!" "Good-bye, Quorum! Look out for that woolly scalp of yours!" came from the schooner. "Good-bye! Good-luck! Good-bye!" and then the canoes rounded a wooded point, and were lost to sight of those who watched their first plunge into the trackless wilderness. CHAPTER XXIII. WORTH MEETS A PANTHER. To find themselves once more in their canoes, and to be gliding over unknown waters, with new scenes unfolding at every turn, was so exhilarating to the boys that they started up the river at racing speed, shouting and laughing as they went. They were about to disappear from the sight of the others around a bend of the stream when they were checked by a shout from Lieutenant Carey. As he joined them he said: "We must keep together, boys, and regulate our speed by that of the cruiser, for, in case of unforeseen difficulties or dangers, it won't do for us to be separated. I wouldn't make any more noise than is necessary either. There is no knowing what the Indians, whose country we are entering, may take it into their heads to do. While I do not anticipate any serious trouble from them, I would rather avoid them as much as possible, and by proceeding quietly we may escape their notice--at least for the present." For the first mile or two the river-banks were hidden beneath a dense growth of mangroves, though above these they could catch occasional glimpses of the tops of pines and tall palmettoes. The mangroves grew smaller and thinner, until finally they disappeared entirely, and on tasting the water over which they floated our voyagers found it to be fresh and sweet. "There is no danger of our suffering from thirst on this trip whatever may happen," said Sumner. They were close to one of the banks as he spoke, and from it there suddenly came a rushing sound, followed by the floundering splash of some huge body in the water, so close at hand that their canoes were violently rocked by the waves that immediately followed. The suddenness of the whole proceeding drew a startled cry from Worth. "What could it have been?" he asked in a low tone, and with a very white face. "Was it a hippopotamus, do you think?" He had seen the "hippos" splash into their tank in Central Park. "Not exactly," laughed Sumner, who, after a slight start, had quickly regained his composure. "It was a big alligator, and he went so close under my canoe that I could have touched him with the paddle." "Suppose he had upset us?" "There wasn't any danger of that; he was more scared than we were, but he knew enough to dive clear of us." "But if he should take it into his head to attack us?" "He won't, though. Mr. Alligator is a great coward. If he is disturbed while taking a sun-bath on shore, he makes a blind rush for the water in spite of all obstacles, but it is only because he is too frightened to do anything else. Once safely in the water, he is glad enough to sink quietly to the bottom without seeking the further acquaintance of his enemies. That has always been my experience with them, but then I have only known them where they were hunted a good deal. The fellows where we are going may be bolder, but I have never heard of alligators being anything but awful cowards." Partly reassured by this, Worth regarded the next alligator that he saw with greater composure, and before the day was over he hardly minded them at all. He certainly had an opportunity of becoming familiar with them, for they fairly swarmed in the river. Nearly every sand-spit showed from one to a dozen of them, of all sizes, lying motionless in the warm sunlight. Worth declared that some of them were twenty feet long; but Sumner laughed at him, and said that twelve or thirteen feet at most would be nearer the mark. In this statement he was supported by Lieutenant Carey, who said that even a fifteen-foot alligator would be a monster, and he doubted if one of that length had ever been seen. Most of the scaly brutes, after finding themselves safely in the water, would rise to the surface for one more look at the cause of their fright. In thus rising, they only displayed the tops of their heads, and as the canoes approached these would imperceptibly sink until only four black spots, indicating the eyes and nostrils, were visible. Then these, too, would disappear without leaving the faintest ripple to mark the place where they had been. Often a quick spurt would take the canoes to the spot in time for the boys to look down through the clear water and see the great black body lying motionless on the bottom, or darting swiftly away towards some safer hiding-place. Sometimes they saw tiny fellows, brightly marked with yellow, and but recently hatched, sunning themselves on broad lily-pads. These were never found in company with their elders, which, Lieutenant Carey said, was because their papas were too fond of eating them. When Sumner spoke of alligators' eggs and nests, Worth asked, innocently, if the mother alligators sat on their eggs like hens. At the mental picture thus presented Sumner laughed so heartily that he could hardly wield his paddle, but Lieutenant Carey explained that an alligator's nest is built of sticks, leaves, and grass, very like a musk-rat's house. "In the middle of this," he said, "are laid from twenty to forty thick-shelled, pure white eggs, about the size of the largest goose-eggs. These are left to be hatched by the heat of the sun and of the decomposing mass surrounding them. When they break their shells, the little fellows immediately scramble for the nearest water, where they are left to care for themselves without a suggestion of parental guidance or advice. In fact, they are wise enough from the very first to keep out of the way of their elders, whose only love for them seems to be that of an epicure for a dainty dish." "Aren't there crocodiles, too, in Florida?" asked Sumner. "Yes. Professor Hornaday mentions genuine crocodiles as being found in Biscayne Bay, on the east coast, where I hope we shall get a look at them. They are described as differing from alligators in the head, that of the crocodile being narrower and longer. The snout is sharper than that of an alligator, and at the end of the lower jaw are two long canine teeth or tusks that project through holes in the upper lip." "Him big fighter, too," remarked Quorum from the cruiser. "Him heap mo' wicked dan de 'gator. De Injun call him 'Allapatta hajo,' an' say hit mean mad 'gator." As the party advanced up the stream the current became so much stronger that the boys began to feel the effects of their steady paddling against it, and were no longer inclined to shoot ahead of the others. The foliage of the banks changed with each mile, and by noon the pines had given place to clumps of palmetto, bay, water-oak, wild fig, mastic, and other timber. Here and there were grassy glades, in more than one of which they caught tantalizing glimpses of vanishing white-tailed deer. The water began to assume an amber tint, and was so brilliantly clear that in looking down through it they could see great masses of coral rocks that often overshadowed the yawning mouths of dark chasms. Above these, whole meadows of the most beautiful grasses--red, green, purple, and yellow--streamed and waved with the ceaseless motion of the current. Schools of bright-hued fish darted through and over these, and turtles, plumping into the water from stranded logs or sunny sand-spits, could be seen scuttling away to their hiding-places among them. The noontide heat of the sun was intense as the signal for a halt was given. The boats were turned in towards a bank where a grass-plot, shaded by a clump of rustling palmettoes, offered a tempting resting-place. As they landed, Worth was certain that he saw a flock of turkeys disappear in a small hammock back of the clearing. With his new-born hunting instinct strong within him, he seized his gun and crossed the glade, in the hope of getting a shot. He had practised constantly on the call given him by his instructor, and now felt competent to deceive even the most experienced gobbler. Advancing cautiously within cover of the hammock, and seating himself on a log that was completely concealed by a screen of bushes, he began to call, "Keouk, keouk, keouk." For ten minutes or so he repeated the sounds at short intervals without getting a reply. Suddenly, a slight rustle in the bushes behind him caused Worth to turn his head. Within a yard of him glared a pair of cruel green eyes. With a yell of terror the boy dropped his gun, sprang to his feet, burst from the bushes, and fled wildly towards camp. Reaching it in safety, but hatless and breathless, he declared that a tiger had been crouched, and just about to spring at him. "Perhaps it was a 'coon," suggested Sumner. "'Coon, indeed?" cried Worth, hotly. "If you had seen the size of its eyes, you would have thought it was an elephant!" "What has become of your gun?" inquired the Lieutenant. "I haven't the slightest idea," replied the boy; "and I don't care. I wouldn't face those eyes again for a thousand guns." Finally, however, he was persuaded to return with Lieutenant Carey and Sumner, both well armed, and point out the scene of his fright. They found his hat, the gun, and the log on which he had been sitting. Then in the soft earth close behind it they also found a double set of huge panther tracks--one made while cautiously approaching the supposed turkey, and the other while bounding away in affright at Worth's yell. "I don't wonder that you were both frightened," said the Lieutenant, with a smile; "but now that your skill as a turkey-caller is established, I wouldn't go out on a hunting expedition alone again if I were you." "Indeed I won't, sir. I'd rather never see another turkey than risk being stared at by such a pair of eyes as that panther carries round with him." CHAPTER XXIV. RATTLESNAKES AND RIFLE-SHOTS. While they were returning through the grassy glade, the Lieutenant, who was a few steps in advance, suddenly stopped and sprang back. The boys barely caught a glimpse of a flat, wicked-looking head, from which a forked tongue was viciously thrusting, and heard a sound like the whir-r-r-r of an immense locust, when Lieutenant Carey fired, and the head disappeared in the tall grass. "It was a snake, wasn't it?" asked Worth. "Worse than that," replied the Lieutenant. "It was a diamond-back rattler, the most venomous snake known to this country, and with another step I should have been on him. I'd rather face your panther unarmed than to have stepped on that fellow." "What would you have done if you had met it without a gun in your hand?" asked Sumner, curiously. "Run," answered the Lieutenant, laconically, as he grasped the lifeless body of the snake by the tail, with a view to dragging it into camp. "But if he had caught and bitten you?" "He wouldn't have caught me, because, in the first place, he would have been content to be let alone, and wouldn't have chased me. In the second place, the rattlesnake is such a sluggish reptile that I could run faster than he, and could easily have kept out of his way." "Well, then, what would you do if you were bitten?" "If it were on an arm or a leg, I should tie my handkerchief above the wound, and twist it with a bit of stick as tightly as possible, so as to impede the circulation. Then I should enlarge the wound with my knife, and, if I could reach it with my mouth, I should suck it for five minutes, frequently spitting out the blood. After that I should get to camp as quickly as possible, put a freshly-chewed tobacco plaster on the wound every ten minutes for the next hour, and at the same time drink a tumblerful of whiskey or other alcoholic liquor. If I could do all that, and the fangs had not struck an artery, I should feel reasonably sure of recovery." "Suppose they had struck an artery, what would you do?" "Reconcile myself to death as quickly as possible, for I should probably be dead inside of three minutes," was the grim reply. Worth shuddered as he gazed at the scaly body that, marked with black and yellow diamonds, trailed for more than five feet behind the Lieutenant, and remarked that the sooner they got away from the haunts of panthers and rattlesnakes, and back among the good-natured alligators, the better he should like it. "I shouldn't think Indians would care to live in such a rattlesnaky country," he added. "They don't mind them," laughed the Lieutenant. "Their keen eyesight generally enables them to discover a snake as soon as he sees them. Then, too, they have an infallible antidote for snake bite, the secret of which they refuse to divulge to white men." "How many rattles has this fellow?" asked Sumner. "Only seven," answered Lieutenant Carey, counting them. "Then he was a young fellow. I thought from his size that he must be pretty old, and would have twelve or thirteen rattles and a button at least." "The number of rattles does not indicate a snake's age," said the Lieutenant, smiling. "They get broken off, as do long finger-nails. I have seen very large snakes with fewer rattles than others that were smaller and evidently younger." While they were eating lunch Quorum skinned the snake, rubbed the beautiful skin thoroughly with fine salt, and rolled it into a compact bundle, in which condition it would keep for a long time. After lunch and the hour's rest that followed it the little fleet was again got under way, and proceeded up the swift river. About the middle of the afternoon they entered the broad belt of cypress timber that borders the Everglades on the west. Here the serried ranks of tall trees, stretching away as far as the eye could reach, held out their long moss-draped arms until they met overhead, and formed a dim archway for the passage of the rushing current. The water flowed with strange gurglings against the gray trunks, and the whole scene was one of such weird solitude, that on entering it the explorers shivered as with a chill. Through the semi-twilight fluffy night herons flitted like gray shadows, and the harsh scream of an occasional water-fowl, startled by the dip of paddles, echoed through the gloomy forest like a cry of human distress. The atmosphere of the place was so depressing that no one spoke, but each bent to his paddle or oars with redoubled energy, the quicker to escape into the sunshine that they knew must lie somewhere beyond it. Quorum, who had been sitting in the stern of the cruiser while the sailor rowed, was finally made so nervous by his uncanny surroundings that he begged his companion to change places with him. He wished to row that his thoughts might be occupied with the hard work. The sailor complied, though laughing at the negro's fears as he did so. While Quorum was working with desperate energy to catch up with the other boats, there came an incident of so startling a nature that in relating it afterwards he said: "I tell yo, sah, de ole niggah so skeer dat him come de neares' in he life to tu'nin' plumb white!" It was a volley of rifle-shots that flashed and roared from the forest on the right bank of the river like thunder from a clear sky. A second volley followed almost immediately, and then succeeded such a din of yells, whoops, and howlings as would have dismayed the stoutest heart. For an instant each one of the explorers imagined himself to be the sole survivor of a wholesale massacre, and the surprise of the volleys was fully equalled by that of seeing his companions still alive. [Illustration: "A VOLLEY OF RIFLE-SHOTS FLASHED AND ROARED FROM THE FOREST."] While the echoes of the first volley were still reverberating through the dim arches of the forest, Quorum whirled the cruiser around as on a pivot, and despite his companion's remonstrances, started her down the river with a rush. The canoemen sat for a couple of seconds with uplifted paddles as though paralyzed, and in that space of time the powerful current did for them what Quorum had done for the cruiser. There seemed nothing to do but to fly from those crashing rifles and demoniac yells. So fly they did, paddling furiously, and casting fearful glances over their shoulders to note if they were pursued. It must be stated, however, that the Lieutenant tried repeatedly to rally the fugitives, and when he found this to be impossible, he held his own canoe in check until certain that no immediate pursuit was being undertaken. It was nearly sunset when he overtook the others at a place beyond the lower edge of the cypress belt, where they had halted to wait for him. He found them still badly demoralized, and ready to continue their flight at the first intimation of further danger. "Well, boys," he cried, cheerily, as his canoe swept down beside them, "I suppose we might as well call this the end of our day's work, and go into camp." "Camp?" almost gasped Worth. "You don't mean, sir, that you propose to go into camp while the whole country is simply swarming with savage Indians?" "I certainly do," replied the Lieutenant. "We shall be safer in camp, where we can work together, than on the river, where we must necessarily be separated, especially in the dark. Moreover, I don't believe we shall be molested here. The mere fact that they have not pursued us so far is, to my mind, an indication that they don't intend to. Indeed, boys, in thinking over this matter, I am inclined to believe that the Indians, or whoever fired those shots, for I didn't see a human being, only intended to frighten us, in the hope that we would give up our undertaking. I believe that the cartridges they fired were blanks. Certainly some of us would have been hit if they had been loaded. I cannot remember seeing a bullet strike the water or anywhere else; can you?" No; none of them had noticed anything of the kind. "That they have not pursued us is another indication that they do not desire our lives," continued the Lieutenant. "Besides all this, the Seminoles are fully aware of the consequences to themselves in case they should kill a white man, and I have no idea that they desire a war or anything like it. Thus I say that they only meant to frighten us, and I must acknowledge that they succeeded. I, for one, was never more startled and scared in my life. Now I propose that we camp here, without lighting a fire to betray our presence, or let them know that we have stopped running, until towards morning. Then I intend to try the passage of that cypress swamp again." CHAPTER XXV. WORTH'S LONELY NIGHT-WATCH. Lieutenant Carey's remarks were received by his companions with considerable incredulity. None of them had ever been under fire before, and it was hard to realize that the deafening volleys that had roared at them from the cypress forest had not been fired with deadly intent. To be sure, neither they, nor even their boats, had been hit; but that might as easily be attributed to poor marksmanship as to good intention on the part of the Indians. Of course, they did not doubt for an instant that those who had fired from that well-concealed ambush were Indians. Who else occupied that country, or who else would have done such a thing? Had not Rust Norris given the Indians false information concerning the objects of the expedition, and roused them to anger against it? Even if this first attack had only been intended for a scare, would a second prove equally harmless? What possible chance had their little band of making its way through the trackless leagues between there and the eastern coast, if the four hundred or so of Seminoles occupying the country had determined to prevent them? None at all, of course. On the other hand, as Lieutenant Carey very justly urged, the Indians could not afford to go to war with the whites. Besides, did the way ahead of them present any greater difficulties than that they had so recently traversed? What could they do with their frail boats, even if they should return to the open waters of the Gulf? Could they hope to reach Key West in them? Then, too, how humiliating it would be to give up their undertaking merely because they had been frightened, and without having caught a glimpse of their enemies! Lieutenant Carey declared his purpose of going on alone if the others refused to accompany him, and Sumner said that, as the son of a naval officer, he was bound to follow the Lieutenant. Worth said: "Of course, if you go, Sumner, I must go with you; but I'm awfully frightened all the same." The sailor said that he had no thought of disobeying the Lieutenant's orders, and only deserted him as he did in the cypress swamp because Quorum was at the oars, and carried him off against his will. Quorum said: "Ef Marse Summer an' Marse Worf gwine fight dem Injuns, ob co'se de ole man gwine erlong to pertec' 'em. Dem chillun can't be 'lowed ter go prospeckin' in de wilderness wifout Quor'm ter look affer 'em, an' holp do de fightin' as well as de cookin'." All this discussion took place after the canoes had been hauled from the water and concealed in a clump of bushes, and while coffee was being prepared over the alcohol lamps, which gave out great heat with little light. They gathered closely about their little stoves and talked in low tones, while the night shadows settled down and shut out the surrounding landscape. After eating a hearty meal, which showed their appetites to be in nowise impaired by their recent fright, and providing a supply of coffee for the morning, they rolled up in their blankets and lay down for a few hours' sleep on the bare ground. That is, all but Worth lay down. He, wrapping his blanket about him, and sitting with his gun across his knees, prepared to keep the first hour's watch. He was given this first hour because he was the youngest, and he was to wake Sumner when it had expired. Sumner was to rouse Quorum, he the sailor, and he the Lieutenant, who was to stand the last watch and decide upon the time for starting. To be sitting there alone, surrounded by the unseen terrors of a Southern wilderness, was a novel and weird experience for Worth. He could hear the eddying and gurgling of the river, with frequent splashes that marked the nocturnal activity of its animal life. Innumerable insects filled the air about him with shrill sounds, and deep-voiced frogs kept up a ceaseless din from the adjacent swamps. Frequent vibratory bellowings, exactly like those of an enraged bull, and certain flounderings in the water, attested the wakefulness of his newly-made alligator acquaintances. The forest rang with the tiresomely irritating notes of the chuck-wills-widows and the solemn warnings of the great hoot owls. Every now and then he was startled by the agonized cries of some unfortunate bird seized and dragged from its resting-place by a 'coon or other predatory animal. These, loud and shrill at first, gradually became weaker, until hushed into a lifeless silence. His blood chilled at the distant howl of wolves, or the human-like cry of a panther, and it required all the boy's strength of mind to refrain from arousing his comrades long before the expiration of that interminable hour. Only a frequent reaching out of the hand and touching Sumner, who lay close beside him, gave him courage to maintain his solitary vigil. His mind was so actively occupied by what he heard, and by listening for what he dreaded still more to hear--the dip of paddles or other sounds indicating the approach of human enemies, that he had not the slightest inclination to sleep. He never was more wide awake in his life, with all his senses more keenly alert, than during that hour. He wondered if, with all those uncanny sounds ringing in his ears, he should dare even to close his eyes when his turn for sleeping came. He kept track of the time by occasionally striking a match, and looking at his watch beneath the sheltering folds of his blanket. When the time came to waken Sumner, he hated to do so; but realizing that his own strength for the ensuing day depended upon his sleeping that night, he finally laid his hand gently on his comrade's forehead. From long training in being aroused at unseemly hours, Sumner sat up, wide awake, in an instant. The boys exchanged a few whispered words, and then Worth lay down. He closed his eyes, determined to try and sleep, though without the least idea of being able to do so. When he next opened them Lieutenant Carey was bending over him, and saying that it was three o'clock in the morning. It seemed impossible that he could have been asleep for hours, and as the boy sat up rubbing his eyes, he was certain that the Lieutenant must have made some mistake. In spite of the darkness, which was still as intense as ever, the boats had been almost noiselessly got into the water, and Quorum had heated the coffee made the night before. A cup of this, hot and strong, roused the boy into a full wakefulness, and fifteen minutes later he was seated in his canoe, prepared once more to undertake the passage of the dreaded cypress belt. The Lieutenant led the way, Sumner and Worth, keeping as close together as possible, followed, and the cruiser, with muffled oars, brought up the rear. If the cypress forest into which they almost immediately plunged had seemed weird and gloomy by daylight, how infinitely more so was it in the pitchy darkness by which it was now enshrouded! Still, the black walls of tree-trunks rising on each side could be distinguished from the surface of the river, and thus the voyagers were enabled to keep in the channel. The air was motionless, and heavy with dampness and the rank odors of decaying vegetation. The rush of waters, the plash of their paddles, and the unaccountable night sounds of the drenched forest, rang out with startling distinctness. They proceeded with the utmost caution, and uttered no word; but it seemed as though their progress must be apparent to any ear within a mile of them. For two hours they worked steadily and without a pause. They felt that they must have passed the scene of their previous evening's adventure. They were certain of this when at length the cypresses began to grow smaller; and their branches no longer meeting overhead, a faint light began to show itself in the lane of sky thus disclosed. Now they knew that they must be approaching the confines of the belt, and that the open 'Glades must be close at hand. They breathed more freely than they had for hours, and with each foot of progress their spirits became lightened. The stream which they were following began to branch off in various directions, and the strength of its current was sensibly diminished. By the time the light was sufficient for them to discern clearly surrounding objects, the cypress belt was behind them, and the limitless expanse of the open 'Glades stretched away in their front. On the very edge of the cypress forest was a tiny hammock surmounting a slight elevation of solid ground. As the little fleet was passing this, its several crews were beginning to exchange a few words of conversation for the first time since leaving their camp. Suddenly their voices were hushed by something almost as startling as the rifle-shots of the previous evening. This time it was the sound of a loud voice, evidently that of a white man, not more than a few rods from them, calling: "Come, you fellows, wake up! Here it is daylight, and no fire started yet." The startled canoemen looked at each other wonderingly, and Sumner was about to utter a shout that would betray their presence when a warning sign from Lieutenant Carey restrained him. Beckoning them to follow him quietly, the Lieutenant led the way past the hammock from which the voice had issued, and into a thick clump of tall sawgrass, by which they were effectually concealed. Bidding them remain there until his return, and on no account betray their presence by sound or movement, he left them, and cautiously guided his canoe back to the hammock. Stepping lightly from it as it touched the land, he made his way quietly through the trees and bushes composing the hammock until, without being seen or heard, he could command a view of an open space in its centre. About the smouldering ashes of a camp-fire ten rough-looking characters, whom he at once recognized as South Florida cowboys, were sitting up, yawning and rubbing their eyes into wakefulness, or lay still stretched on the ground enveloped in the blankets that formed their beds. As there was but little danger of their discovering him, the Lieutenant waited where he was, to learn something of their character from their conversation, before either showing himself or retiring without disclosing his presence. [Illustration: "ROUGH-LOOKING CHARACTERS, WHOM HE AT ONCE RECOGNIZED AS SOUTH FLORIDA COWBOYS."] CHAPTER XXVI. THE FLORIDA EVERGLADES. Presently a man who was rebuilding the fire straightened up, and addressing one of the others, said: "We're going to get out o' here to-day, ain't we, Bill?" "Yes, you bet we are," was the answer. "We hain't got nothing more to stay yere in the swamps for, onless you think they might make another try for it, which I don't they will." "Not much they won't, after the way they skedaddled when we-uns began to yell. Hi! how they did cut down-stream! I'll bet they hain't stopped yit. They must ha' reckoned the hull Seminole nation was layin' fur 'em. Ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha! Hit was the slickest job I ever did see!" "You don't reckin they'll hanker arter wisitin' the 'Glades agin in a hurry, then?" asked another voice. "Hanker fur the 'Glades? Not muchy, they won't. Why, they won't tetch foot to the main-land of the State of Fluridy again, not if they can holp it. Leastways, not so long as they's a Injun left in hit. Hit's been a hard trip and a mean job for us fellers, but hit'll pay. The report thet ar Leftenant'll make when he gits home'll do mo' to'd gittin' the Seminoles moved outen the kentry than ennything that's happened sence the Fluridy wah. Now mosey round lively, boys. Let's have a b'ilin' o' coffee, an' light outen hyar." Lieutenant Carey had heard all that he cared to, and, without betraying his presence to the cowboys, he softly retraced his steps to where the canoe lay, and a minute later rejoined his party. Only telling them that the sooner they put a respectable distance between themselves and that place the better, he led the way into the main stream, that still flowed with considerable force through the grass beds, and turned in the direction of its source. Not until they had gone a good two miles did he pause, and then there were several reasons for calling a halt. One reason was that they were far enough beyond the reach of the cowboys to defy discovery, and he wished to tell his companions what he had overheard. Another was that the sun was rising, and it was time for breakfast; and a third was that their watery highway having come to an end, it was necessary to decide upon their future course. A small stove was carried in the cruiser, and as there was now nothing but water, with grass growing in it, about them, it was brought into service. The canoes gathered closely around the larger craft, and while Quorum prepared breakfast, the Lieutenant related his recent adventure. In conclusion he said: "So you see, boys, our Indians turned out to be white men, and the shooting was only intended to scare us, after all." "But I don't understand how they knew we were coming, or what they wanted to frighten us for, anyway," said Sumner, wearing a very puzzled expression. "Neither did I at first," replied Lieutenant Carey; "but I remember now that a gentleman in Key West said the Florida cattlemen would be greatly put out on learning of my proposed expedition. He said that they were using every means, foul and fair, to have the Indians removed from the State, and that they would be bitterly opposed to having the Everglades set apart as a permanent reservation. He advised me to look out for them, and I laughed at him. Now I realize that some one must have sent the news to them, and they got up this party to head us off in such a way that the blame would be placed upon the Indians. Yes, it is clear enough now; but it was a bit of a puzzle at first." "Well," said Worth, "it is a great relief to know that they were not Indians, and that we are safely past them, with no danger of their following us." "It certainly is," replied the Lieutenant. "Though it will be a greater one to me really to meet Indians, as we must sooner or later, and have them treat us decently, or rather leave us alone." Here Quorum interrupted the conversation with the announcement of, "Breakfus, sah." The amount of cooking that he had managed to accomplish with that one-lidded stove was wonderful. Besides coffee, he had prepared a great smoking pot of oatmeal, and a dish of crisply fried bacon to be eaten with their hardtack; while these things were disappearing, he prepared and fried a panful of flapjacks that were as light and delicate as though cooked by a ten-thousand-dollar _chef_ on the most modern of ranges. Out-of-door camp cookery deserves to rank as one of the exact sciences, and Quorum as one of its masters. The old negro found perfect happiness in watching the relish with which his deftly prepared food was eaten, and his whole body expressed a smiling satisfaction at the words of praise lavished upon his skill. While Quorum was eating his own breakfast and the sailor was washing and stowing the dishes, the others stood up to take observations. The main stream came to an end where they were, and from it a dozen narrow channels, filled with flags and lily-pads, or "bonnets," as they are called in Florida, radiated in as many directions. As far as the eye could reach, and infinitely farther, in front of them and on both sides, stretched a vast plain of coarse brown grass, rising to a height of several feet, and growing in a foot or two of limpid water. Innumerable channels of deeper water, marked by the vivid green of their peculiar vegetation, crossed and recrossed each other in every direction, and formed a bewildering net-work. The limitless brown level was dotted here and there with heavily timbered islands of all sizes, from a few rods to many acres in extent. Near at hand these were of a bright green, in the middle distance they were of a rich purple hue, and on the far horizon a misty blue. The highest of these islands, as well as the largest one visible, rose on the very limit of their vision, in the north-east, and as it formed a conspicuous landmark, they decided to lay a course for it. Accordingly, in single file, with the _Hu-la-lah_ leading and "de _Punkin Seed_" bringing up the rear, the little fleet entered the narrow path that seemed to lead in that direction, and the journey was resumed. The clearness of the water in the Everglades is accounted for by the fact that it flows above a bottom of coralline rock, and is always in motion. In it stagnation is unknown; and though it is everywhere crowded with plant life, it is as sweet and pure as that of a spring. Another curious fact about the Everglades which is generally unknown is that within their limits but few mosquitoes are found. During the summer months, when all residents on the coast of southern Florida, even the light-keepers away out on the reef, miles from land, are driven nearly crazy by these pests, the Seminoles, who retire to the Everglades to escape them, are rarely annoyed. The chief insect pests of the 'Glades are the midges, or stinging gnats, that swarm for an hour or so at sunset and sunrise. Against these the Indians protect themselves by smudges and by nettings of cheese-cloth. From the difficulties of navigation experienced during this their first day in the 'Glades, our explorers realized that in striving to journey across their width they had undertaken a most arduous task. The channels that they attempted to follow seemed to lead in every direction but the right one. They were generally so narrow and choked with bonnets that paddling or rowing was impossible, and the boats must be forced ahead by poling. Every now and then, too, the shallow waters sank to an unknown depth that no pole could fathom. In such a case, if one attempted to pull his canoe along by grasping the tough grass stalks on either side of him, he was rewarded by a painful cut that often penetrated to the bone. It did not require many sad experiences of this kind to teach the boys that sawgrass is not to be handled with impunity. It has a triangular blade, provided with minutely serrated edges that, green or dry, cut like razors. While it ordinarily attains a height of but four or five feet, the great Everglade lake, Okeechobee, is surrounded by a barrier of "big sawgrass" that is wellnigh impenetrable to man or beast. Even the scaly-hided alligators shun it. This big sawgrass attains the thickness of a cornstalk, with a height of ten or twelve feet, is closely matted, and its cutting edges are possessed of the keenness of Oriental scimitars. Sometimes the narrow channels along which our canoemates poled with such difficulty opened into broad clear spaces, where sailing was possible for a mile or so. Full as often the channels ended abruptly in the grass, when the only thing to do was to get overboard in water waist-deep, and push the boats through it. The sun poured down with an intolerable glare, but its heat was tempered by the strong, fresh breeze that blows every day and all day over the 'Glades with the utmost regularity. As they slowly drew near the island for which they were steering, it gradually assumed a conical shape and the symmetrical proportions of a pyramid. Late in the afternoon, while they were still about a mile from it, a dense volume of smoke suddenly arose from its extreme summit. This as suddenly disappeared, and then reappeared again at intervals of a second. "I wonder if it can be a volcano?" queried Worth, as they gazed curiously at this phenomenon. CHAPTER XXVII. A PREHISTORIC EVERGLADE MOUND. The whole party had come to a halt on first seeing the mysterious smoke, and now, with their boats grouped close together, they watched it curiously. Its several puffs did not last more than a minute, and then it was seen no more. Nobody but Worth mentioned volcanoes, and his suggestion caused a general smile. Quorum uttered the single word, "Injuns," and Lieutenant Carey agreed with him. He said: "Such a smoke as that must result from human agency, and as I do not believe there is a white man besides ourselves within the limits of the 'Glades, it is probably the work of Indians, and is doubtless a signal of some kind, referring to our presence. I hope it is, for one of the objects of my mission being to reassure the Everglade Indians of the kindly intentions of the Government towards them, I shall be glad to meet them as quickly as possible. Let us go on, then, and have our first interview with them by daylight." Half an hour later the canoes reached the island, close to which was a wide channel of open water that apparently extended wholly around it. So dense was its encircling growth of custard-apple and cocoa-plum bushes, that not until they had cut a passage through these could they reach the dry land behind them. Anxious to discover the occupants of the island before darkness should set in, the Lieutenant, taking Sumner and the sailor with him, and leaving Worth and Quorum to guard the boats, set out for the mound, which, rising to a height of fifty or sixty feet, seemed to occupy the centre of the island. Besides being desirous of meeting with Indians, Lieutenant Carey was most curious concerning the formation of this strange mound. Until he had seen the smoke rising from its summit, he had believed it to be merely a growth of tall forest trees surrounded by lesser trees and bushes that grew smaller as they neared the water. This is a common feature of that level Southern country, where the outer lines of vegetation are stunted by the constant high winds. Behind their protection, the inner circles of trees rise higher and higher until they attain a maximum size, and present an appearance of hills and mounds that proves most deceptive to strangers. The character of the smoke rising from the summit of this one had proved it to be something more than one of these ordinary tree mounds. Consequently the explorers were not surprised, after making their toilsome way through a forest of trees bound together with luxuriant vines, and brilliant with the blossoms of flowering air-plants, to find a veritable hill of earth rising before them. The forest encircled it, but ended at its base, and its sides were clothed only with a low growth of shrubs. They had hardly begun the ascent when they ran across a narrow but well-worn path leading to the summit. On reaching the top they were disappointed to find it as lonely and unoccupied as the forest through which they had just passed. What they did find was a small cleared space from which even the grass had been worn away, and in the centre of which stood a sort of an altar of rough stones. It was about six feet square by four high, and was built of the ordinary coralline rock of the 'Glades. From this, or near it, the smoke must have ascended; but they looked in vain for ashes or other traces of a recent fire. The appearance of the altar showed that fires had been built on it; but there was nothing to indicate that one had burned there within an hour, and the mystery of the smoke became greater than ever. If they had only been familiar with the Seminole method of making signal smokes, they would not have been so puzzled. A bright blaze of dry grass is smothered for an instant by a thick branch of green leaves. This is lifted and dropped again as often as the operator wishes to make a puff of smoke. Then the grass is allowed to burn out, and the wind, quickly dispersing the light ashes, removes every trace of the fire. While disappointed and puzzled at finding no remnants of the fire that they were certain had recently burned there, nor of those who had lighted it, the explorers were enchanted with the beauty of the scene outspread on all sides of them. To the west the sun was sinking in wonderful glory behind the distant belt of cypress forest. Everywhere else the brown 'Glades, dotted with blue islands, seamed with the green threads of interlacing channels, and flashing with bits of open water, stretched beyond the limits of their vision. Over them hung a tremulous golden haze in which all objects were magnified and glorified. The all-pervading silence was only broken by the occasional rush on heavy pinions of flocks of snow-white ibises home-returning from their distant fishing-grounds. "No wonder the Seminoles love this country, and dread the very thought of leaving it," said Sumner, at length breaking the silence in which they had gazed on the exquisite scene. "Yes, no wonder," replied the Lieutenant; "for in all my travels I don't know that I have ever seen anything more beautiful. But the most interesting of it all to me," he continued, "is this mound. It is evidently a structure of human erection, and must be contemporaneous with the famous earth pyramids of Mexico. Perhaps it was raised by the same wonderful prehistoric race. I have examined many of the well-known shell mounds of Florida, including those of Cedar Keys, and from there at various places down the west coast. I have also seen the great Turtle Mound on the Atlantic side, and those on the St. John's River; but all of them were evidently feast mounds, and showed in themselves the reason for their existence. I have heard of the earth mounds and ancient canals of the upper Caloosahatchie and Fish-eating Creek, but I have never heard it even intimated that similar structures might be looked for in the Everglades. Consequently I regard this one in the light of an important discovery. It is certainly sufficiently so to warrant us in spending to-morrow on this island investigating the mound as thoroughly as our means will allow." "Doesn't that altar look as though the mound had been used as a place for offering sacrifices?" asked Sumner. "No; that altar, as you call it, is evidently of recent construction, and was probably built by the Indians now inhabiting this country as a place from which to make signal smokes, or possibly as a sepulchre. We will try to find out which to-morrow. These mounds were undoubtedly erected as places easy of defence, and perhaps this one may yield us some ancient weapons, as the 'kitchen middens,' or feast mounds, of Cedar Keys have so abundantly. I have seen quantities of celts and other stone implements taken from them, while the most exquisite quartz spear-head I ever saw was taken from a Caloosahatchie mound, which from descriptions must be very similar to this one. Oh yes, we certainly must spend another day on this island. Now we'd better be going, for it will soon be dark, and--" Here the Lieutenant was interrupted by two shots fired in quick succession from the direction in which they had left Worth and Quorum. "I am afraid that means trouble of some kind," said Lieutenant Carey, anxiously, after he had fired two answering shots. Hurrying down the pathway, which they found led to the water on the opposite side of the island from that on which they had landed, they plunged into the forest, and were surprised to notice how dark it had already grown. Its intricacies were so bewildering and its difficulties so numerous that it was nearly an hour after they heard the shots before they came within sound of a voice answering their repeated calls. At length they reached the place where they had left the boats, and here they found Worth alone, and so panic-stricken that it was with difficulty he could answer their eager questions. "Why had he fired those shots?" "Where was Quorum?" "Where were the boats?" "I fired them to call you back," answered the boy, "and I don't know where Quorum is nor where the boats are. They were here when I left, and when I came back they were gone. This was all I found here." With this Worth pointed to a bag of hardtack that lay on the ground at his feet. "And I'm afraid poor Quorum has been killed, for I know he never would have left us. I thought perhaps you were killed too, and that I was left here all alone, and I've been getting more and more frightened, until I think I should have gone crazy if you had not come when you did." "You poor boy!" said the Lieutenant, soothingly, "I don't wonder that you were frightened. I should have been myself. But how did you happen to leave Quorum? and what was he doing when you left him?" "He was sitting in the cruiser, and I only left him for a minute, because I heard such a big turkey gobbler right here in the woods close to us. I thought it would be such a pleasant surprise for you to have me get him for supper, and I was sure there weren't any panthers or rattlesnakes here. So I just crept into the bushes to get a shot at him, and he kept going farther and farther off, and I kept following him. I didn't see him at all, and after a while I didn't hear him any more either, so I thought I'd better come back. When I got here, I couldn't find Quorum or the boats, so I fired my gun as a signal." "And you haven't seen nor heard anything of Quorum since?" inquired Lieutenant Carey, looking puzzled and anxious. "No, I haven't heard a sound nor seen a sign of a living thing," answered Worth. "There can't be any doubt of this being the right place," said the Lieutenant, reflectively, "for there is where we cut our way through the bushes." "And here is the bag of biscuit," added Worth. "I am not a bit surprised at the disappearance of the canoes," said Sumner. "I am getting used to that. But to have Quorum and the cruiser go too is certainly very strange." "And leaves us in a most awkward predicament," added the Lieutenant. "If Quorum had only gone with one boat, we might expect to see him back at any moment; but to have them all go looks very suspicious. I greatly fear the poor fellow has been the victim of some foul play. However, it is too dark now to do anything but light a fire and prepare to pass the night where we are as well as we can under the circumstances." CHAPTER XXVIII. WHAT BECAME OF QUORUM AND THE CANOES. When Worth and Quorum were left alone they sat for some time discussing the mystery of the smoke, and whether or not they had better begin unloading the boats and preparing camp. Worth advised against this. He hoped the others would discover a better camping-place than that. He also thought that perhaps they might return with news that would necessitate their leaving the island and in a hurry. As he complained of being very hungry, Quorum got out the biscuit-bag, and they each took a hardtack from it. It was while they were eating these that the sound of a loud "gobble, gobble, gobble," came from the bushes, apparently but a few rods from where they sat. Worth's hunting instinct was at once aroused, and slipping a couple of shells into his gun, he whispered: "You sit still, Quorum, and I'll have that fellow in a minute. My! but he must be a big one!" Then he stepped noiselessly to the shore, and silently disappeared among the trees. Quorum sat with his back to the water, watching the spot where his young companion had entered the forest, and listening eagerly for the expected shot. All at once a slight jar of the boat caused him to start; but before he could turn his head it was enveloped in a thick fold of cloth that effectually prevented his seeing or calling out. In a few seconds two active forms had bound his hands and feet, and slid him into the bottom of the boat, where he lay blinded, helpless, and nearly smothered. One of his captors picked up the biscuit-bag from which the prisoner had just been eating, and tossed it ashore with a low laugh. In the mean time two others had been unfastening the canoes, and dragging them cautiously backward through the opening cut in the bushes to the channel, where lay the craft in which they had come. It was a large and well-shaped cypress dugout, capable of holding a dozen men. In less than three minutes from the time of Quorum's capture it was being poled rapidly but silently along through the twilight shadows, with the stolen boats in tow. At a point about half a mile from the island these were skilfully concealed in a clump of tall grasses, and Quorum was bundled into the dugout. A choking sound from beneath the cloth that enveloped his head caused one of the strange canoemen to loosen it somewhat, so as to facilitate the prisoner's breathing. Then, propelled by four pairs of lusty young arms, the dugout shot away up one of the watery lanes leading directly into the heart of the 'Glades. An hour later it was run ashore on one of the numerous islands whose purple outlines had so charmed the observers from the top of the mound. Here it was greeted by the barking of dogs and the sound of many voices. The thongs that bound Quorum's legs were cut, he was lifted to his feet, and, led by two of his captors, he was made to walk for some distance. At length he was halted, his wrists were unbound, and the cloth that enveloped his head was snatched from it. The bewildered negro was instantly confronted by such a glare of firelight that for a minute his eyes refused to perform their duty. As he stood clumsily rubbing them, he heard a titter of laughter and the subdued sound of talking. As his eyes gradually became accustomed to the light, he saw, first, a fire directly in front of him, then, several palmetto huts, and at length a dozen or more Indian men, besides women and children, grouped in front of the huts, and all staring at him. [Illustration: "HIS WRISTS WERE UNBOUND, AND THE CLOTH THAT ENVELOPED HIS HEAD WAS SNATCHED FROM IT."] Until that moment he had not known who had made him prisoner, nor why he had been carried off; and even now the second part of the question remained as great a mystery as ever. There was no doubt, however, that, for some purpose or other, he had been captured by a scouting party of Seminoles, and though Quorum had met individuals of this tribe while cruising on the reef, he had never visited one of their camps nor been in their power. He therefore gazed about him with considerable trepidation, and wondered what was going to be done with him. As he did not recognize any of the dusky faces gathered in the firelight, he was amazed when one of the men, addressing him in broken English, said: "How, Quor'm! How! Injun heap glad you come. You hongry? Eat sofkee. Good, plenty." At the same time the speaker pointed to a smoking kettle of something that a squaw had just lifted from the fire and set close to the negro. A great wooden spoon was thrust into it, and its odor was most appetizing. Having fasted since early morning, Quorum was very hungry. Not only this, but under the circumstances he would have eaten almost anything his entertainers chose to set before him rather than run the risk of offending them. Therefore, without waiting for a second invitation, he squatted beside the kettle of sofkee, and began sampling its contents with the huge spoon. To his surprise, he had never in his life tasted a more delicious stew. After the first mouthful, he had no hesitation in eating such a meal as made even the Indians, among whom a large eater is considered worthy of respect, regard him with envious admiration. It is no wonder that Quorum found this Indian food palatable, for the Seminole squaws are notable cooks, and sofkee is the tribal dish. It is a stew of venison, turtle, or some other meat, potatoes, corn, beans, peppers, and almost anything else that is at hand. It is thickened with coontie starch, and a kettleful of it is always to be found over one of the village fires, at the disposal of every hungry comer. The one drawback to its perfect enjoyment, according to a white man's fastidious taste, is that, besides the sofkee, the wooden spoon with which it is eaten is equally at the disposal of all comers, and is in almost constant use. This fact was not known to Quorum at the time of his introduction to sofkee. If it had been, it would hardly have lessened his relish of the meal, for Quorum was too wise to be fastidious. He was so refreshed by his supper, as well as emboldened by the fact that no one seemed inclined to harm him, that something of his natural aggressiveness returned. After laying the sofkee spoon down, he turned to the Indian who had already spoken to him, and said: "Why fo' yo' call me Quor'm? I 'ain't hab no 'quaintance wif you." For answer the Indian only said, "Tobac, you got um, Quor'm?" "Yes, sah. Tobac? I got er plenty ob him back yonder in de boat wha' yo' tuk me frum. Why fo' yo' treat a 'spectable colored gen'l'man dish yer way, anyhow? Wha' yo' mean by playin' sich tricks on him, an' on de white mans wha' trabblin' in he comp'ny?" While speaking the negro had mechanically produced his black pipe, and instead of answering his questions, the Indian said: "Tobac. You no got um. Me got um, plenty. You take um, smoke um, bimeby talk heap." With this he handed a plug of tobacco to the negro, who understood the action, if he had not fully comprehended the words that accompanied it. As he cut off a pipeful and carefully crumbled it in his fingers, he began to think that his position was not such a very unpleasant one, after all. He only wished he could imagine his fellow explorers as being half so comfortable as he was at that moment. Realizing from the Indian's last remark that there would be no talk until after the smoke, he assumed as comfortable a position as possible, and gazed curiously about him. The little village, or camp, of half a dozen huts, was nearly hidden in the black shadows of the forest trees that surrounded it on all sides. Its huts were built of poles, supporting roofs of palmetto thatch, and were open at the sides. Each was provided with a raised floor of split poles, thickly covered with skins, and every hut contained one or more cheese-cloth sleeping canopies. Each hut had also several rifles and other hunting gear hanging in it, while canoe-masts, sails, paddles, and push poles leaned against its walls. The men, who lay smoking on the furs inside the huts, or stretched in comfortable attitudes on the ground outside, were tall, clean-limbed, athletic-looking fellows clad in turbans of bright colors, gay calico shirts, and moccasins of deerskin; the women wore immense necklaces of beads, calico jackets, and long skirts, but were barefooted and bareheaded; and the children were clad precisely like their elders, with the exception of the turbans, which are denied to the boys and young men until they reach the age of warriors. Besides the Indians, Quorum saw that the camp was occupied by numbers of fowls, dogs, and small black pigs, that roamed through it at will. Everybody and everything in it, animals as well as humans, looked contented and well fed. At length Quorum's smoke was finished, and he knocked the ashes from his pipe. As if this were a signal, the Indian men laid aside their pipes, and it was evident that the time for talking had arrived. CHAPTER XXIX. A VERY SERIOUS PREDICAMENT. The four explorers left on the mound island were very far from spending so pleasant an evening as that enjoyed by Quorum in the Seminole village. They were full of anxiety both as to his fate and their own. In some respects their position was not so bad as if they had been cast away on a desert island in the ocean, while in others it was worse. In the latter case they might hope to sight and signal some passing vessel, but here there was no chance for anything of that kind. At the best, they would not see anything except Indian canoes, and, under the circumstances, they could have little hope of obtaining aid from these. Their revolvers were still loaded, and they had between them half a dozen cartridges for their guns, but thus far they had discovered no traces of game on the island. They would not lack for fresh-water, but with only a single bag of biscuit, the food question was likely to become a serious one within a short time. They had no knowledge of any white settlements within less than a hundred miles of where they were. These could only be reached by wading and swimming through the trackless 'Glades and bewildering cypress swamps. Undoubtedly some of the 'Glade islands were occupied by Indians, but they might explore as many of these as their strength would permit them to reach without finding one thus inhabited. Their situation was certainly a most perplexing one, and as they sat around a fire, eating a scanty supper of hardtack and discussing their prospects, these appeared gloomy in the extreme. Still, the Lieutenant well knew that he must, if possible, keep up the spirits of his little party, and that the worst thing they could do was to take a hopeless view of the situation. So he said: "Well, boys, though we seem to be in a nasty predicament, it might be a great deal worse, and we have still many things to be thankful for. I once drifted for a week in an open boat in the middle of the South Pacific. There were seven of us, and only one man of the party had the faith and courage to continue cheerful and hopeful through it all. On the very day that we swallowed our last drop of water, and while the rest of us were lying despairingly in the bottom of the boat, he sat up on watch, and finally discovered the trading schooner that picked us up." "I," said Sumner, "do not feel nearly so badly now as I did when drifting out to sea in the dark on that wretched raft a couple of weeks ago. I expected every minute to be washed off and be snapped up by sharks; but, after all, the loneliness was the worst part of it." "Right you are, Mr. Sumner," said the sailor. "A man can stand a heap of suffering along with others, that would throw him on his beam ends in no time if he was compelled to navigate by himself. I mind one time that I was lost in a fog, in a dory, on the Grand Banks. As we had grub and water in the boat, I didn't worry much, till my dorymate fell overboard and got drownded. The weight of his 'ilers and rubber boots sunk him like a shot. After that I wellnigh went crazy with the loneliness. I couldn't seem to eat or drink; and though I was picked up the very next day, that one night of loneliness seemed like a year of torment. Oh yes, sir, men can save themselves in company, when they won't lift a hand if left alone." "I don't think I was ever in a worse fix than this one," remarked Worth, dolefully. "Probably not, my boy," said the Lieutenant, cheerily. "You are young yet, and have just made a start on your career of adventure. All things must have a beginning, you know. The next time you find yourself in an unpleasant situation, you will take great satisfaction in looking back and describing this one as having been much worse. No adventure worth the telling can be had without a certain degree of mental or physical suffering, and the more of this that is endured the greater the satisfaction in looking back on it. Now that we can do nothing before daylight, I propose that we make ourselves as comfortable as possible, and sleep as soundly as possible. By so doing we shall be able to face our situation with renewed strength and courage in the morning. To-morrow we will explore the island, discover its resources, and perhaps find traces of Quorum and the boats. Failing in this, I propose that we construct as good a raft as we can with the means at hand. With it to carry our guns, besides affording us some support, we will make our way back to the place where those cowboys were camped this morning. From there we can follow their trail until we overtake them, or reach some settlement." Cheered by having a definite plan of operations thus outlined, all hands set to work to gather such materials for bedding as they could find in the darkness, and an hour later the little camp was buried in profound slumber. To their breakfast of hardtack the following morning Sumner added a hatful of cocoa-plums that he had gathered while the others still slept. Soon after sunrise they divided into two parties--the Lieutenant and Worth forming one, and Sumner and the sailor the other--and set out in opposite directions to make their way around the island. "I don't want any one to fire a gun except in case of absolute necessity," said Lieutenant Carey. "And if a shot is heard from either party, the others will at once hasten in that direction." "Can't we even shoot my gobbler if we meet him?" queried Worth. "No, I think not," replied the Lieutenant, with a smile; "that is, unless he shows fight, for I expect your gobbler would turn out to be a turkey without feathers, and standing about six feet high. I mean," he added, as Worth's puzzled face showed that he did not understand, "that the call by which you were led away from Quorum was, in all likelihood, uttered by an Indian for that very purpose." So difficult was their progress through the luxuriant and densely-matted undergrowth of that Everglade isle that, though it was not more than a couple of miles in circumference, it was nearly noon before the two parties again met. They had discovered nothing except that the island was uninhabited, and they were its sole occupants. Nor had they seen anything that would give a clew to the fate that had overtaken poor Quorum. "While I don't for a moment suppose that the fellow has deserted," said the Lieutenant, "I wish, with all my heart, that we knew what had become of him." "Indeed, he has not deserted," replied Sumner, warmly. "I'll answer for Quorum as I would for myself. Wherever he is, he will come back to us if he gets half a chance." "Yes, I believe he will; and I only hope he may get the chance. Now let us go to the top of the mound for one more comprehensive look at our surroundings, and then we will begin our preparations for leaving the island." From the summit of the mound the same tranquil scene on which Lieutenant Carey and Sumner had gazed with such pleasure the evening before, only more widely extended, greeted their eyes. It was as devoid of human life now as then, and its present beauties failed to interest them. "I said that we would probably spend to-day here," remarked the Lieutenant. "But I must confess that my present interest in this mound lies in getting away from it as quickly as possible. I have no longer the least desire to investigate its mysteries, and so let us descend to our more important work." Returning to their landing-place, and eating a most unsatisfactory lunch of hardtack, they began to search for materials from which to build their raft. These were hard to find, and still harder to prepare for the required purpose. There was plenty of timber, but it was green, and they had no weapons with which to attack it except their sheath-knives. Neither had they any nails nor ropes, and their lashings must be made of vines. After a whole afternoon of diligent labor, a nondescript affair of different lengths and jagged ends lay on the ground at the water's edge ready for launching. With infinite difficulty and pains they got it into the water, only to have the mortification of seeing it immediately sink. "Well, boys," said the Lieutenant, in a voice that trembled in spite of his effort to make it sound cheerful, "that raft is a decided failure. Unless we can find some wood better suited to our purpose, I am afraid we must give up the idea altogether, and try to reach the cypress belt without any such aid." "If we only had a few sticks of the timber that is so plenty along the reef!" said Sumner, thinking of his own previous efforts in the raft line. "We might as well wish for our canoes, and done with it," said Worth, despondently. Just then they thought they heard a far-away shout in the forest behind them. Instinctively grasping their guns, they stood in listening attitudes. It was repeated, this time more distinctly, and they looked at each other wonderingly. At the third shout Sumner exclaimed, joyously: "It's Quorum! I know it is!" He would have plunged into the forest to meet the new-comer, but the Lieutenant restrained him, saying: "Wait a minute. Let us be sure that this is not another trap." A few moments later there was no longer any mistaking the voice, and their answering shouts guided Quorum, his honest face beaming with joy and excitement, to the place where they were awaiting him. CHAPTER XXX. QUORUM AS AN AMBASSADOR. It was Quorum, sure enough, not only alive and well, but seemingly in the best of spirits. Where had he been? Where were the boats? How did he get back? and where had he come from? These are only samples of the dozens of questions with which he was plied while shaking hands with his friends, including the Lieutenant, who was as heartily rejoiced as the boys at again seeing the faithful fellow. At one of the questions thus asked him, Quorum's face fell, and he answered: "Whar de boats is, honey, I don't know, fer I hain't seen no likeness ob dem sence las' night 'bout dis time. Whar I is bin, an' what I is 'sperienced, is er long story; but hit's got ter be tole right now, kase dat's what I hyar fer. What we do nex' depen' on de way you all take hit when I is done tellin'." Then they sat down, and forgetful of their hunger, their recent disappointment with the raft, and even of their unhappy predicament, the others listened with absorbed interest to Quorum's story. He described the way in which he had been carried off, and his reception in the Indian camp. "They were Indians, then?" interrupted the Lieutenant. "Yes, sah, shuah 'nough Injuns, an' a powerful sight ob dem--man, squaw, an' pickaninny, an' dey gib ole Quor'm one ob de fines' suppahs he ebber eat." "I wish we had one like it here at this minute!" said Sumner, thus reminded of his hunger. "Den we all smoke de peace-pipe, so dey don't hab no fear ob me declarin' er war on 'em," continued Quorum. "Them Injuns has got tobacco, then?" queried the sailor, whose smoking outfit had disappeared with the boats. "Ob co'se dey is, er plenty," answered Quorum. "An' den me an' de big chiefs sot down fer what yo' might call a considerashun ob de fac's. Dey say as what dey can't noways 'low dis hyer experdishun to pass troo de 'Glades, 'cep' on condishuns." Told in more intelligible language than that used by Quorum, the substance of his talk with the Indians was as follows: They had learned from a white man that the objects of Lieutenant Carey's expedition were to spy out their land, discover their numbers and the value of their property, and make preparations for their removal from that part of the country. "I hope you told them differently, and explained our real objects," said the Lieutenant. "Yes, sah; I done tell 'em to de full ob my knowingness ob yo' plans. But seein' as I hain't know nuffin' tall 'bout 'em, maybe I don't make hit berry cl'ar ter dem igerant sabages; but I done hit as well as I know how." The Indians had declared that they should resist any such attempt at an investigation of their resources and mode of life, and that the party must turn back from where it now was. If it would do so, its boats should be restored, and it would be allowed to depart in peace. The difficulties in the way of accepting this proposition had at once been seen by Quorum. He had explained that as their small boats were not fitted to cruise in the open waters of the Gulf, and as their big boat was already on its way to the east coast, where they were to meet it, to turn back would be a great hardship. The Indians had listened gravely to their interpreter's translation of all that he had to say on the subject, and assented to the force of his arguments. Then they proposed another plan. It was that if the whites would give up their arms and trust entirely to them, they would convey the party and their boats safely across the 'Glades to within a short distance of the east coast. There they should again receive their guns, and should be allowed to depart in peace, provided they would promise not to return. "Seems to me that is quite a liberal proposition," said the Lieutenant, after Quorum had succeeded in making it clearly understood. "All we want is to cross the 'Glades and see the Indians. I would willingly have paid them to guide us, and now they offer to do so of their own accord. I can't conceive how you persuaded them to make such an offer, Quorum. You must be a born diplomat." "Yes, sah," replied the negro, grinning from ear to ear, "I 'specs I is." At the same time he had no more idea of what the Lieutenant meant than if he had talked in Greek. "How does that plan strike you, boys?" asked Lieutenant Carey, turning to Sumner and Worth. "It strikes me as almost too good to be true," answered the former. "And I'm afraid there's some trick behind it all; but then I don't see what we can do except say yes to almost any offer they may choose to make." "That is so," said the Lieutenant. "Without our boats, and with no means for making a raft, we are about as helpless as we well can be." "It seems to me a splendid plan," said Worth, who saw visions of peaceful nights, and days pleasantly spent in hunting and in visiting Indian camps. Although the sailor's opinion had not been asked, he could not help remarking: "I'm agin trusting an' Injin, sir. Injins and Malays and all them sort of niggers are notoriously deceitful." "Hi! Wha' yo' say dere 'bout niggahs, yo' sailorman?" exclaimed Quorum, in high dudgeon. "Yo' call 'em notorious, eh?" "Not black ones," answered the sailor, apologetically--"not black ones, Quorum; but them as is red and yellow." "Dat's all right, sah, an' I 'cept yo' 'pology. At de same time I is bankin' on de squar'ness ob dem Injuns who I bin councillin' wif." "You believe it will be safe to trust them, then?" asked the Lieutenant. "Yes, sah; yo' kin trus' 'em same like a black man." "Very well," said Lieutenant Carey; "as I don't see how, in the present state of affairs, we can do anything else, I will take your word for their honesty, and accept their conditions; only I will not promise never to come into the 'Glades again. I will only promise not to turn directly back from the east coast after they have left us." "Dat's wha' dey mean, sah. I is berry 'tic'lar on dat pint ob de controbersy." "Then we will consider it as settled, and would like to leave here for a place where there is something to eat as quickly as possible. Where are your Indian friends?" "Out dere, sah, in de cooners. Dey say when yo' ready, den I holler like er squinch-owl, an' brung down all yo' uns' guns an' resolvers de fustes' t'ing." "Very well, squinch away then, and here are my pistols. It is certainly humiliating to be disarmed to please a lot of Indians; but hunger and necessity are such powerful persuaders that it is best to submit to them with as good grace as possible." So Quorum "squinched" in a manner that no self-respecting owl would have recognized; but which answered the purpose so well that an answer was immediately heard from the water, over which the evening shadows were now fast falling. Directly afterwards a canoe, containing the Indian who had acted as interpreter during Quorum's council with the chiefs, appeared at the opening in the bushes. Without stepping ashore, this Indian, whose name was Ul-we (the tall one), exchanged a few words with Quorum, whereby he learned that the Seminole conditions were accepted by the white men. He then bade the negro place the guns and pistols in the canoe and enter it himself. Then he shoved off, and another canoe, containing two Indians, made its appearance. The Lieutenant bade Sumner and Worth step into it first; but the moment they had done so, it too was shoved off, and another canoe, also containing two Indians, appeared in its place. This received the Lieutenant and the sailor. By the time it was poled into the channel the foremost canoe had disappeared in the darkness, nor was it again seen. During their journey both the Lieutenant and Sumner tried to enter into conversation with the Indians in their respective canoes, but after a few futile attempts they gave it up. To all their questions they received the same answer, which was "Un-cah" (Yes), and not another word could the Indians be persuaded to utter. [Illustration: "DIRECTLY AFTERWARDS A CANOE APPEARED AT THE OPENING IN THE BUSHES."] The Lieutenant consoled himself with the thought that he would be able to talk to the chiefs through the interpreter; while the boys looked forward with eager anticipations to seeing the Indian village that Quorum had described. As for the sailor, Indians and their villages were matters of indifference to him. What he looked forward to was a good supper and a pipe of tobacco. Thus, all of them awaited with impatience their journey's end, and wished it were light enough for them to see whither they were being taken. CHAPTER XXXI. A CLOSELY GUARDED CAMP. The darkness, which comes so quickly after sunset in that far Southern country, with almost no intervening twilight, effectually prevented our explorers from seeing where they were going. They only knew from the stars that their general direction was east, or directly into the heart of the Everglades. They were even unable to study the countenances, dress, or general appearance of the young Indians who, standing in the bow and stern of each canoe, drove it forward with unerring judgment and at a considerable speed by means of long push poles. These poles were quite slender; but each terminated at its lower end in an enlargement, formed by fastening a short bit of wood to either side that prevented it from sinking deeply into the sand or grass roots against which it was set. The canoes in which our voyagers were now travelling were as different from their own dainty craft as one boat can be from another. Nor did they bear the least resemblance to the bark canoes of Northern Indians, there being no Southern bark similar to that of the Northern birch, or suitable for canoe-building. They were simply dugouts, from twenty to twenty-five feet long by about three feet broad, hollowed with great skill from huge cypress logs. Their lines were fine, and, as our friends afterwards discovered, they are capital sailing craft in any wind, except dead ahead. When a Seminole decides to build one of these canoes, he first selects and fells his tree, cutting off a section of the required length, and free from knots or cracks. The upper surface of this is hewn smooth, with a slight sheer rise fore and aft. On this smooth surface a plan of the canoe is carefully outlined with charcoal, and then the outside is laboriously worked into shape with hatchets. The hollowing out of the inside is accomplished by fire and hatchets, and, considering the limited supply of tools at the builders' disposal, the result is a triumph of marine architecture. Hatchets and knives are the only tools used in the making of the masts, spars, paddles, push poles, and spear handles that are needed for the equipment of each canoe. The ingenious builders also cut and sew their own sails, which they make of unbleached muslin bought from the trader on Biscayne Bay. Although they use no keels, centre-boards, nor lee-boards, they manage by holding their paddles firmly against the side of the canoe and deep in the water to sail close-hauled, and to keep her up to the wind in a manner that is truly surprising. The Indians take great pride in their canoes and value them highly, for, as they are without horses, roads, or any considerable area of dry land, these are their sole means of transportation and communication between the different parts of the vast territory over which they roam. After travelling several miles, this first voyage of our explorers in Indian canoes ended at a heavily wooded islet, between the trees of which they could see the welcome glow of a camp-fire. To their great delight, as they reached the shore, they found their own canoes and the cruiser safely moored to it. In spite of their joy at again seeing these, they were too hungry and too impatient to visit the Indian village to do more just then than assure themselves that their own boats were all right. Then they hurried towards the fire. There was a roomy palmetto hut standing near it; but to their surprise the firelight disclosed only a single human figure, which, as they drew near, proved to be that of Quorum. He was hard at work cooking supper, and only acknowledged their presence with a grin, and the announcement that it would be ready in a few minutes. Turning to the hut, they saw that it had been recently erected, and that it contained their own rolls of bedding, besides the little bags of toilet articles belonging to Lieutenant Carey and the boys, which Quorum had thoughtfully taken from the canoes and placed ready for their use. "I never realized the luxury of brushes and combs before!" exclaimed Worth, as he occupied the time before supper with making what was probably the most elaborate toilet ever seen in the Everglades. Meanwhile the Lieutenant was questioning Quorum as to the location of the Indian village, and was disappointed to find the negro as ignorant on the subject as himself. Quorum thought it must be on some other island, as this certainly was not the place to which he had been taken the night before. He said that on arriving there he had found the canoes and cruiser, the hut built, and the fire lighted. The young Indian who had brought him had helped carry the things up to the hut, and also given him some venison and vegetables in exchange for a small quantity of coffee and sugar. He had remained there until shortly before the arrival of the others, and Quorum had not noticed when he disappeared. Before leaving, he had told Quorum that, by the chief's orders, the white men would remain on that island until the following evening. "Oh, we will, will we?" said Lieutenant Carey, whose pride chafed against receiving orders from an Indian, even if he was a chief. "With our own boats at hand, I don't see what is to hinder us from leaving when we please. I wish that chief would hurry up and put in an appearance. I want to have a few words with him." He now for the first time realized that the young Indians who had brought them there had not followed them to the camp, and he stepped down to the water's edge to see what they were doing. To his dismay he found that they had not only disappeared, but had taken the canoes and cruiser with them. Greatly provoked at this, he returned to the camp in a very unpleasant frame of mind, mentally abusing the Indians, and regretting that, by accepting their conditions, he had so completely placed himself in their power. His good-nature was somewhat restored by the supper, which was most bountiful and well cooked, and by the soothing pipe smoke that followed it; for among other things, Quorum had not neglected to bring up a plentiful supply of tobacco. After supper, as he and the boys lay outstretched on their blankets within the hut, the open side of which faced the fire, the Lieutenant acknowledged that their present position was a vast improvement on that of the night before. The boys agreed with him, though at the same time they were even more disappointed than he at not finding themselves in an Indian village. That was one of the things they had most counted on seeing in the Everglades. Having finally decided to make the best of their situation, and to obtain the greatest possible amount of comfort and pleasure from it, they turned in, and slept soundly until morning. They were so thoroughly tired with their various hardships and labors of the two preceding days and nights that they slept late, and the sun had already been up for several hours before they answered the negro's call to breakfast. He said that though he had been down to the shore several times after water, he had seen no signs of either canoes or Indians. Thus to all appearances they were not only the sole occupants of the island, but of the 'Glades as well. As they had nothing else to do, the Lieutenant proposed to the boys that they should explore this new island, and make such discoveries of other islands and the intervening 'Glades as could be seen from its shores. They readily agreed to this, and the three set forth. They had not gone more than a hundred yards from camp when they were suddenly confronted by a young Indian, armed with a rifle, which he pointed at them, at the same time making other signs to them to go back. At first they were greatly startled by his unexpected appearance. Then the Lieutenant undertook to remonstrate with him, and to explain that they only wanted to walk harmlessly about and view the landscape, but all in vain. The stolid-faced young savage either could not or would not understand. He only shook his head without uttering a word, but continued to make signs for them to go back. "This is one of the strangest and most irritating things that I ever heard of!" exclaimed Lieutenant Carey, after finding his efforts to communicate with the Indian unavailing. "If we only had our guns, I'd make that fellow let us pass or know the reason why. As we haven't any, and he has one, the argument is too one-sided, and we might as well retire from it as gracefully as possible. Let us try another direction, and find out if that is also guarded." They tried in two other places, only to be repulsed by other determined young guards who, mute as statues, were equally stolid and impervious to argument. [Illustration: "THEY WERE SUDDENLY CONFRONTED BY AN INDIAN ARMED WITH A RIFLE."] There was nothing to do but to return to the hut and make the best of the situation. From there no signs of an Indian was to be seen; but let one of the inmates of the camp stroll beyond its limits in any direction, and the woods seemed to swarm with them, though the guards probably did not number more than half a dozen in all. The day was passed in eating, sleeping, and in discussing their peculiar situation. They were evidently prisoners, though to all appearances as free as air; but, as Lieutenant Carey said, there was no chance of their escaping from the island anyhow, so why they should be denied the privilege of walking about it he could not understand. Quorum was equally in the dark with the rest, and said that nothing of the kind had been intimated by the chiefs during their talk with him. It was finally decided that instead of being on a small island as they had supposed, they must be at one end of a large one that contained a village at the other, which, for some unknown reason, the Indians did not choose they should visit. With this solution of the problem they were forced to content themselves, and they waited with impatience the coming of night, when, according to what Ul-we had told Quorum, their journey was to be resumed. CHAPTER XXXII. CROSSING THE 'GLADES WITHOUT SEEING THEM. They had an early supper, so as to be all ready for a start whenever their jailers should see fit to make one. By sunset their blankets were rolled up, and they were impatiently awaiting some signal; but none came until darkness had fully set in. Then once more from the direction of the water came the now familiar cry of a screech-owl. It was answered from several points about the camp, which showed their Indian guards to be still on duty. As Quorum had been allowed to go freely to the shore for water during the day, the Lieutenant now told him to go down again and discover the meaning of the signal. He returned a minute later with the news that Ul-we was waiting for him and the cooking utensils, and that the canoes for the other passengers would arrive with the setting of the new moon, which hung low in the western sky. So Quorum left them, as on the previous night. As the silver crescent of Halissee, the night timepiece of the Everglades, sank from sight, the others went to the shore, carrying their blankets with them. There they found two canoes, apparently manned by the same silent crews of the evening before, awaiting them. As they shoved off and plunged once more into the trackless 'Glades, the Lieutenant turned for a look at the island. He could distinguish its black outlines from end to end, and it was a very small one. This overthrew the only theory they had formed concerning their close imprisonment, and left him more than ever puzzled as to its object. Hour after hour the long poles were steadily wielded by the silent Indians, who seemed not to know fatigue nor to require rest. All through the night the heavy dugouts pursued their steady way, crashing through the crisp bonnets, and bending down the long grasses, that flew up with a "swish" behind them. It was a marvel to the passengers that the channels, followed as unerringly by the dusky canoemen as though it had been daylight, always led into one another. Their own experience had been that, even with sunlight to guide them, half the channels they had attempted to follow proved blind leads. But with the Indians it was never so. Through the night Lieutenant Carey pondered his situation, and studied their course by the stars. These told him that it was a little to the north of east, the very one he would have chosen, and in this respect the situation was satisfactory. But what information was he gaining concerning the Everglades, their resources, and present population? About as little as was possible for one who was actually passing through them. Could he obtain any more? Evidently not, under the circumstances. Long and deeply as he pondered the subject, he could not think of a single feasible plan for altering the existing state of affairs. He was compelled to acknowledge himself completely outwitted by the simple-minded sons of the forest into whose power he had so curiously fallen. "If I could only get at them, and talk to them, and explain matters to them!" he said aloud; and the sailor answered: "It wouldn't do no good, sir. There's none in the world so obstinate as Injins and Malays. Once they gets an idea inside their skulls, all the white talk you could give 'em wouldn't drive it out. Fighting is the only argument they can understand; and, if you say the word, I'll have these two heathen pitched overboard in no time." "No," said the Lieutenant, "it wouldn't do any good, and my orders are to treat such Indians as I may meet with all possible friendliness. I only wish I could meet with some besides these two young automatons, but there does not seem to be any prospect of it." At the same time Sumner and Worth, crouched snugly among their blankets in the bottom of the other canoe, were also talking of their strange situation. "Do you suppose any other two fellows ever had such queer times on a canoe trip as we are having?" asked Worth. "Indeed I do not," replied Sumner. "And this is the very queerest part of it. Here we are still on a canoe cruise, without our own canoes, without knowing where we are going, and without having anything to do with the management of the craft we are cruising in. It will be a queer experience to tell about when you get back to New York, won't it?" "Yes, indeed, it will, though New York seems so very far away that it is hard to realize that I shall ever get there again. If we could only see an Indian village, though! It seems too bad to be going right through an Indian country and yet see nothing of its people." "Oh, well, we are not through with the 'Glades yet, and you may still have a chance to see plenty of Indians." In spite of Sumner's hopefulness, Worth's wish did not seem any nearer being gratified four days from that time than it did then. Each night's journey was a repetition of the first, except that they grew shorter with the growing moon. The Indians refused to travel except in darkness, and never came for their passengers until after the moon had set. Each day was spent in a comfortable camp, to which they were so closely confined that they could learn nothing of their surroundings. These camps were always located on small islands, and were always reached before daylight. Quorum always arrived at the camping-place some time in advance of the others, and he always found the canoes and the cruiser awaiting him. From them he was allowed to take whatever he thought the party would need, but after that first night the boats invariably disappeared before the others reached them. Sumner said this was a trick the canoes had learned early on the cruise, and they had probably taught it to the other boat. Who caused their disappearance or where they went to, none of them knew; and but for Quorum the owners of the several craft would have heard nothing of their whereabouts or welfare. During this strange journey, as they were unable to do any hunting or foraging for themselves, Quorum was obliged to exchange so many of their stores for fresh meat, fruit, and vegetables, that he finally announced them to be nearly exhausted. At length, one very dark night, the passengers, who were half dozing in the bottoms of the canoes, became conscious of a change. The darkness all at once grew more intense, until they could barely distinguish the forms of the Indians in the bow and stern of their respective boats. A rank odor of decaying vegetation filled the air, while the swish of grass and bonnets was no longer heard. They seemed to be moving more swiftly and easily than usual. Finally, when they landed, it did not seem as though they were on an island; and as they made their way towards the light of the camp-fire, about which Quorum was already busy, they suddenly realized that it was reflected from a background of pine-trees. "Hurrah, boys!" shouted Lieutenant Carey; "there is a sign that our trip is nearly ended. Pine-trees don't grow in the 'Glades, and therefore we must be somewhere near the coast. I can't say that I am sorry, for the trip has been a most disappointing one to me. It has been a decidedly unique and remarkable one, though--has it not? I wonder how many people will believe us when we say that we have crossed the entire width of the Everglades without learning anything about them, and almost without seeing them? When we add that we have passed dozens of Indian villages, and yet have not seen an Indian village; have been surrounded by Indians, but cannot describe their appearance; have come all the way by water, and brought our own boats with us, and yet have not set eyes on our own boats since the day we entered the 'Glades--I am afraid that we shall be regarded much as the old woman regarded her sailor son when he told her that he had seen fish with wings and able to fly. In fact, I am afraid they will doubt our veracity. How I am going to get up any kind of a report to send to Washington, I am sure I don't know. By-the-way, Quorum, were our canoes here when you landed?" "No, sah, dey wasn't; an' I is troubled in my min' frum worryin' about dem. I is ask dat feller Ul-we, but he don't say nuffin.' 'Pears like he done los' he tongue, like de res' ob de Injuns. De wust ob hit is, sah, dat de grub jes about gin out, an' I is got er mighty pore 'pology fer a breakfus." So excited were our explorers over their new surroundings, and over this report that their boats were again missing, that instead of turning in for a nap, as usual, they sat round the fire and waited impatiently for daylight. Sumner was the most uneasy of the party, and every few minutes he would get up and walk away from the firelight, the better to see if the day were not breaking. On one of these occasions he was gone so much longer than usual that the others were beginning to wonder what had become of him. All at once they heard him shouting from the direction of the place at which they had landed: "Hello! in the camp! Come down here, quick! I've got something to show you." CHAPTER XXXIII. AN ADVENTUROUS DEER-HUNT. In answer to Sumner's call, the others sprang up and hurried in the direction of his voice. As they got beyond the circle of firelight they saw that the day was breaking, though in the forest its light was dim and uncertain. It was much stronger ahead of them, and within a minute they stood at the water's edge, where objects near at hand were plainly discernible. Although they more than suspected that the 'Glades had been left behind, they were hardly prepared for the sight that greeted their eyes. Instead of a limitless expanse of grass and water dotted with islands, they saw a broad river flowing dark and silently towards the coming dawn through a dense growth of tall forest trees. But for the direction of its current, it was a counterpart of the one, now so far behind, by which they had entered the 'Glades from the Gulf. Of more immediate importance even than the river were the objects to which Sumner triumphantly directed their attention. These were the long-unseen canoes and the cruiser, with masts, sails, and paddles in their places, and looking but little the worse for their journey than when their owners had stepped from them nearly a week before. Sumner had discovered them, snugly moored to the bank, a short distance below the landing-place, and had towed them up to where the others now saw them. In the bottom of the _Hu-la-lah_ lay their guns and pistols, carefully oiled and in perfect order. Everything was in place, and they could not find that a single article of their outfit was missing. "I declare!" said the Lieutenant, "those Indians are decent fellows, after all, and though I am provoked with them for their obstinacy in not granting us a single interview, as well as for the way they compelled us to journey through their country, I can't help admiring the manner in which they have fulfilled their share of our contract. They have shown the utmost fairness and honesty in all their dealings with us, and I don't know that I blame them for the way in which they have acted. They have been treated so abominably by the Government ever since Florida came into our possession that they certainly have ample cause to be suspicious of all white men." Quorum was sent down to watch the canoes and see that they did not again disappear, while the others ate the scanty breakfast that he had prepared. At it they drank the last of their coffee, and Quorum reported that there was nothing left of their provisions save some corn-meal and a few biscuit. As they talked of this state of affairs, Sumner said that he had started up a deer when he went after the canoes, and Worth was confident that this must be a good place in which to find his favorite game--wild turkeys. "It looks as though we would have to stop here long enough to do a little hunting before proceeding any farther," said the Lieutenant. To this proposition the boys, eager to use their recovered guns, readily agreed. So, after making sure that their camp was no longer guarded, and that they were at liberty to go where they pleased, it was decided to devote the morning to hunting, with the hope of replenishing their larder. Quorum and the sailor were left to guard camp and the boats, while the others entered the piny woods, going directly back from the river. The Lieutenant carried a rifle and the boys their shot-guns, while each had his pockets well filled with loaded shells. The pine forest was filled with a dense undergrowth of saw-palmetto, and the ground beneath these was covered with rough masses of broken coralline rock. It was also slippery with a thick coating of brown pine-needles. Under these circumstances, therefore, it was almost impossible to proceed silently, and whatever game they might have seen received ample warning of their approach in time to make good its escape. When they at length came to a grassy savanna, on the opposite side of which was a small hammock of green, shrubby trees, the Lieutenant proposed that the boys remain concealed where they were while he made a long circuit around it. He would thus approach from its leeward side, and any game that he might scare up would be almost certain to come in their direction. After stationing them a few hundred feet apart, so that they could cover a greater territory, and warning them to keep perfectly quiet, he left them. The sky was clouded, and a high wind soughed mournfully through the tops of the pines. Every now and then the boys were startled by the crash of a falling branch, while the grating of the interlocking limbs above them sounded like distressed moanings. It was all so dismal and lonesome that finally Worth could stand it no longer, and made his way to where Sumner was sitting. "Have you noticed how full the air is of smoke?" he said, as he approached his companion. "My eyes are smarting from it." "Yes," replied Sumner, "it has given me a choking sensation for some time. I expect the woods are on fire somewhere." "Really!" said Worth, looking about him, apprehensively. "Then don't you think we ought to be getting back towards the river?" "No, not yet. The fire must be a long way off still, and it would never do for us to leave without Lieutenant Carey. He would think we were lost, and be terribly anxious. There he is now! Did you hear that?" Yes, Worth heard the distant rifle-shot that announced the Lieutenant's whereabouts. Instantly his freshly aroused hunting instinct banished all thoughts of the fire, and he hurried back to his post. He had not more than reached it before there came a crashing among the palmettoes, and ere the startled boy realized its cause, two deer, bounding over the undergrowth with superb leaps, dashed past him and disappeared. "Why didn't you fire?" cried Sumner, hurrying up a moment later. "It was a splendid shot! I would give anything for such a chance!" "I never thought of it," answered Worth, ruefully. "Besides, they went so quickly that I didn't have time." "They ought to have stood still for a minute or two, that's a fact," said Sumner, who was rather inclined to laugh at his less experienced companion. Just then there came another crashing of the palmettoes, and a third deer bounded into sight for an instant, only to disappear immediately as the others had done. "Why didn't you fire?" laughed Worth. "It was a splendid shot!" "Because this is your station," replied Sumner, anxious to conceal beneath this weak excuse the fact that he had been fully as startled and unnerved as his companion. "I do believe, though," he added, "that this last fellow was wounded, and perhaps we may get him yet." The discovery of fresh blood on the palmetto leaves through which the flying animal had passed confirmed this belief, and without a thought of the possible consequences the boys set off in hot pursuit of the wounded deer. They easily followed the trail of the blood-smeared leaves, and in the ardor of their pursuit they might have gone a mile, or they might have gone ten for all they knew, when suddenly, without warning, they came face to face with the deer. He was a full-grown buck, with branching antlers still in the velvet, and by his swaying from side to side he was evidently exhausted. The sight of his enemies seemed to infuse him with renewed strength, and the next instant he charged fiercely towards them. Worth, attempting to run, tripped and fell in his path. Sumner, with better luck, sprang aside, and sent a charge of buckshot into the furious animal at such short range that the muzzle of his gun nearly touched it. It fell in a heap on top of Worth, gave one or two convulsive kicks, and was dead. Its warm life-blood spurted over the prostrate boy, and when Sumner dragged him from beneath the quivering carcass he was smeared with it from head to foot. "Are you hurt, old man?" inquired Sumner, anxiously, as his companion leaned heavily on him, trembling from exhaustion and his recent fright. "I don't know that I am," replied Worth, with a feeble attempt at a smile. "I expect I am only bruised and scratched. But, oh, Sumner, what an awfully ferocious thing a deer is! Seems to me they are as bad as panthers. What wouldn't I give for a drink of water! I can hardly speak, I am so choked with smoke." With this, Sumner suddenly became aware that the smoke, which they had not noticed in the excitement of their chase, had so increased in density that breathing was becoming difficult. Thoroughly alarmed, he looked about him. In all directions the woods were full of it, and even at a short distance the trees showed indistinctly through its blue haze. Now, for the first time, the boys were conscious of a dull roar with which the air was filled. Their long chase must have led them directly towards the fire. "We must get back to camp as quickly as possible!" exclaimed Sumner, realizing at once the danger of their situation. "Come on, Worth, we haven't a moment to lose!" "But what shall we do with our deer?" asked the blood-covered boy, who could not bear the thought of relinquishing their hard-won prize. "Never mind the deer, but come along!" replied Sumner. "If I am not mistaken, we shall have our hands full taking care of ourselves. That fire is coming down on us faster than we can run, and we haven't any too much start of it as it is." CHAPTER XXXIV. HEMMED IN BY A FOREST FIRE. Which way were they to fly? The terrible roar of the burning forest seemed to come from all directions, and the smoke seemed hardly less dense on one side than on another. But there had been no fire where they came from, and they must retrace their steps along the blood-marked trail that they had followed, of course. Although the body of the deer lay near the spot where it had ended, they were at first too bewildered to discover it, and lost several precious minutes in searching among the palmetto leaves for its crimson signs. At length they found them, and started back on a run. It was exhausting work trying to run through the thick scrub, over its loglike roots, and among the rough rock masses strewn in the wildest confusion between them, and their speed was quickly reduced to a walk. Sumner went ahead, and, with arms uplifted to protect his face from the sawlike edges of the stout leaf stems, forced a way through them, with Worth close behind him. They had not gone far when Sumner suddenly stopped and, with a despairing gesture, pointed ahead. The flames were in front of them, and could be distinctly seen licking the brown tree-trunks, and stretching their writhing arms high aloft towards the green tops. "We are going right into the fire!" the boy exclaimed, hoarsely. "The deer must have seen it, and been curving away from it when we overtook him!" So they turned back, and rushed blindly, without trying to follow the trail, in the opposite direction. Before they had gone half a mile Worth's strength became exhausted, and he sank down on a palmetto root gasping for breath. "I can't go any farther, Sumner! Oh, I can't!" he cried, piteously. "But you must! You can't stay here to be burned to death! We are almost certain to find a slough with water in it, or a stream!" and grasping his comrade by the arm, Sumner pulled him again to his feet. As he did so, the hammers of Worth's gun became caught in something, and the next instant both barrels were discharged with a startling explosion. "That's a good idea!" exclaimed Sumner. "Let's fire all our cartridges as fast as we can. Perhaps they are out looking for us, and will hear the shots." So saying, he fired both barrels of his own gun into the air, and quickly reloading, fired again. Worth followed suit; but just as Sumner was ready to fire for the third time he was startled by a sharp crackling sound close beside him. He turned quickly. There was a bright blaze within ten feet of him. The first accidental discharge of Worth's gun, as it lay pointed directly into a mass of dry grass and dead palmetto leaves, had set this on fire. Worth instinctively sprang towards it with the intention of trying to stamp it out, but, with a joyful cry, Sumner restrained him. "It's the very thing!" he shouted. "A back fire! Why didn't I think of it before? We must set a line of it as quick as we can!" Worth did not understand, and hesitated; but seeing Sumner, with a bunch of lighted leaves in his hand, rush from one clump of palmetto to another, touching his blazing torch to their dry, tinderlike stalks, he realized that his companion knew what he was about, and began to follow his example. Within five minutes a wall of flame a hundred yards in length was roaring and leaping in front of them, fanned into such fury by the high wind that they were obliged to retreat from its blistering breath. They could not retreat far, however, for during their delay the main fire had gained fearfully upon them, and its awful roar seemed one of rage that they should have attempted to escape from it. Mingled with this was the crash of falling trees and the screams of wild animals that now began to rush frantically past the boys. A herd of flying deer nearly trampled them underfoot; and directly afterwards they were confronted with the gleaming eyes of a panther. With an angry snarl he too dashed forward. Great snakes writhed and hissed along the ground, and Worth clutched Sumner's arm in terror. Seizing his gun, the latter began shooting at the snakes; nor did he stop until his last cartridge was expended. It was horrible to stand there helplessly awaiting the result of that life-and-death race between those mighty columns of flame; but they knew not what else to do. Now they could no longer see in which direction to fly. The swirling smoke-clouds were closing in on them from all sides, and only by holding their faces close to the earth could they catch occasional breaths of fresh air. Sumner's plan was to remain where they were until the last moment, and then rush out over the smouldering embers of the fire they had set. The main body of this was now rapidly retreating from them. At the same time a fringe of flame from it was working backward towards them. Though they made feeble efforts to beat this out, their strength was too nearly exhausted for them to make much headway against it. The heat was now so intense that their skin was blistering, and their brains seemed almost ready to burst. Worth had flung away his gun, just after loading it, when he began to set the back fires, and now the sound of a double report from that direction showed that the flames had found it. The noise of these reports was followed by a loud cry, and out of the smoke-clouds a strange, wild figure came leaping. It was a human figure. As the boys recognized it, they echoed its cry. Then by their frantic shouts they guided it to where they were crouching and making ready for their desperate rush into the hot ashes and still blazing remains of the back fire. The figure that sprang to their side, and, seizing Worth's arm, uttered the single word "Come!" was that of Ul-we, the young Seminole, though the boys, having never seen him, did not, of course, recognize him. With thankful hearts and implicit faith they followed him as he dashed back into the thickest of the smoke-clouds that still hung low over the newly burnt space before them. They choked and gasped, and their feet became blistered with the heat that penetrated through the soles of their boots. Worth would have fallen but for the strong hand that upheld him, and dragged him resistlessly forward. The ordeal of fire lasted but a minute, when they emerged in a grassy glade at one end of the burnt space, and ran to a clump of water-loving shrubs that marked a slough beyond it. The vanguard of the main fire raced close after them, flashing through the brittle grass as though it were gunpowder; and as they dashed into the bushes, and their feet sank into the mud and water of the slough, its hot breath was mingled with theirs. In the very centre of the thicket Ul-we threw himself down in water that just covered his body, and held his head a little above its surface. The boys followed his example, and experienced an instant relief from the cool water. In this position they could breathe easily, for the smoke-clouds seemed unable to touch the surface of the water, but rolled two or three inches above it. Here they lay for what seemed an eternity while the fire-fiends raged and roared on all sides of them, and in the air above. The heat waves scorched and withered the green thicket, the water of the little slough grew warm and almost hot, the air that they breathed was stifling, and for a time it almost seemed as though they had escaped a roasting only to be boiled alive like lobsters. After a while, that appeared to the poor boys a long, weary time, the fiercest of the flames swept by, and their roar no longer filled the surrounding space. There were rifts in the smoke-clouds, and perceptible intervals of fresh air between them. Finally the boys could sit up, and at length stand, but not until then were they certain that the danger had passed. Then Sumner grasped the young Indian's right hand in both of his, and tears stood in the boy's eyes as he said: "I don't know as you can understand me; I don't know who you are, and I don't care. I only know that you have saved us from a horrible death, and that from this moment I am your friend for life." As for poor Worth, the tears fairly streamed down his smoke-begrimed, blood-stained cheeks, as, in faltering words, he also tried to express his gratitude. [Illustration: "THE ORDEAL OF FIRE LASTED BUT A MINUTE."] The Indian seemed to understand, for he smiled and said: "Me Ul-we. Quor'm know um. You Summer. You Worf. Me heap glad find um. 'Fraid not. Hunt um; hunt um long time, no find um. Bimeby hear gun, plenty. Hunt um, no find um. Bimeby hear one gun, bang! bang! quick. Then come, find um. _Hindleste._ If me no find um, fire catch um pretty quick, burn up, go big sleep _Holewagus_! Ul-we feel bad, Quor'm feel bad, all body feel bad. Now all body heap hap, dance, sing, eat heap, feel plenty glad." All of which may be translated thus: "I am very glad to have found you, for I was afraid I shouldn't. I hunted and hunted a long time, but couldn't find you. At last I heard guns fired many times, and hunted in that direction, still without finding you. Finally I heard both barrels of a gun fired at once, not far from where I was, and then I found you. It is good. If I had not found you just when I did, the fire would have caught you and burned you to death, which would have been terrible. I should have felt very badly. So would Quorum and all your friends. Now everybody will rejoice." Ul-we had been ordered to watch the camp of the white men by the river until they left it, but to remain unseen by them. He had noted the departure of the hunting party, and had also been aware of the approach of the forest fire while it was still at a great distance. When, some hours later, the Lieutenant came back full of anxiety concerning the boys, and immediately started off again to hunt for them, Ul-we also started in another direction, with the happy result already described. They remained in the slough two hours longer, before the surrounding country was sufficiently cooled off for them to travel over it. Then they set out under Ul-we's guidance, though where he would take them to the boys had not the faintest idea. CHAPTER XXXV. THE BOYS IN A SEMINOLE CAMP. Although Ul-we started out from the slough that had proved such a haven of safety in one direction, he quickly found cause to change it for another. This cause was the lameness of the boys, for their blistered feet felt as though parboiled, and each step was so painful that it seemed as if they could not take another. They were also faint for want of food, and exhausted by their recent terrible experience. The young Indian was also suffering greatly. The moccasins had been burned from his feet, and the act of walking caused him the keenest pain; but no trace of limp or hesitation betrayed it, nor did he utter a murmur of complaint. He had intended leading them directly to their own camp; but that was miles away, and seeing that they would be unable to reach it in their present condition, he changed his course towards a much nearer place of refuge. He soon found that to get Worth even that far he must support and almost carry him. As for Sumner, he clinched his teeth, and mentally vowing that he would hold out as long as the barefooted Indian, he strode manfully along behind the others with his gun, which he had retained through all their struggles, on his shoulder. In this way, after an hour of weary marching, they entered a live-oak hammock, into which even the fierce forest fire had not been able to penetrate. Here they were soon greeted by a barking of dogs that announced the presence of some sort of a camp. It was that of the Seminole party which had been detailed to conduct our explorers across the Everglades, and act as guards about their halting-places. There were about twenty men in this party, and as they had brought their women and children with them, and had erected at this place a number of palmetto huts, the camp presented the aspect of a regular village. Poor Worth had just strength enough to turn to Sumner, with a feeble smile, and say, "At last we are going to see one," when he sank down, unable to walk another step. A shout from Ul-we brought the inmates of the camp flocking to the spot. Both the boys were tenderly lifted in strong arms and borne to one of the huts, where they were laid on couches of skins and blankets. They were indeed spectacles calculated to move even an Indian's heart to pity. Their clothing was in rags, while their faces, necks, and hands were torn by the saw-palmettoes through which they had forced their way. Worth was found to have received several cuts from the sharp hoofs of the wounded deer, and he was blood-stained from head to foot. Besides this, they were begrimed with smoke and soot until their original color had entirely disappeared. They were water-soaked and plastered with mud and ashes. Certainly two more forlorn and thoroughly wretched-looking objects had never been seen there, or elsewhere, than were our canoemates at that moment. But no people know better how to deal with just such cases than the Indians into whose hands the boys had so fortunately fallen, and within an hour their condition was materially changed for the better. Their soaked and ragged clothing had been removed, they had been bathed in hot water and briskly rubbed from head to foot. A salve of bear's grease had been applied to their cuts and to their blistered feet, which latter were also bound with strips of cotton-cloth. Each was clad in a clean calico shirt of gaudy colors and fanciful ornamentation. Each had a gay handkerchief bound about his head, and a pair of loose moccasins drawn over his bandaged feet. Each was also provided with a red blanket which, belted about the waist and hanging to the ground, took the place of trousers. Thus arrayed, and sitting on bear-skin couches, with a steaming sofkee kettle and its great wooden spoon between them, it is doubtful if their own parents would have recognized them. For all that they were very comfortable, and by the way that sofkee was disappearing, it was evident that their appetites at least had suffered no injury. They at once recognized sofkee from Quorum's description. They also knew the history of the wooden spoon; but just now they were too hungry to remember it, or to care if they did. At length, when they had almost reached the limit of their capacity in the eating line, and began to find time for conversation, Worth remarked, meditatively: "I believe, after all, that I like fishing better than hunting. There isn't so much excitement about it, but, on the whole, I think it is more satisfactory." "Fishing for what?" laughed Sumner. "For bits of meat, with a wooden spoon, in a Seminole sofkee kettle, and looking so much like an Indian that your own father would refuse to recognize you?" "If I thought I looked as much like an Indian as you do I would never claim to be a white boy again," retorted Worth. "I only wish that I could hold a mirror up in front of you," replied Sumner; and then each was so struck by the comical appearance of the other that they laughed until out of breath; while the stolid-faced Seminole boys, stealthily staring at them from outside the hut, exchanged looks of pitying amazement. After this, Sumner still further excited the wonder of the young Indians by performing several clever sleight-of-hand tricks, while Worth regretted his inability to dance a clog for their benefit. Then calling Ul-we into the hut, Sumner presented him with his shot-gun, greatly to the "Tall One's" satisfaction. Worth was distressed that he had nothing to give the brave young fellow; but brightened at Sumner's suggestion that perhaps Ul-we would go with them to Cape Florida, where Mr. Manton would be certain to present him with some suitable reward for his recent service. When Ul-we was made to comprehend what was wanted of him, he explained that it would be impossible to go with them then, but that he would meet them at Cape Florida on any date that they might fix. So Sumner fixed the date as the first night of the next new moon, and Worth added a request that he should bring with him all the occupants of the present camp, which he promised to do, if possible. Although the boys had no idea of where they were, they felt confident that somehow or other they would be able to keep the appointment thus made, and also that the Mantons' yacht would be on hand about the same time. They tried to find out from Ul-we how far they were from Cape Florida at the present moment; but he, having received orders not to afford any member of Lieutenant Carey's party the slightest information regarding the country through which they were passing, pretended not to understand the boys' questions, and only answered, vaguely, "Un-cah" to all of them. By this time the day was nearly spent, and it was sunset when the boys' own clothes were returned to them, dried, cleaned, and with their rents neatly mended by the skilful needles of the Seminole squaws. Then Ul-we said he was ready to take them to their own camp, and though they would gladly have stayed longer in this interesting village, the boys realized that they ought to relieve Lieutenant Carey's anxiety as soon as possible. So they expressed their willingness to accompany Ul-we, but hoped that the walk would not be a long one. "No walk," replied Ul-we, smiling. "Go Injun boat. Heap quick." Accompanied by half the camp, and shouting back, "Heep-a-non-est-cha," which they had learned meant good-bye, to the rest, they followed their guide a short distance to the head of a narrow ditch that had evidently been dug by the Indians. Here they entered Ul-we's canoe, and after a few minutes of poling they realized, in spite of the darkness, that they were once more on the edge of the Everglades. After skirting the forest line for some time, they turned sharply into a stream that entered it, and again the boys found themselves borne rapidly along on a swift current through a cypress belt. An hour later they saw the glow of a camp-fire through the trees, and their canoe was directed towards it. Stepping out as the canoe slid silently up to the bank, the boys, wishing to surprise their friends, stole softly in the direction of the circle of firelight. On its edge they paused. At one side of the fire sat Lieutenant Carey, looking worn and haggard; Quorum stood near him, gazing into the flames with an expression of the deepest dejection, while the sailor, looking very solemn, was toasting a bit of fresh meat on the end of a stick. "No," they heard the Lieutenant say, "I can't conceive any hope that they have escaped, for the only traces that I found of them led directly towards the fire. How I can ever muster up courage to face Mrs. Rankin or meet the Mantons with the news of this tragedy, I don't know." "Hit's a ter'ble t'ing, sah. Ole Quor'm know him couldn' do hit." "Then it's lucky you won't have to try!" exclaimed Sumner, joyously, stepping into sight, closely followed by Worth. "Oh, you precious young rascals! You villains, you!" cried the Lieutenant, springing to his feet, and seizing the boys by the shoulders, as though about to shake them. "How dared you give us such a fright? Where have you been?" "Out deer-hunting, sir," answered Sumner, demurely. Quorum was dancing about them, uttering uncouth and inarticulate expressions of joy; while the sailor, having dropped his meat into the fire, where it burned unheeded, gazed at them in speechless amazement. They told their story in disjointed sentences, from which their hearers only gathered a vague idea that they had killed a deer in the burning forest, been rescued from the flames by an Indian, and borne in his arms to a Seminole village in the Everglades, from which, by some unseen means, they had just come. [Illustration: SUMNER AND WORTH IN THE SEMINOLE CAMP.] "I'll bring him up, and he can tell you all about it himself," concluded Sumner, turning towards the landing-place, to which the Lieutenant insisted on accompanying him, apparently not willing to trust him again out of sight. But neither Ul-we nor his canoe was there. He had taken advantage of the momentary confusion to disappear, and the Lieutenant said he was thankful their canoes had not disappeared at the same time. When they returned to the fire, they found Quorum hard at work cooking venison steaks. "Then you did get a deer, sir, after all?" queried Sumner. "No, I only wounded one, and he escaped. This fellow was one of a herd that, terrified by the fire, came crashing right into camp, and was shot by the sailor." "That's the way I shall hunt hereafter," exclaimed Worth--"stay quietly and safely in camp, and let the game come to me!" CHAPTER XXXVI. ONE OF THE RAREST ANIMALS IN THE WORLD. After their day of excitement, terror, and anxiety the explorers passed a happy evening around their camp-fire, and Lieutenant Carey gained a clearer idea of the boys' adventures and escapes. He admitted that the kindness shown them in the Seminole camp gave him a new insight into the Indian character, and wished that he might have had a chance to thank and reward Ul-we for his brave rescue of the young canoemates. He also regretted that he, too, could not have visited that Indian camp, and hoped that the appointment made by the boys with Ul-we might be kept. In spite of their recent hearty meal of sofkee, a preparation of which they spoke in the highest terms, the boys were able to do ample justice to Quorum's venison steaks, greatly to the satisfaction of the old negro. He would have felt deeply grieved if they had allowed any amount of feasting in an Indian camp to interfere with their enjoyment of a meal that he had cooked, no matter how short an interval might have elapsed between the two. Although the boys felt rather stiff and lame the next morning, it did not prevent their being ready bright and early to continue their journey. It was a great pleasure to be once more afloat in their own canoes, and this was increased by the fact that they now had a swift current with them. It was a glorious March day, and all nature seemed to share their high spirits as they glided smoothly down the beautiful river. The water swarmed with fish and alligators, and the adjacent forest was alive with birds. Among the innumerable fish that darted beneath them, they soon recognized several salt-water varieties, which assured them that the ocean could not be far off. As the three canoes were moving quietly along abreast of each other and close together, the _Psyche_ suddenly glided over a huge black object that for an instant seemed inclined to rise and lift it bodily into the air. As it was dropped back, there was a tremendous floundering, and all three of the light craft were rocked so violently that only the skill of their navigators saved them from capsizing. "Was it a waterquake?" inquired Worth, with a very pale face, as soon as his fright would allow him to speak. "Yes; and there it goes," laughed the Lieutenant, pointing to a great dim form that could just be seen moving swiftly off through the clear water. "It must have been a whale," said Sumner. "No," answered Lieutenant Carey; "but it was the next thing to it. It was a manatee or sea-cow. I have seen them in the lower Indian River, but did not know they were found down here. I wish you boys might have a good look at him, though, for the manatee is one of the rarest animals in the world. It is warm-blooded and amphibious, lives on water-grasses and other aquatic plants, grows to be twelve or fifteen feet long, weighs nearly a ton, and is one of the most timid and harmless of creatures. It is the only living representative of its family on this continent, all the other members being extinct. The Indians hunt it for its meat, which is said to be very good eating, and for its bones, which are as fine-grained and as hard as ivory. In general appearance it is not unlike a seal. It can strike a powerful blow with its great flat tail, but is otherwise unarmed and incapable of injuring an enemy. Several have been caught in nets and shipped North for exhibition, but none of them has lived more than a few weeks in captivity." "What made that fellow go for us if he isn't a fighter?" asked Worth. "He didn't," laughed the Lieutenant. "He was probably asleep, and is wondering why we went for him. I can assure you that he was vastly more scared than we were." "He must have been frightened almost to death, then," said Sumner. Soon after this they saw a landing-place on the left bank. Stopping to examine it, they discovered a trail leading through a fringe of bushes, behind which was an Indian field covering an old shell mound, and in a high state of cultivation. In it were growing sweet-potatoes, melons, squashes, sugar-cane, and beans--a supply of which they would gladly have purchased had the proprietors been present. As they were not, and necessity knows no law, our canoemen helped themselves to what they needed, and when they left, the load of the cruiser was materially increased. At length they heard the dull boom of surf, and realized that only a narrow strip of land separated them from the ocean. Late in the afternoon they reached the mouth of the river, and the boys uttered joyous shouts as they looked out over its bar and saw a limitless expanse of blue waters, unbroken by islands, glistening in the light of the setting sun. With light hearts they went into camp on the inner side of the sandy point separating the quiet waters on which they had been floating from the long swells of the open sea. They intended running out of the river and down the coast in the morning, for from their surroundings, as well as from the general course they had taken through the 'Glades, the Lieutenant was satisfied that they must be considerably to the north of Cape Florida. The boys determined to sleep in their canoes that night, and rigged up the little-used striped canoe tents for that purpose. While they were doing this, and the Lieutenant was pitching his own tent on shore, and the others were collecting drift-wood on the beach, there came a hail from across the river. "Hello there! Bring a boat over here, can't ye?" It was the first white man they had seen since leaving the _Transit_, and going over in the cruiser, Sumner brought him back. He proved to be a barefooted boy, a year younger than Worth, and yet he was the mail-carrier over the most southerly land route, and one of the most lonesome, in the United States. It is the seventy-mile stretch between Lake Worth and Biscayne Bay, and every week this boy or his younger brother walked the whole distance and back along the beach, with a mail-sack on his back. He had to cross the mouths of two rivers, for which purpose he kept an old skiff at each one. It sometimes happened, as in the present case, that some other beach traveller would appropriate his boat, and leave it on the wrong side. Then, unless fortunate enough to find some one to set him across, he would be obliged to brave the sharks and other sea-monsters, with which these rivers swarm, and swim over after his own boat. Along his route were three houses of refuge, situated twenty miles apart, and belonging to the Life-saving Service. Each of them contained a single keeper, and these were the only persons seen by the lonely mail-boy while on his toilsome tramps. The boy was greatly interested in the canoes, which he declared were the neatest little tricks he ever did see, but he scouted the idea of sleeping in them. "Why," said he, "some of them sharks or porpusses what uses round here nights will run inter ye an' upsot ye quicker'n wink." He was amazed that they should cruise in such tiny craft, and begged them not to think of attempting to run down the coast in them. On the whole he regarded our young canoemates as being particularly daring and reckless fellows, and they regarded him in much the same way, though he made light of his lonely beach tramps, on which he often met bears, panthers, or other wild animals. He told them that they were about twenty-five miles north of Cape Florida; that there was a "station" on the beach six miles north of them; that turtle were beginning to lay eggs, and bears to frequent the beach in search of them; that sharks grew larger in those very waters than anywhere else on the coast; and that an easterly wind would blow in the morning, which would prevent their crossing the bar. Having delivered himself of this information, and saying that he must make the station that night, the boy slung his mail-sack over his shoulders, and started off at a brisk pace up the soft shelving beach. After what he had told them about sharks, Sumner and Worth concluded not to sleep in their canoes that night. They might have done so with perfect safety, however, for no shark was ever known to overturn a boat for the sake of getting at a human being inside of it. The next morning the mail-boy's prediction in regard to the east wind was verified. It was blowing briskly at sunrise, and already a big sea was rolling in, combing and booming on the bar. Their boats would not live in it a moment, and consequently they must stay where they were until the wind changed. After breakfast the Lieutenant sat in his tent writing, the sailor was repairing a torn sail, Quorum was taking a nap, and the boys were left to their own devices for amusement. An hour or so later Lieutenant Carey, the sailor, and Quorum were startled by loud calls for help from the beach, and hurried in that direction to see what new scrape the "young rascals," as the Lieutenant called them, had got into now. CHAPTER XXXVII. FISHING FOR SHARKS. In strolling along the outer beach, picking up curious sponges and bits of coral, the attention of the boys was also attracted to the shadowy forms of great fish that they could distinguish every now and then darting along the green base of the combers just before they broke. "Do you think they can be sharks?" asked Worth. "Yes," replied Sumner; "I am almost sure they are." "My! but I wish we could catch one! I have never seen a shark out of water." "I shouldn't wonder if we could. I've got a shark-hook in the _Psyche_, and our Manila cables, knotted together, will make just the kind of line we want." Fifteen minutes later the hook and line had been prepared. For bait, they took one of a number of fish that Quorum had caught that morning. The shark-hook was a huge affair, over a foot long and made of steel a quarter of an inch thick. To it was attached by a swivel several feet of chain terminating in a ring to which the line was made fast. Sumner had caught many sharks off Key West wharves, but they had been comparatively small, and with the monsters of the reef he had hitherto had no dealings. Consequently, he was almost as ignorant of their strength as was Worth. Therefore, without reflecting on the folly of the act, and fearing that the line might be jerked from his hands, he made its inner end fast about his waist. Then whirling the heavy hook above his head, he cast it far out in the breakers. Within a minute it was tossed back to the beach, and had to be thrown again. This operation was repeated so many times without any result that the boys were beginning to tire of it, when all at once there came a jerk on the line that nearly threw Sumner off his feet. "Hurrah!" he cried. "We've got him at last! Catch hold, Worth, and help me haul him in." But it was soon evident that instead of their catching the shark, he had caught them. In spite of all their efforts, and no matter how deeply they dug their feet into the sand, the boys found themselves being dragged slowly but surely towards the water. At first they did not realize their danger; but when they were within a few yards of the creamy froth churned up by the breakers, it flashed over them, and they began to utter those shouts for help that attracted the attention of their companions in the camp. Although Worth could have let go of the line at any minute, the thought of doing such a thing never entered his head. Even when the water was about his feet and the wet sand was slipping rapidly from beneath them, the plucky little chap held on and struggled with all his might to avert the fate that threatened his friend. They were nearly hopeless before the three men reached them, and, rushing into the water, seized the line with such a powerful grasp that its seaward motion was instantly arrested. Not only that, but they walked away with it so easily that a minute later the shark was landed high and dry on the beach, where the sailor despatched it with an axe. It was a white shark of moderate size, being not more than seven or eight feet long. For all that, it was a monster as compared with those Sumner had been in the habit of catching, and he gazed with a curious sensation at its wicked eyes, and the row upon row of curved gleaming teeth with which the gaping mouth was provided. "It was a close call for you, my boy," said the Lieutenant, gravely, "and has taught you a lesson that I am sure you will never forget. You may thank your lucky stars that the hook was taken by this little fellow instead of by one of his grandfathers or uncles. Now that we have started in this business, I am going to try and show you what might have happened." Under his direction a hole some five feet deep was dug, a heavy timber, selected from those with which the beach was strewn, was thrust into it, and the sand was repacked solidly about it. To this, instead of to Sumner's body, the end of the line was attached, and the fishing for sharks was resumed. While the post was being set, Lieutenant Carey brought his rifle from the camp. Several sharks, some smaller and some larger than the first, were caught; but not until the hook was seized by one that dragged the entire party clinging to it slowly down the beach did the Lieutenant express himself as satisfied. "Hold on to it!" he cried. "Brace yourselves! Snub him all you can!" The strain on the line was tremendous, and it hummed like a harpstring. But for the post to aid them, they must have let go. At length, even the enormous strength at the other end of the line began to be exhausted. Foot by foot the slack was gathered in and held at the post. Then a great ugly-looking head could be seen in the edge of the breakers, and the next minute a rifle-ball crashed into it. In the flurry that followed the line snapped, and the boys uttered a cry of dismay. But the bullet had done its work, and a few minutes later the huge carcass was rolling like a log in the surf. The sailor managed to get a bight of the line over its tail, and by their united efforts the great fish was drawn partly from the water; but beyond there they could not move it. It was nearly fifteen feet long, and Sumner shuddered as he realized how easily and quickly such a monster as that could have dragged him out to sea. "It seems to me," said Worth, "that some kinds of fishing are as dangerous as deer-hunting, and just as exciting." While they were still looking at the big shark their attention was attracted to a loud barking in the beach scrub behind them, and by a man's voice shouting: "Wus-le! Wus-le! You, sir! Come here!" It was evident that Wus-le was a dog, and that he was engaged in some absorbing occupation that forbade him to pay any attention to the calls of his unseen master. Going to the place from which the barking came, the shark-fishers were in time to witness a most interesting performance. A small brindled bull-terrier was tearing in a circle round and round a coiled rattlesnake. The former was barking furiously, and the sound so enraged the snake that the angry whir-r-r-r of its rattles was almost continuous. At the same time it was dazed by the rapidity of the dog's motions. At length it sprang forward, struck viciously, and missed its mark. At the same moment the dog dashed in, seized the snake by the back, gave one furious shake, and jumped away. The snake was evidently injured, for it re-coiled slowly. Once more, enraged beyond endurance, it struck at its agile adversary, and then the dog had him. In an instant the snake's back was broken, and a minute later it lay motionless and dead. As soon as he was certain of his victory, the dog paid no more attention to his late enemy, but with panting breath and lolling tongue that betrayed the energy of his recent exertions, he ran to meet his master, who appeared at that moment from the direction of the river. He was a powerfully built man, dressed partly as a hunter and partly as a sailor. He carried a rifle, and introduced himself as the keeper of the house of refuge a few miles up the coast. He upbraided the dog as though it were a human being for tackling a rattlesnake, and then remarked apologetically to the spectators of the recent fight: "I have to scold him on general principles, but it don't do any good. He is bound to fight and kill snakes till they kill him, which I am always expecting they will. They haven't done it yet, though, and he has killed more than twenty rattlers, besides more of other kinds than I can count. He's a good dog, Wus-le is, and he's a terror to snakes." The man said he had learned of the Lieutenant and his companions being in the river from the mail-carrier, and, feeling lonely, had come to invite them to go to the station and stay with him until the wind changed. As he assured them that this was not likely to happen for several days, and as they were ahead of the time set for their arrival at Cape Florida, Lieutenant Carey accepted the invitation. On their way up the river their guide pointed out a grove of cocoanut palms, marking the site of a fort erected during the Seminole War, the name of which was at one time familiar to all Americans. It was the scene of the treacherous seizure of the famous chief Osceola, who was lured into it under the pretence of considering a treaty. From there he was hurried to Fort Moultrie, in Charleston Harbor, where he soon afterwards died of a broken heart. They found the station to be a low, roomy structure, surrounded by broad piazzas, built in the most solid manner so as to withstand hurricanes. It stood on top of the beach ridge, and commanded a glorious view of the ocean, as well as of the low-lying back country. At one end was a small separate house containing a great cistern, in which a supply of water was collected during the rainy season of summer, to last through the long winter drought. At the opposite end stood a building in which was kept a metallic life-boat and a quantity of canned provisions for the use of sailors who might be wrecked on that lonely coast. Here the exploring party remained for nearly a week, while the wind still held steadily to the east, and they all declared it to be the happiest and most interesting week of their cruise. They hunted, fished, and sailed on the inland waters behind the beach ridge to their hearts' content. Quorum was kept constantly busy cooking on the station kitchen stove the venison, fish, turtle, ducks, quail, 'possum, and other food supplies with which the surrounding country abounded. Worth felt that his reputation as a hunter was fully restored when he shot a wild-cat that Wus-le had treed, and Sumner was more than proud over the killing of a black bear, which the same enterprising dog discovered one night digging for turtle eggs on the beach but a short distance from the station. The Lieutenant worked at the report of his expedition, while the sailor and the keeper labored at the frame of a light-draught, sea-going boat, which the latter wished to build for his own use, and for which Sumner furnished the plans and model. At length the wind, which in that country always boxes the compass, worked around to the westward, and as it was the end of March, the canoes were again loaded, and the pleasant life at the station came to an end. CHAPTER XXXVIII. LITTLE KO-WIK-A SAILS OUT TO SEA. There was a long swell heaving in over the bar at the mouth of the river, but no breakers; and the little fleet, crossing it easily, laid a course down the coast. A stretch of twenty miles lay before them ere they would find another opening into which they could run for shelter, and they were therefore desirous of making the run before night. On most waters this would not have been difficult; but just here was a strong head current, that of the Gulf Stream, running fully three miles an hour, and they knew that to overcome this, and also to make twenty miles during the day, would tax the sailing powers of their small craft to the utmost. Nor could they all sail. The _Hu-la-lah_ had no centre-board, and with the wind somewhat forward of abeam, the use of her sail would only have driven her off shore. The Lieutenant was therefore obliged to rely upon his paddle and keep close to the coast. The cruiser, being a slow sailer close-hauled, kept him company, but the _Psyche_ and _Cupid_ drew gradually ahead, and were soon out of hailing distance. It was so delightful to find themselves again sailing, and their canoes were doing so splendidly, that the boys hated to stop. And why should they? There was nothing to fear. They knew where they were going, the others were in company, and a halting-place for the night had been agreed upon. They would stop when they reached it, and that would be soon enough. Until noon the breeze was very light, but after that it freshened and soon came off the land in angry little gusts that suggested the propriety of reefing. With a single reef in each of their sails, they ran until late in the afternoon, when they sighted a cut leading into the great land-locked sheet of Biscayne Bay. They were to enter this bay and cruise down behind its outer keys to Cape Florida, but it had been decided that they should camp on the upper side of the cut for that night. The wind had increased in strength until now even double-reefed sails could hardly be carried on the canoes. The whole sky was covered with dark clouds, while a bank of inky blackness was rising in the west. It was evident that a wind-squall of unusual violence would shortly burst upon them, and almost at the same moment both the canoemates lowered their sails, jointed their paddles, and headed straight in for land. As he lowered his sail and cast a glance astern in search of the other boats, Sumner noticed a large steamer coming down the coast. He wondered if she were not too close in for safety, but the immediate demands of his situation quickly drove all thoughts of her from his mind. In the teeth of the spiteful gusts, and facing the ominous blackness, they worked their way in until they could see the very place that the station-keeper had described to them as being a suitable camping-ground. Five minutes more would take them to its shelter. Just then Sumner shouted to Worth, and drew his attention to a strange craft that he had been watching for several minutes. It was coming out of the cut, running dead before the wind, but yawing and gybing in a manner that indicated either utter recklessness or absolute ignorance on the part of its crew. The two canoes were so close together that Worth could hear Sumner plainly as he shouted: "It's an Indian canoe, and apparently unmanageable. I'm going to up sail and run down for a look at it. Do you paddle in to shore, and be out of harm's way before that squall bursts." "Oh, Sumner, don't run any risks!" shouted Worth. "All right, I'll be careful. But you'll make things a great deal easier for me if you will start at once for shore. That's a good fellow." So Worth did as his friend desired, and Sumner, hoisting his double-reefed main-sail, bore down on the strange canoe, which would otherwise have passed him at quite a distance. It was going at a tremendous pace, and as the two craft neared each other, Sumner saw to his consternation that the sole occupant of the dugout was a child who stretched out its little arms imploringly towards him. He saw this as the runaway canoe, under full sail, shot across his bow. A tumult of thought flashed through the boy's mind like lightning. He was near enough to land to reach it in safety. That child, if left alone, was rushing to certain destruction. He might be able to rescue it, and he might not. The chances were that he would lose his own life in the attempt. Very well; could he lose it in a better cause? What would his father have done under similar circumstances? That last question was sufficient. There was no longer any room for argument. Even during his moment of hesitation the boy had been loosening the reef-line of his main-sail, and simultaneously with his decision a quick pull at the halyard exposed its full surface to the wind. Over heeled the canoe, with Sumner leaning far out on the weather side. Then her head paid off, and under the influence of the first blast of the squall she sprang away like a frightened animal, in the direction taken by the runaway. That same afternoon a fleet of Indian canoes, containing Ul-we and his companions, had crossed Biscayne Bay from the main-land. Instead of descending the river on which they had left our explorers, they had skirted the edge of the 'Glades to another that flowed into the bay, the secret of which they did not choose to have Lieutenant Carey learn. Although it still lacked a day of new moon, they decided to take advantage of the fair wind, cross the bay, and spend the intervening time in catching and smoking a supply of fish at a point several miles above Cape Florida. In the canoe with Ul-we was his six-year-old brother, the little Ko-wik-a, who was sometimes allowed to hold the sheet while they were sailing, and who considered himself fully competent to manage the boat alone. However, being very wise in some things, he did not say this nor express in words his longing for a chance to prove his skill. He simply waited for an opportunity that was not long in coming. After the Indians had pitched their camp, Ul-we, taking Ko-wik-a with him, went up to the cut to set a net into which fish would run with the flood-tide. Reaching the place, he went into the mangroves to cut some poles, leaving his little brother in the canoe. This was Ko-wik-a's chance, and he was quick to seize it. He would now show Ul-we that if he was little, he could sail a boat. The big brother had hardly disappeared when the little one shoved the canoe out from the mangroves and grasped the sheet in his chubby hands. The sail was already hoisted. He did not try to steer, but the wind and swiftly ebbing tide did that for him. A minute later and he was running out of the cut at racing speed, wholly jubilant over the complete success of his experiment. When he got ready to turn round and go back, he became a little frightened to find out that something more than wishing to do so was necessary. When his craft shot out from the cut, and, leaving the land behind, headed out into an infinitely larger body of water than the little fellow had ever before seen, he became thoroughly demoralized, and began to call loudly for Ul-we. Poor Ul-we had just discovered that both his little brother, whom he loved better than anyone or anything in the world, and his canoe had disappeared, and was rushing frantically towards the outer beach. His instinct told him what had happened, and his one hope was to reach the end of the cut in time to swim off and intercept the runaway. When he did get there it was only in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of his own well-known sail far out at sea, with another much whiter and smaller one behind it. Then a cruel squall burst over the ocean. In a cloud of rain and mist, borne forward by the fierce wind, the two sails disappeared and the whole landscape was blotted from view. From a place of safety on the opposite side of the cut, though unseen by Ul-we, Worth Manton strained his eyes for a last glimpse of the _Psyche's_ fluttering signal flag, and the others, rapidly nearing him, wondered at his gesture of despair as it was blotted out. The squall was long and fierce, and by the time it had passed, the darkness of night had shut in and the stars were shining. CHAPTER XXXIX. A BLACK SQUALL AND THE STRANDED STEAMER. Although the _Psyche_ was flying at racing speed dead before the wind, which freshened with each moment, and was rolling frightfully under her press of canvas, she was no match in running for the long dugout of which she was in pursuit. Had the latter been properly trimmed and steered, the light cedar canoe could never have caught it. As it was, Sumner saw that he was gaining, but so slowly that he could not hope to overtake it before being carried miles out to sea. In that weather and with night coming on, this was by no means a cheerful prospect. Still he had no thought of turning back. He had entered upon this race with a full knowledge of its possible consequences, and he would either save the helpless little figure that had appealed to him so imploringly, or perish with it. So the clutch on his deck tiller tightened, and the taut main-sheet held in the other hand was not slackened a single inch, until the hissing rush of the black squall was in his ears. Then the canoe was sharply luffed, the sheet was dropped, the halyard cast off, and the white sail fell to the deck like a broken wing. As it was gathered in and made fast with a turn of the sheet, the squall burst on the stanch little craft and heeled it far over. It offered too little resistance to be capsized, and a minute later, steadied by the double-bladed paddle, it was once more got before the wind and was scudding under bare poles. While doing all this, Sumner had been too busy to look after the object of his pursuit. Now he could not see it, and he almost choked with the thought that his brave effort had been made in vain, after all. No, there it was, close at hand, but no longer showing a sail or flying from him. Heeling over before the blast, its long boom had been thrust into the water, and in an instant the slender craft had been upset. Now, full of water, it floated on one side like a log. At first, Sumner failed to see its tiny occupant, and the thought that he had been drowned almost within reach was a bitter one. But no. Hurrah! There he is! With head just above the water, and chubby hands clutching at the slippery sides of his craft, the plucky little chap was still fighting for life. As the _Psyche_ swept alongside, steered to a nicety, Sumner reached out, and, nearly overturning his canoe by the effort, caught the little fellow by an arm. The water was pouring in over the cockpit coaming, and had the child been a pound heavier, the next instant would have seen two helplessly drifting canoes instead of one. As it was, he was hauled in and safely deposited in the inch or more of water that swashed above the cockpit floor. With infinite self-possession the child smiled up into the face of his rescuer and lisped: "How, Sumner!" Then the boy recognized the little Ko-wik-a, whose acquaintance he had made in Ul-we's camp, and as a relief to his own overstrained nerves, called him a little imp, and abused him roundly for getting them into such a scrape. At the same time tears stood in his eyes, and he could have hugged the child cuddling between his knees and smiling so confidingly in his face. [Illustration: SUMNER RESCUES KO-WIK-A.] Though the rescue of Ko-wik-a had been so happily accomplished, they were still in a sad plight--driving out to sea in an egg-shell, with no chance of battling back against the tempest, and the darkness of night enshrouding them. With each moment the storm-lashed waves were mounting higher. All Sumner's skill was required to prevent the canoe from broaching to and turning over. How much longer would his strength hold out? Already he felt it failing. He would soon become exhausted, and then-- Hark! What was that? The note of a steam-whistle? Yes, and another, and still others, struggling back hoarsely against the wind. Then a light twinkled through the darkness, and directly other lights were outlining a huge black shape right in their track. Sumner remembered the steamer he had seen just before parting from Worth. Could this be she? What was she doing there, apparently at anchor? Driving under her stern, a few minutes' hard paddling brought the canoe into the quiet calm of the towering lee. Then Sumner shouted again and again, but the voice of the ship calling for aid in her own distress drowned his cries. After a while the whistle notes ceased, and he shouted again. This time he was heard, and an answering hail came from the deck high above him, "Who is it, and where are you?" Sumner answered, and in a few minutes a port low down in the ship's side was flung open, and a flood of light poured from it. Two ropes were lowered, and Sumner getting the bights under the bow and stern of his canoe, it, with its occupants, was lifted to the level of the open port. Strong arms first received the little Ko-wik-a, and then helped the young canoeman aboard the steamer. "Where is your vessel?" demanded the captain, who was among those assembled to witness this unexpected arrival. "There," answered Sumner, pointing to the _Psyche_. "You don't mean to say that you are navigating the ocean in that cockle-shell?" "Yes, I do; though I don't expect I should have navigated it much longer if I hadn't fallen in with you just as I did. How do you happen to be at anchor here, and what were you whistling for?" "We are not at anchor. We are aground, and I was blowing the whistle in the hope of attracting some vessel or vessels, into which we could lighter our cargo. Now I suppose I shall have to throw it overboard." "What for?" asked Sumner. "With this offshore wind there won't be any heavy sea, and unless you have stove a hole in her bottom she ought to float with the flood-tide." "Flood-tide! Isn't it the top of the flood now?" exclaimed the captain. "No; it's the very last of the ebb, and the flood will give you a couple of feet more water." "Are you certain of that?" "Certain." "Then you are a trump!" cried the captain. "And I'm away out of my reckoning, somehow. Your coming just as you have has undoubtedly saved my cargo, for I should have begun heaving it overboard by this time. You see, I was hugging the coast to escape the force of the Gulf as much as possible, but was keeping a sharp lookout for the red buoy that marks the end of the reef. I can't imagine how we missed it, unless it has gone; but we did, and when Fowey was lighted, I saw that we were too close in shore. I didn't know that we were inside of the reef; but we struck within five minutes after I altered her course, and that was nearly half an hour ago. We don't seem to have hit very hard, and she lies easy without making any water; but she's here to stay, unless, as you say, the flood-tide will lift her off. You are certain that this is the last of the ebb?" "As certain as that I am standing here," answered Sumner, who had a very distinct recollection of how the current had rushed out through the cut. "Then let us go up into my room and have some supper. There you can tell me how you happened to be out here in such weather with a pickaninny aboard while we wait for the tide." How safe and comfortable the great ship seemed, after that wild race to sea in a canoe! How the captain and mates and passengers marvelled at Sumner's adventures, and what a pet they all made of little Ko-wik-a. As for that self-possessed young Indian, he accepted all the attentions lavished upon him in the most matter-of-fact manner, and with the utmost composure. He expressed no surprise at anything he saw; but his keen little eyes studied all the details of his novel surroundings, and he stored away scraps of startling information with which to astonish his young Everglade comrades for many a day. The squall passed and the sea smoothed out its wrinkles soon after the crew of the _Psyche_ came aboard, and shortly before midnight the rising tide lifted the great ship gently off the reef. She was backed to a safe distance from it, and there anchored to await the coming of daylight. Knowing what anxiety his friends and Ko-wik-a's friends must be suffering on their account, Sumner determined to return to them at the earliest possible moment. The first signs of dawn, therefore, found the _Psyche_, with her crew and passenger, once more afloat. A hearty cheer followed the brave little craft as she glided away from the great ship, and in less than an hour she was paddled gently up to where the other canoes and the cruiser lay on the beach. It had been a sad night to the inmates of that lonely camp, and most of its long hours had been spent in a fruitless watching for the return of the well-loved lad, whom most of them had such slight hopes of ever again seeing. Only Worth had faith, and declared that while he did not know how Sumner would manage it, he was confident that he would turn up again all right somehow. Towards morning their anxiety found relief in a troubled sleep, and as Sumner walked into the camp there was none to greet him or note his coming. "Hello, in the camp!" he shouted. "Here it is almost sunrise and no breakfast ready yet!" No surprise could be more complete or more joyful than that. Worth was the first to spring to his feet. "He's come back safe and sound!" he shouted. "Oh, Sumner, I knew you would! I was sure of it, and told them so!" "The next time I let you away from my side it will only be at the end of a long rope, you young rascal, you!" said the Lieutenant, after the extravagant joy of the first greeting had somewhat subsided. After an unusually late and happy breakfast, they sailed through the cut and into the beautiful bay to which it led. They soon discovered the camp to which Ko-wik-a belonged, and the canoe that had rescued him had the honor of bearing him to it. He was received with a wondering joy that was none the less real for its lack of extravagant manifestation. As Ul-we took the child from Sumner's arms, he turned his face away to hide the emotion that would be unbecoming in an Indian and a warrior. It was there, however, and the look of intense gratitude that he gave the boy was more expressive than any words that he could have uttered. Then the Indians broke their camp, and they and the whites sailed away together to the appointed rendezvous on Cape Florida. CHAPTER XL. THE HAPPY ENDING OF THE CRUISE. On their entire cruise our young canoemates had not enjoyed a day's run so much as they did this one in company with the Indians who had crossed the Everglades with them, but of whom they had seen so little. The wind was so fair that the boats without centre-boards could sail as well as those with, and the run was a series of match races, of which the _Psyche_ and _Cupid_ were winners in nearly every case. As Ul-we's canoe had been lost the night before, the Lieutenant invited both him and the little Ko-wik-a to a sail in the _Hu-la-lah_, and even the self-contained young Indian was compelled to express his admiration of the graceful craft. When he ventured to ask what such a canoe would cost, and the price was named, his face indicated his despair at ever being able to accumulate such a sum, and he murmured: "Heap money! Injun no get um." At Cape Florida, while the camps were being pitched but a short distance from each other, the boys went with Ul-we to set another fish-trap, such as he had been about to prepare when Ko-wik-a ran away with his canoe the day before. The little fellow went with them, but he no longer showed any inclination to go sailing on his own hook. After Ul-we had fixed his trap they went over to a submerged bank that extends southward several miles from the cape. Here, while the boys waded in the shoal water collecting sea porcupines, urchins, tiny squids, bits of live coral, and numberless other marine curiosities, Ul-we was busy gathering and throwing into his canoe a quantity of big greenish shells that looked like so many rocks. When they were ready to go back, and Sumner saw this novel cargo, he exclaimed: "Good! Now we will have some conch soup for dinner!" "How do you know?" asked Worth. "Because here are the conchs, and Ul-we has enough for all of us." "Those things!" cried Worth, in a tone of disgust. "You surely don't mean that they are good to eat?" "Yes, I do," laughed Sumner, picking up one of the shells and showing Worth the white meat with which its exquisitely pink interior was filled. "I mean that these fellows can be made into the very best soup I know of." "Seems to me I have seen that kind of a shell before," said Worth, "but I never knew that any one ever ate their contents." "Of course you have seen the shells. You will find them in half the farm-houses of the country, where, with the point of the small end cut off, they are used as dinner horns. As for the eating part, you wait till Quorum gives you a chance to test it this evening. If you don't find it fully as good as sofkee, then I shall be mistaken." The boys had been greatly disappointed at not finding either the Mantons' yacht nor the _Transit_ awaiting them at the cape. Several times in the course of the afternoon they climbed to the top of an abandoned light-house tower near their camp, in the hope of sighting a sail bound in that direction. As they did so just before sunset, they saw several far over towards the main-land, but they were too distant for their character to be distinguished. Never had they seen anything so exquisitely beautiful or so royally gorgeous as that Southern sunset, and they lingered at the top of the tower until the last of its marvellous flame tints had burned out, and the delicate crescent of the new moon was sinking into the 'Glades behind the distant pine-trees of the main-land. At supper time Worth was introduced to conch soup, and he agreed with Sumner that it was fully equal to sofkee. After supper the boys strolled over to the Indian camp, to which Lieutenant Carey was attracted soon afterwards by their shouts of laughter. He did not recognize the boys until they spoke to him, for they had persuaded Ul-we to array them as he had after the forest fire, and they were now in full Indian costume. In the mean time the distant sails that they had sighted from the top of the old tower had been running across the bay before a brisk breeze, and two vessels had quietly come to anchor just inside the cape. The glow of the camp-fires could be seen from these, and from one of them a boat containing several persons pulled in to the beach. A minute later two gentlemen, whose footsteps were unheard in the sand, stood on the edge of the circle of firelight, and one of them said to the other, in a low and disappointed tone: "It's only an Indian camp after all, Tracy." "So it is," replied the other, regretfully. "Still, they may be able to give us some news. Let's go in and inquire." At that moment the attention of the Indians was equally divided between Sumner, who was apparently accumulating a fortune by taking half-dollars from little Ko-wik-a's mouth and ears, and Worth, who was attempting to dance what he called a clog with Indian variations, to the music of Lieutenant Carey's whistle. Suddenly little Ko-wik-a, who was nervously excited over Sumner's wonderful performance, uttered a startled cry and sprang to one side, staring into the darkness. All the others looked in the same direction, and probably the dignified Mr. Manton was never more surprised in his life than when a young Indian bounded to his side, flung his arms about his neck, and called him "Dear father!" His brother was equally amazed when another young Indian sprang to where he was standing, seized his hand, and called him "Mr. Tracy!" When they discovered, by their voices and by what they were incoherently saying, that these young Indians were not Indians at all, but the very boys of whom they were in search, tanned to the color of mahogany, and dressed in borrowed finery, the surprise and delight of the two gentlemen can better be imagined than described. "Is it possible," cried Mr. Manton, holding Worth off at arm's-length so that the firelight shone full upon him, "that this can be the pale-faced chap with a cough who left me in St. Augustine a couple of months ago? Why, son, you've grown an inch taller and, I should say, six in breadth!" Then, turning to the other boy, and scanning his features closely, he added: "And is this Sumner Rankin, the son of my old schoolmate Rankin, whom I lost sight of after he went into the navy? My boy, for your father's sake, and for the sake of what you have done for Worth this winter, I want you hereafter to regard me as a father, and continue to act as this boy's elder brother. Ever since Tracy told me of you I have been almost as impatient to meet you as to rejoin Worth, for as schoolmates your father and I were as dear to each other as own brothers." While this joyful meeting was taking place, a boat from the _Transit_ had come ashore, and Ensign Sloe was reporting to Lieutenant Carey. Then the whole party had to sit down where they were, and, surrounded by the grave-faced Indians, tell and listen to as much of the past two months' experience as could be crowded into as many hours. The Mantons were charmed with Lieutenant Carey, and he with them, while towards Ul-we their gratitude was unbounded. Old Quorum, too, was introduced, and warmly thanked for his fidelity to the young canoemates. [Illustration: THE SURPRISE AND DELIGHT OF THE TWO GENTLEMEN CAN BE BETTER IMAGINED THAN DESCRIBED.] Before the schooners sailed for Key West, which they did the next day, Lieutenant Carey presented Ul-we with the _Hu-la-lah_, and Worth gave him the handsomest rifle in his father's collection, besides promising to send little Ko-wik-a a light canoe for his very own. Mr. Manton and Uncle Tracy between them not only purchased from the Indians, at fabulous prices, the costumes in which they found the boys, but everything else they could think of that would aid in reproducing their present appearance and surroundings for the benefit of their Northern friends. The properties they thus acquired included bear, wolf, panther, and deer skins, and even a sofkee kettle with its great wooden spoon. Besides this, they and the Lieutenant so loaded the Indian canoes with provisions, tobacco, cartridges for their rifles and shot-guns, and other useful things, that this occasion formed a theme for conversation about every camp-fire throughout the length and breadth of the Everglades for many a long day. Should Lieutenant Carey and his party ever care to penetrate those wilds again, they will be certain of a hearty welcome, and of being allowed to go where they please. Then the two yachts set sail for their run down the reef to Key West, where another joyful greeting awaited the young canoemates. Before the Mantons left there, it was arranged that Mrs. Rankin should dispose of her Key West home as soon as possible, and sail for New York, where Mr. Manton said he had a cosey little house waiting for just such tenants as herself and Sumner. "Be sure and come as quickly as you can," he said, "for I want my new boy to design and build me a yacht this summer for next winter's cruising." "I shall need one too," added Uncle Tracy, "and I think I know of several more that will be wanted." "Don't forget to bring the _Psyche_ with you, Sumner!" shouted Worth, the last thing. "As if I would!" answered Sumner. "Whatever boats I may own, I will never part with that dear canoe so long as I live." That evening, as the boy and his mother sat discussing their pleasant prospects for the future, Sumner said: "Well, mother, I have learned one thing from the past two months' experience, and that is that wealthy people can be just as kind and considerate, and may be as dearly loved, as poor ones. I didn't believe it at one time, but now I know it." * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious spelling and punctuation errors have been corrected. Archaic, dialect and alternative spelling has been retained. Blank pages facing illustrations have been removed. Emphasised text is shown thus: _italics_ =bold= 
45774	----	RALPH DENHAM'S ADVENTURES IN BURMA [Illustration: A groan burst from the white lips of the men as the seething ruin that had been their home for so many weeks disappeared slowly from view (_p. 43_).] RALPH DENHAM'S ADVENTURES IN BURMA _A TALE OF THE BURMESE JUNGLE_ BY G. NORWAY AUTHOR OF "TREGARTHEN," "A DANGEROUS CONSPIRATOR," "LOSS OF JOHN HUMBLE," ETC. [Illustration: decoration] LONDON SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & CO., LTD. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY PURNELL AND SONS PAULTON, SOMERSET, ENGLAND CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. RALPH STARTS UPON HIS VOYAGE 7 II. A GALE 19 III. FIRE AT SEA 33 IV. THE RAFT 44 V. ADRIFT ON THE OCEAN 52 VI. THE DENHAMS AT HOME 60 VII. MOULMEIN 69 VIII. KIRKE ESCAPES 78 IX. NEWS FROM RALPH 87 X. THE LEOPARD 96 XI. WHAT BEFELL KIRKE AFTER HIS ESCAPE 104 XII. THE KAREN VILLAGE 113 XIII. THE MAN-EATER 122 XIV. TATTOOING 132 XV. THE OLD MEN'S FAITH 141 XVI. BIG GAME 149 XVII. THE JUNGLE FIRE 157 XVIII. THE DACOIT'S HEAD 166 XIX. LOST IN THE JUNGLE 175 XX. JUNGLE THIEVES 184 XXI. THE RAPIDS 196 XXII. KIRKE AND DENHAM MEET 204 XXIII. FIGHT WITH DACOITS 213 XXIV. THE DACOITS BURN THE VILLAGE 222 XXV. DESPERATION 229 XXVI. SUNSHINE'S HEROISM 239 XXVII. CONCLUSION 248 RALPH DENHAM'S ADVENTURES IN BURMA CHAPTER I RALPH STARTS UPON HIS VOYAGE Mrs. Denham sat in her parlour, a two years old baby boy asleep upon her lap, and an anxious, mournful expression upon her face. She wore the dress of a widow,--a dress so new in its folds that it was evidently but a short time since the Dread Messenger had paused at her threshold to bear away its master and bread-winner. The room was a shabby one; the fire but a handful of dusty ashes; rain fell without in the dreary street; it was growing dusk, and a soul-depressing cry of "Want chee-e-ep? Do ye want chee-e-eps?" arose ever and anon, as the ragged Irish chip boy wandered up and down. It was a street of cheap houses in the suburbs of Liverpool, where the misery of poor gentility is perhaps more without alloy than in any other town. But the door burst open, and a bright-faced, rosy, blue-eyed boy entered, with the freshness of out-of-doors upon him. "All alone, mother?" said he. "Where's Agnes? Where are the little ones? Why, what a scurvy fire you have! let me cheer it up a little." He began piling lumps of coal upon the embers in a scientific manner, to which a blaze quickly responded; when he swept up the hearth, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as he bent to kiss his mother's face. "It requires a man to make up a fire," said he. "Where are all the others?" "Agnes is giving the little ones their tea in the kitchen," replied Mrs. Denham. "I asked her to keep them out of the way for a while, because I want to talk to you, Ralph dear." "All right, mother mine, fire away," said the boy, throwing himself down on the hearthrug, and resting one arm upon her knee. "Ralph dear," resumed she, "your uncle Sam has come home; he has been here this afternoon." "Uncle Sam? How jolly! When did the _Pelican_ come in, mother? I did not know that she was even off Holyhead." "The _Pelican_ was docked last night, dear, upon the evening tide," said she; "and your uncle has been here a long time this afternoon." "Was he not very sorry to hear about father?" asked Ralph in a low voice. "Yes, dear; but he was prepared for the news by my last letter. He is a very kind brother; he has been giving my affairs his careful consideration all the way home, and has already offered some prospect of help; but this depends upon you, Ralph." "Upon _me_, mother? I would be so proud to help. You may reckon upon me; but what can I do?" "What it is a bitter pill for me to swallow, my boy, yet it would be such a help that I do not know how to refuse it." "What is it, mother?" "It is for you to go out to Burma, dear. When my last letter reached him, and he knew of your father's hopeless state of health, Uncle Sam secured for you the chance of a situation in a rice firm in Rangoon. He says that there would be a salary at once, upon which you could live with care, and which would soon improve into something much better, and into a position from which, in a few years, you might help one of your brothers. It is not in the house of Herford Brothers,--I wish it were,--but, as he sails for them, he will often see you, and bring us home news of you. It would not be as if you went to quite a strange place, where you would know nobody; and, Ralph, it would be an immense relief even to have your keep off my hands just at present. Dear Agnes maintains herself by her teaching; Lisa's scholarship provides for her education; and if you, my darling boy, were not here we might double up closer and spare another room for a second lodger, which would be a great help to me. But I do not know how to part with you, Ralph, my boy,--my dear, dear boy!" The poor lady bent her face down upon the curly, tousled head at her knee, and wept sorrowfully. Ralph passed his arm round her neck in silence, for tumultuous emotion choked him, and he could not speak at first. There had been a time, not so long before, when he would have been wild with delight at the thought of leaving school, going abroad, seeing new countries, being independent. But recent events had sobered his spirits and made him more thoughtful. He pondered the scheme now without excitement or selfish pleasure; he tried to think whether it would be well for his mother were he to leave her. It seemed to him that it would be so. "Mother," said he, "it is not as if Agnes were not older than I. Agnes is seventeen, and a companion to you, while I am not old enough to take father's place with Jack and Reggie. They would not attend to me nor obey me." "No, dear." "Then when father was dying he bade me do my best to help you, and I promised that I would. If this is the best for you, mother, I _must_ do it." There was a manly ring in his voice as he said this, echoing so plainly the sound of the voice that was gone, that his mother almost felt as if it were her husband speaking to her in her son. They sat silent for a long time, hand clasped in hand; then the sleeping child awoke, and recalled Mrs. Denham to her busy life. "Uncle Sam is coming back to supper, and wants to talk to you about this," said she. "I will go out for a walk, to think it all over, if you don't mind, mother; I will come in again by supper time," said the boy. "Do, dear; it is not a plan that should be carried out in a hurry," said she. And Ralph took up his cap and went out. He strolled aimlessly up one street, down another, his hands in his pockets and eyes fixed on the ground; then, with sudden determination, he changed his purposeless steps towards the town, and steadily pursued his road to meet his uncle. So rapidly did he walk now, that he reached the lodging to which Captain Rogers always repaired when on shore just as he was emerging from the door. "Halloa, my son!" called out the sailor in Cornish accents, "whither so fast?" "I came to meet you, uncle. Mother has been telling me of your plan for me, and I wanted to talk to you about it while we could be alone." "Ay, that's right. Men can settle things between themselves better than when there is a lot of soft-hearted women by, to cry over the Lord knows what. You are 'most a man now, Ralph. How you have grown since I've been away! How old are you now?" "Fifteen, uncle. Fifteen and a half." "Too old to be lopping about at your mother's apron strings. Old enough to be of some use and good, are you not?" "Is this plan of use, uncle? Do you really think it would be good for mother?" "Well, sonnie, to speak the plain truth I don't see no other way in which you are half as likely to keep off her hands. They are full enough, Ralph, without a great hearty fellow like you to be eating her out of house and home." "That is so, uncle." "I think that the Herfords would give you a free voyage out. I believe that I could work it so that they would. If they will, you cost her nothing more from this time. Agnes is a sensible maid, she can look after your mother better than you can. I will pay her rent for her, and take Jack to sea with me as soon as he is old enough; and then with a lodger or two, and the bit of money that she has, she may do fairly well. Be a man, Ralph, and do your part." "I will, uncle, God helping me." "Well said. But now, look here, there must be no chopping and changing; no crying out that you are homesick, or don't like it, and want to come back again. If you make up your mind to go, there must be some expense incurred for your outfit; and I'll not help unless you give me your word of honour that this shall be _all_ that you mean to cost us. If I launch you, you must sail away on your own account, and make the best of matters however they may turn out. Do you understand me?" "Yes, uncle. Is it necessary to give my answer now, this evening, or may I sleep upon it?" "I don't mind your sleeping upon it, as you call it, but I must have your answer almost at once, because I must see Mr. Herford about your passage, and your kit must be got ready." "I will tell you to-morrow, uncle." "Mind you do. Mr. Herford goes from home at the end of the week, and I don't know how long he may be away. It would hurry everything up too closely to wait till he returns, when all the _Pelican's_ cargo will be in course of loading, and everything else to settle." Captain Rogers had intended to make the evening pleasant to his sister and her young folks, but fate was too strong for him on that occasion. Mrs. Denham's eyes were full of tears, and she kept silence as the only way to prevent their overflow. Agnes was little better, and the repressed agitation of their elders checked all the younger ones' chatter. He went away early; but Ralph would not talk to any of them even when his uncle had left them. He went to his room, and spent the night in thinking, thinking, thinking; trying to make out what his father would have wished,--what was best for his mother,--where his strongest duty lay. At last he took to prayer; and, for the first time in his young life, really sought help and counsel from his Father in heaven. Such seeking is never unanswered; he slept, woke up clear in his mind as to what he ought to do, and told his uncle that he would go. "You decide rightly," said his uncle. "People cannot very often do just what they would like best. If I could, I would have got you a start in life nearer home, so that your mother might keep you to be a comfort to her; but she will not mind so much when you are once gone, and you will sooner be of real use to her and to your brothers in this way than in any other which any of us can command. But, remember, you must take life as it comes, and work hard for yourself once you are started." "I will, uncle, God helping me." "Well said, my boy." After that, all was hurry to prepare him for this important change in his life; his mother cried incessantly; his sister Agnes went about with red eyes, which could scarcely see the stitches that she set in his clothes; his uncle drove him about hither and thither; there was no time to think until the adieux were all made, and they had been towed out of dock. The _Pelican of the North_ was a barque-rigged, three-masted vessel, laden with coal for Moulmein; and the day was bright when she dropped down the river Mersey. The crew were in good spirits, for the weather, which had been extremely dull and wet for some weeks, cleared up suddenly on the day of sailing. The chilly wind had veered into a balmy quarter, the drenching rain ceased, the sun broke out, and all the little tossing waves seemed to be dancing with joy to see its beams sparkling upon their crests. Great masses of clouds were driving away, farther and farther, overhead, losing their heavy grey colour, and fast becoming soft and snowy white; while the flocks of seagulls, swooping about upon widespread pinions high in the air, might be imagined to be fleecy morsels detached from them on their course, so pure and silvery was their plumage. Ralph stood by the capstan, looking back to the fort and lighthouse on the New Brighton Point with mixed feelings. He had never been farther away from home than this before; he was now setting off for an unknown life in a new country, among strangers, to make his own way as best he could. He was pleased with his independence, with the thought that he was thus helping his mother; but he had not imagined how love for his home would tug at his heart-strings. It was not until he had felt his mother's farewell kiss, and heard her choked voice blessing him for the last time; it was not until his dearly-loved companion-sister Agnes had sobbed her good-bye on his shoulder; not till he had put the pretty baby back into his nurse's arms, and thought what a great boy he would be before he should, in all probability, see him again,--that he realised how far away he was going, and going alone. But Ralph owned plenty of pluck; he meant to be brave, and to get on in his new career, so he gulped down these thoughts, and turned to brighter considerations. His uncle had secured for him a free passage out to Rangoon by entering him as apprentice upon the ship's books. This is an arrangement occasionally made, by favour, in merchant ships not registered for carrying passengers. The so-called apprentice would hold rather an anomalous position, being expected to do a little light work, particularly while in port, but messing with the captain at sea. A hardy lad would have little of which to complain in the light of the great pecuniary advantage to himself, but it would depend largely upon his own tact, and also much upon the characters of the regular apprentices and the mates, as to whether he were, or were not, thoroughly comfortable upon a long voyage. Captain Rogers had another passenger upon this occasion, a Mr. Gilchrist. Mr. Augustus Herford, the head of the firm of Herford Brothers, to which the _Pelican of the North_ belonged, was devoted to his garden; and orchids were his reigning hobby. The craze for these flowers was then in its infancy, many varieties being unknown at that time which have since become common. Burma was comparatively little explored, nor were its forests and jungles haunted by collectors as they have been of late years. Mr. Gilchrist was a self-made man, an enthusiast in his profession as gardener, but more capable than rich. He had educated himself, studied at Kew, mastered much of the science of horticulture,--but lacked capital, and wanted to marry. When, therefore, Mr. Augustus Herford offered him advantageous terms if he would go to Burma and collect orchids for him, he accepted the commission with eagerness, knowing well that, if he succeeded, his prosperity upon his return would be assured. Mr. Herford was rich; he spared no expense over microscopes, books, collecting boxes, and all the properties for the expedition, and gave him a free passage out. The _Pelican of the North_ was bound for Moulmein with coal,--would then go to Rangoon in ballast, and return laden with rice. She was towed as far as to the floating lightship; there the steam-tug cast off, and the voyage was fairly begun. By that time Mr. Gilchrist was down upon his marrow-bones, most horribly sick. He was a delicate man, and suffered terribly. Ralph was also ill, but his uncle encouraged him to struggle against the malady, and the other apprentices ridiculed him so unmercifully as a land-lubber, that he made every effort to keep up, and this with good effect, for he was soon upon his feet again, with a furious appetite even for salt junk and fat pork. Then, in his good-nature, feeling heartily for a fellow-sufferer, he began to wait upon Mr. Gilchrist, nursing him and tending him well. It would have been better for this gentleman had he possessed the same strong reasons for exertion as his young companion; he would perhaps have suffered less. As it was, he was ill for nearly a fortnight; and, the weather being uncertain, Captain Rogers and the mates were glad to be relieved from the necessity of attending upon him, having quite enough to do with sailing the ship. By degrees Mr. Gilchrist recovered; and, grateful for Ralph's care of him, he then lent him books, talked to him about them, encouraging him to learn many things and improve himself. Captain Rogers was pleased that his nephew should receive such notice from so clever a man. He had not much education himself outside of his own business, but was shrewd, and entertained a great respect for what he called "book learning." "It is very kind of you, Gilchrist," said he one evening, sitting with his passenger over their coffee,--"It is very kind of you to indoctrinate that lad as you are doing. It has been hard upon him to be cast upon his beam ends so early in life. His father was a well-read man, and might have given him good schooling had he lived, but my poor sister could not afford it when she was left with so many of them." "It is an amusement," replied Mr. Gilchrist. "It helps me to pass the time pleasantly, I assure you. I like the boy much, he is very intelligent." "He is a good sort of fellow," said the captain. "I hope he will get on. But we must be careful not to set him up too much, so as to make the other apprentices jealous of him. I have my doubts of that Kirke. I hate your gentlemen apprentices; they are always more trouble than profit. That one is not worth his salt." "Is he a gentleman's son, then?" "Aye. His father is a friend of my boss; the lad is sent to sea because they can do nothing with him at home, but I wish they had put him in any other ship than this one." "Is it usual for a gentleman to send his son to sea in the merchant service?" asked Mr. Gilchrist. "I wish it either were more usual or less," replied the captain. "I hate having them. It always means stupidity, idleness or scampishness; and, whichever it may be, they are no good. If a lad cannot keep his own natural position in life it does not prevent him from having big ideas of himself after coming down to another; and if he gets into ugly scrapes as a gentleman, he will get into uglier ones when the restraint upon him is less." "You have much experience in boys and men, Rogers." "Ah! I have--with a certain class of boys and men. Now and then one finds a lad who can work with his hands when he cannot with his head, and who tries to do his best; but good seamen need to use their brains as well as other folks if they are to get on. Such youngsters come to us too late. Their friends don't send them until they have tried everything else and failed. The hardships of our life fall five times as heavily upon them as upon a lad who belongs to a hardier class and has begun earlier. Kirke is not one of that sort; I misdoubt me but what there will be trouble with him before this voyage is over." "Well, the weather seems to have taken up a better humour at last. We seem to have got out of that circle of squalls through which we have been making our way." "Yes," said the captain. "We are coming in for a quieter season, if it only lasts. I wish the voyage was over, though. My wife took up a superstitious notion that we should have trouble over it. She had a dream or something which impressed her with that idea; and though I laughed at her, I cannot forget it altogether. Do you believe in warnings and presentiments?" "I suppose there are few men who could say with truth that they disbelieve in them entirely, but I have seen so many come to nought that I do not entertain much faith in them." "Ah! well," said the captain, finishing his cup, and rising to leave the cabin, "I suppose I am an old fool to heed such things. I don't see where mischief is to crop up unless through that lad, and he may turn out better than I fear. Good-night, Mr. Gilchrist." "Good-night." CHAPTER II A GALE It was of little use for Captain Rogers to trouble himself in the hope of avoiding jealousy of Ralph on the part of the other apprentices, for the feeling was already rife on the part of Kirke. That ill-conditioned young man despised everyone on board for not being men of good family, as he himself was, though he was more conscious of his good birth than careful to prove himself a gentleman by his conduct. He could not see why he should be made to work, and the son of a merchant's book-keeper, a lad whose mother let lodgings for her support, should be cockered up in the captain's cabin, reading and writing at his ease, practically exempt from hard toil. Ralph had not enjoyed a tenth part of the educational advantages which Kirke had thrown away, and was anxious to improve himself now that a chance of doing so was presented. Mr. Gilchrist was teaching him mathematics and French, lending him books upon botany and natural history, especially such as treated of the country for which he was bound, and also a few volumes of history and travels. He taught him much by conversation upon these subjects; and Ralph, feeling that he had one foot planted upon the social ladder, earnestly desiring to rise higher, flung himself enthusiastically into these studies as a means for so doing. His uncle did not demand much manual labour from him; he performed that cheerfully, but saw no reason why, his allotted task being done, he should occupy his own time in saving Kirke from doing his share of duty. There was no great good-feeling between these lads; and Harry Jackson, the third apprentice, was a weak, ordinary sort of boy, who admired Kirke for his adventitious graces, and had become completely his tool. The three boys all slept in part of a deckhouse amidships, a place divided between the galley and the apprentices' cabin. The ship being an old one, there were no berths for the youngsters, who slept in hammocks slung up at night, and taken down in the morning, rolled up, and stowed away to make room for their meals and accommodation through the day. Ralph breakfasted with the other two apprentices, their hours being earlier than those of his uncle's cabin. After this meal, he did what work was expected from him, and liked to be clean and ready by the time when Mr. Gilchrist could attend to him in the poop, where chiefly he spent the remainder of the day. One morning Ralph awoke suddenly, experiencing a very disagreeable shock. The time-honoured joke of letting his hammock down at the head had been played upon him, and Kirke lay comfortably on his own bed squirting water all over him. "Have done, Kirke!" he cried angrily. "How would you like to be served so?" "Try it on if you dare," retorted Kirke, aiming a stream of water right into his face. "I only wish you would try it on, just once, and you would see. Get up! You must swab the decks to-day, I did it yesterday." "Drop that squirt, I tell you!" roared Ralph, as his shirt was made dripping wet, and a fresh supply of water was drawn into the tube from the basin which Kirke held between his knees. Kirke's only reply was another jet, which streamed down Ralph's back. Ralph sprang upon his tormentor, and a struggle took place for possession of the squirt. The tin basin was upset all over the bedclothes, but Denham flung it away and seized hold of the squirt. Indignation gave him superior strength, he wrenched the instrument out of Kirke's hands, and Kirke drove his clenched fist, straight from his shoulder, into Ralph's face and hit him in the eye. Fireworks flashed before his vision, and he proceeded to revenge himself in a fair fight; but Jackson ran screaming out of the cabin upon seeing Ralph pitch Kirke out of his hammock as a preliminary, and called to the mate on the watch. "Mr. Denham is fighting Mr. Kirke," cried he, "and has upset a basin of water all over him in his hammock." The mate came in. "Now, my lads," commanded he, "just you understand that I'll allow no rowdy work of that sort. Shut up at once, both of you." It was the voice of authority, and Ralph scorned to tell tales, so he desisted, pulled a dry shirt out of his chest, and went on deck as soon as he could. Being a good-natured lad, his anger had then cooled down, and he began to swab the deck, thinking that it would act as a peace-offering to give Kirke the help voluntarily. Kirke came out slowly and moodily, but did not begin to work on his part. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a sneer conquering the lowering gloom on his face. "I am glad you know your place at last," said he, as Ralph came near him. "I'll teach you a little more before I have done with you." Ralph bit his lip to force down an angry reply. He did not want to quarrel with anyone, as that might give his uncle trouble, but it was as much as he could do to keep silence. At this moment the captain himself stepped out. "Ralph!" shouted he. "Have you seen my three-foot rule? I can't find it." "I know where it is," replied he. "I'll fetch it." "What are you swabbing the deck for?" asked his uncle. "Why are you not doing your own work, Kirke? I'll have no shirking. Set to at once! Ralph, I want you in my cabin." Kirke had no option but to take up the bucket and begin the menial work which he hated so fiercely. "Mr. Gilchrist is not well," said the captain. "I hope he is not in for an attack of dysentery, but he is certainly very poorly. I have persuaded him to lie still, and I wish you would put yourself tidy and come and attend to him. Go to the storehouse and get out some brandy for him. Here are the keys. I am wanted on deck to see about twenty things all at once." Ralph hastened to obey. The ship was victualled upon teetotal principles, but a little spirit was kept for cases of emergency or illness. None had been used hitherto upon this voyage, and the decanters were empty. Ralph opened the locker where the bottles were stored, took out some brandy, filled one of the little decanters which stood in a silver case, and hurried with it to the invalid's cabin, leaving everything open in the storeroom, for the moment, from his haste to relieve his friend. Mr. Gilchrist was very unwell indeed. He said that he was subject to these attacks at times; he did not believe that this was dysentery, he had taken a chill and should be better soon. Ralph procured some hot water and prepared the cordial for him, but he was sick at once after taking it; he shivered violently, his teeth chattering in his head. This frightened his young nurse very much, for they were now in latitudes where the heat was great; no doctor was on board, and he knew little about illness. However, the patient was better after a time, the sickness ceased, the headache was lessened, a gentle perspiration broke out, and he fell asleep. Ralph ventured to steal softly away, and went to lock up the spirit bottles in the storeroom. There he found, to his surprise, that not only the one which he had opened was quite empty, but one of brandy and one of rum were missing. He called his uncle, who, holding strong opinions upon the subject of temperance, was very angry. He made a strict investigation into the matter, but failed to discover the culprit. The bottles were gone--vanished; nobody would confess to knowing anything about them. Captain Rogers was very uneasy in his secret mind, for appearances were against Ralph. No one else had been trusted with the keys, and the spirit could not have gone without hands. He knew very little personally about his nephew, being so much at sea himself. He only saw him at long intervals, and in the presence of others; he seemed a steady boy then, and Rogers liked him, but this was the first chance he had met with upon which he could have gone wrong, in this manner, to his uncle's knowledge. With this doubt about him, the captain spoke very sharply to Ralph as to his carelessness in leaving the locker open. Mr. Gilchrist took Ralph's part. He said that he must have smelt the liquor upon the boy's breath had he drunk it, but the captain knew that about Ralph's family history which he did not choose to talk about. Ralph called himself a strict teetotaler, which the captain was not; but the elder Denham had been a drunkard, and had died from the consequence of his excesses. Had the madness broken out in his son? Did he inherit it in his blood? Had it taken that worst of all forms--secret drinking? He knew what his sister had suffered from her husband's conduct; was the same thing to begin all over again in the person of her son? For two days the captain was miserable from this unspoken fear. Ralph had all the appearance of truth and honesty; Mr. Gilchrist was strongly in favour of his innocence; but the mate remarked that nobody but Mr. Denham had been trusted with the keys of the locker, not even the cook or the cook's mate, who, between them, discharged the functions of steward. For two wretched, suspicious, anxious days did this doubt cark at the captain's heart. Then was little Harry Jackson found drunk--drunk as a lord--late one evening when off his watch. Fresh investigations were set on foot, and it appeared that Kirke had given the boy some liquor as a bribe for silence regarding his own potations, of which Jackson could not fail to know as they shared the same cabin. Denham had not slept there since Mr. Gilchrist's illness, for he was still unwell, though better; and Ralph had begged to be allowed a bed upon the floor of his cabin, so as to attend upon him if necessary through the night. Taking advantage of his absence, Kirke had been enjoying himself, after his own fashion, with the stolen spirits, and inducing Harry to join him so as to ensure his silence. The elder lad's head could already stand copious libations, but that of the younger one could not, and the very means adopted to secure safety led to detection. The captain, deeply annoyed with himself for suspecting his own nephew, highly wrathful for the trouble thus caused to him, punished Kirke all the more severely, to give him, as he said, "a lesson which he would not forget in a hurry." Ralph tried to beg him off, but his uncle was in a rage and refused to listen to him. Kirke might have had all the blood of all the Howards running in his veins so great was his anger at his punishment, and he vowed to himself to abscond from the ship as soon as it touched shore, nor ever to run the risk of such ignominy again. Things were very uncomfortable after this event for Denham. His annoyance while it was pending had been great, it had made him positively unhappy. He felt himself to blame for carelessness in leaving the locker open; he was indignant that the real culprit should cast the onus upon him, knowing him to be perfectly innocent; and he thought that his uncle should have trusted him better. At least he should have spared his own nephew from the charge of dishonesty. He could not be as friendly as before with either Kirke or Jackson, and felt very lonely. Mr. Gilchrist continued to be very unwell, unable to talk to him as usual. He had to pursue his studies without help; difficulties beset him; and the other apprentices made themselves extremely disagreeable, keeping up a constant system of petty persecution which rendered life in their cabin almost unendurable, yet of which he scorned to complain to the captain, each separate annoyance being so trivial. Besides this, the wind increased in strength, and so severe a gale from the westward set in that the _Pelican_ had to scud before it under bare poles. For two days there was cause for considerable anxiety, then the mercury rose, a calm clear night succeeded, followed by a bright sunny morning. "I hope the gale is over," said Ralph, coming into the deckhouse and greeting the other lads cheerfully. "I daresay you do," growled Kirke. "Counter-jumpers and land-lubbers funk a capful of wind mightily." "I think we have had rather more than a capful these last two days," replied Ralph, ignoring the insulting language. "You manage to shirk all the trouble it causes, anyway. I don't see that you need complain," said Kirke with a sneer. Ralph was silent. He finished his breakfast quickly and went out. The men were letting all the reefs out of the topsails, and getting the top-gallant yards across, in hopes of a fine day in which to make the most of the favourable gale. It was a bright, bustling scene, and Ralph was amused by looking on. The old carpenter stood by him. This man and the sailmaker both came from the same country village in Cornwall where Captain Rogers and Ralph's mother had been born. They always sailed with the captain, if possible, from clannish attachment to him; and loved a chat with Ralph from the same feeling. "Nice day, Wills," said the boy. "'Ees, zur, but it won't last," said the carpenter. "'Lamb's wool skies, and filley's tails, Make lofty ships carry low sails,'" and he pointed to the drifting clouds. "That is it, is it?" said Ralph. "Are we not having rather a bad voyage, Wills? Do ships always have so much bad weather as we are meeting with?" "No, zur, but uz sailed on a Vriday." "What could that have to do with it, Wills? Why should that bring bad luck?" "Can't zay, zur, but it du." "You Cornishmen are always superstitious, aren't you?" "Doan't knaw, your honour, as we'm more so than others. 'Tis no use to fly in the face of Providence ef He've given we the gumption to zee more'n other volks." "Did you ever see the Flying Dutchman in these latitudes, Wills?" "No, zur, I can't zay as I have zeed 'un, but 'tain't given to every chield to do so. I've zeed Jack Harry's Lights, though, and we wor wrecked then, too." "Where was that?" asked Ralph with interest. "Close to home, it wor. We heerd the bells of the old church-tower a-calling the volks to evening service all the time we was clinging to the maintop, and the gear flying in ribbons about our faces, a-lashing uz like whips, and all of uz as worn't fast tied to the mast swept away by the sea that awful Sunday night. Jim Pascoe wor lashed aside of me, and 'Sam,' zays he, 'I wonder whether my old mawther be a-praying for me at this minute, up to church.' It didn't save he even ef she wor, for a big sea rose up, and came thundering down on uz, and he got the full heft of it right upon him, so that it beat the last spunk of life out of him then and there. There wor but six of uz, out of twenty-one, brought ashore that time alive; and there wor but life, and that wor all, among some of we." "How dreadful!" cried Ralph. "What did you think about while you stood there all that time?" "I doan't knaw as I did think much, at all. Zemmed as ef all thought wor beat out of uz. But they there seamen as wor drownded then answer to their names still on a stormy night when the wind blows strong from the west upon thiccee rocks." "Answer to their names?" "Ay. You may hear the roll called out, and they men answer 'Here' as plain as you can wish, at midnight, in the heft of a storm." "Do you really believe that? Did you ever hear it, Wills?" "Well I can't zay as ever I actually heerd 'un call them, but I knaws they as has; and why for no', Maister Ralph. Perhaps 'ee'll believe I, and find that I speak truth, when I tell 'ee this voyage is doomed to be unfortunate because we set sail on a Vriday. I telled captain it would be, but he wouldn't wait for Sunday though I did beg and pray 'un to do so." "I can't see what difference two days could make. It would not have saved us the weather we had two days since, nor will it make any difference in whatever may come two days hence." "Theer's a-many things as 'ee be too young to onnerstand yet, Maister Denham." "But 'ee did ought to pay heed to 'un, maister," put in Osborn, "because 'ee be Cornish the same as we." "I have never been in Cornwall, though, Osborn." "No, I du knaw thiccee, more's the pity," replied the man. "But uz du mind your ma, when hur wor a mighty pretty little maid, a-dancing and a-singing about 'long shore, and a-chattering so gay. Uz du all come from the same place, zur, and we'm proud to knaw 'ee, and to have 'ee on board, ef it be but for the trip. 'Tis one and all to home, 'ee knaweth, zur." "Yes," laughed Ralph. "I am proud enough of my Cornish blood, and would like to know more of the good old county, though I fear it will be long before I shall have the chance. You know I am going to Rangoon, to push my way and try to help my mother. She does not dance nor sing much in these days. She has a lot of trouble." "So we've heerd, zur. Poor little Miss Amy, we be main sorry to think of it. Ef Wills or me can ever be of any service to 'ee, zur, 'ee must look out for uz when the _Pelican_ comes to Rangoon. We shall always stick to cap'n, zur, as we've done for many a day. Uz b'ain't likely to leave 'un to be sarved by any old trade picked up out of the slums." "That is well; and if I can help either of you at any time, you may depend upon me. It is a bargain between us," said Ralph, laughing. The appearance of fine weather was delusive, for the bright sunshine changed within a few hours to fog and rain. The wind sprang up again, and the captain was forced to order the mainsail to be hauled in, the topsails close reefed, and the top-gallant yards struck. The mercury fell, the gale increased in force, and the sea ran extremely high. There was a sharp frost in the night, with snow, and the storm was as furious as ever next morning. The hatches had to be battened down, and it was dreadful for Mr. Gilchrist and Ralph, wholly inexperienced in nautical matters, unable to see or understand what was going on, or what degree of danger there was, to hear the raging of the elements, while they were in the dark with nothing to distract their thoughts. There they were, Mr. Gilchrist in his berth, coughing incessantly, and Ralph sitting beside him, listening to the tramp of hurried feet and the shouting voices overhead. The great sea would strike the poor labouring vessel with a force that caused it to shudder in every straining timber; it would seem to be tossed on high, and then plunge into fathomless deeps, as if sinking to the very bottom of the sea. Tons of water came, ever and anon, rushing overhead. Did this mean that their last hour had arrived? Were they to be drowned in this awful darkness, like rats in a hole? Were they never to see God's light of day again, or look once more over the fair expanse of sea and sky? They grasped each other's hands at these times, for touch was the only comfort which companionship could give. They could not talk,--awe paralysed speech. Then the volumes of water seemed to drain off in descending streams through the scupper-holes, and voices would be heard again, and a few sentences of prayer would break from Mr. Gilchrist's lips. This lasted for two days, awful days for these poor prisoners; but the wind was in their favour, and blew them on their way, though a little too far southwards, and it moderated in course of time. The captain had the dead-lights removed, the hatches raised, and came down to see how his passengers had fared. "I never could have believed that light and air would be so welcome," said Ralph; "and it is but a Scotch mist yet, no pleasant sunshine." "No," replied the captain, "but you will soon have enough of sunshine now. Perhaps you may even have too much of it one of these days. We have lost poor little Jackson," continued he, turning to Mr. Gilchrist. "What! the boy apprentice?" asked he. "Ay, poor child! Washed overboard in the night, and one of the seamen yesterday morning. We could not help either of them, the sea was running so high. Would you like to come up for a bit and see the waves for yourself now?" But Mr. Gilchrist declined. He dreaded bringing on one of his paroxysms of cough more than the closeness and confinement of the cabin; but Ralph, shocked by his uncle's announcement, was eager to go on deck. He was not used to death, and it was very awful to him to think that, while he sat in comparative safety below, yet fearing for his own death every moment, this boy, so much younger than himself, had passed suddenly through a watery grave to the portals of that unknown world where he must meet his God. Where was he now? What could he be doing? He seemed as unfit for a spiritual life as anyone whom Ralph had ever met. A mere troublesome naughty boy, of the most ordinary type; rough, dirty, hungry,--a boy who could laugh at a coarse joke, use bad words, shirk his work whenever he had the chance, and who did nothing except idle play in his leisure time. What could he be doing among white-robed angels, among the spirits of good men made perfect, among cherubim and seraphim, with their pure eyes, around the Father's throne? Yet had God taken him. The mysteries of life and death came home, in a vivid light, to Ralph's soul, as he stood holding on to a rope, and gazing down on that boiling sea, whence he dreaded, every moment, to see his young companion's white face looking up at him. Kirke came by, and Denham's good heart prompted him to turn round and offer him his hand. Little Jackson had run after Kirke like a dog, admired, followed, idolised him, and Ralph thought he must be as much impressed as himself by this awful event. So he put out his hand, saying-- "Oh, Kirke, I am so sorry to hear about Jackson!" "Bother you and your sorrow! I wish it had been you," replied Kirke rudely. Ralph turned away in silence. He, too, almost wished it had been himself, not that he felt more fit to go, but that the heartlessness of this fellow struck a chill to his heart. But Kirke was not so heedless of the event as he tried to seem, nor so wholly ungrateful for Ralph's sympathy as he chose to appear. This was the first blow which had struck home to him, and in his pride and sullen humour he was trying to resist its softening influence. Not for the world would he have displayed any better feeling at that time, though it was not altogether absent from his heart. CHAPTER III FIRE AT SEA After this painful episode was over, amidst a succession of calms, varied by light south-west breezes, changing gradually more and more to the east, the _Pelican of the North_ crossed the line, and proceeded upon her way in pleasant weather. Ralph would have enjoyed this time much but for the pest of cockroaches which now swarmed over them and their belongings. These disgusting insects were of two sorts, one of which had always been troublesome from the first, but were now supplemented by a second, not seen much except by night, but which crawled about then in such immense numbers, through the hours of darkness, as to do great damage. They ran over the cabin floors, up the walls, were shaken out in showers from the rigging when a sail was unfurled; they honeycombed the biscuit, they were found in the boots and shoes, and made life a burden to young Denham, who entertained a particular aversion to creeping insects. "How I wish we could find anything which would rid us of these beastly things?" sighed he one day to Mr. Gilchrist, when the vermin had been seized with a literary fureur, and eaten out the ink from some notes which he had been at considerable pains to compile from a book of natural history. "Last night I thought we must have some spiritualist on board, or ghosts, or something uncanny. I was wakened up by the noise as if everything in the cabin had taken to dancing about in a frolic, till I discovered it was nothing but thousands of these horrid creatures crawling and rustling about. Some nights I verily believe that they will eat us up bodily." Mr. Gilchrist laughed. "Never mind," said he, "we shall be in cooler latitudes soon, and they will become more torpid, and go back to their holes again. We are nearing the Cape." "Shall we touch at the Cape? Shall we see the Table Mountain, sir, do you think?" "I rather fancy not. From what the captain said the other day, I believe that there are currents there which are apt to be trying to a heavily-laden ship such as ours. Squalls are very prevalent in rounding the Cape, and I think he will give it a wide berth. We do not need water, nor have we any particular reason for delaying the voyage by putting in at Cape Town." "We must be near land, I should think, for there are so many birds about now. Some of them are birds that I never saw before." "Albatrosses to wit? You do not want to shoot one, do you, and share the fate of the Ancient Mariner?" "No, not quite that, though if everyone who had done so were to be exposed to a similar fate there would be a good many phantom ships careering about the high-seas. Lots of the ships that come into Liverpool have their skins, or their bills, or something on board. I have an albatross' bill at home that a sailor gave me. I have a lot of things fastened up about the walls of my room. It is easy to get foreign curiosities in Liverpool, but I left all mine as a legacy to my sister Agnes, and promised to look out for more when I got to Rangoon, and met with any chance of sending them home to her." "It will be a good plan. If you have any ready in time I will take them back for you, and call to see your mother to tell her how you are getting on, what sort of lodgings you have, and all about you." "That will be very kind, sir. In that case I will try to shoot one of those birds, for they are quite new to me. They are of a blue colour in part, with a black streak across the top of the wings." "Those are blue petrels, I believe; birds which are only found in southern seas. We will try to preserve the skins of one or two with carbolic powder, though I fear that your friends the cockroaches will get at them." "Ugh! Don't call them my friends! You should have seen the third mate, Mr. Kershaw, teasing the cook yesterday. Cook came up in the evening for a breath of air, and was leaning over the side looking down at the 'sea on fire' as they call it--it was splendid late last night. Mr. Kershaw came up to him and looked at him very earnestly, first on one side and then on the other, as if he saw something queer about him. Cook began to squirm about uncomfortably. "'What is it, Mr. Kershaw?' asked he. 'Is there anything wrong about me?' "'Oh no, my good fellow, no,' said the mate. 'It only struck me that cockroaches are a peculiar kind of pets, but it is every man's own business if he chooses to let them sleep in the folds of his shirt. Do you always keep them there?' "'Where, where?' called out the cook, all in a hurry. 'Cockroaches on my shirt? Where?' "He was trying to see over his shoulder in an impossible kind of way; he put his hands up to his neck and down to his waist at the back; he shuddered, and shook himself, but could not find them; and it was not likely that he could, for there were none there to be found. "Mr. Kershaw was pretending to help him, poking at him up and down his back. "'Oh, I thought I had them then!--there, under your arm,--no, down your leg. Dear me! how very active they are. What remarkably fine specimens! They seem to be quite tame; how much you must know about them to live with them like this, quite in the style of a happy family. They really seem to love you. I should not like to keep them about myself though, in this manner. Do you _always_ have them upon your own person, my friend?' "At last the cook twigged the joke, for we were all laughing so, but he was quite cross about it, and flung away muttering something about fools, and wishing to knock Mr. Kershaw's head off for him." Ralph could not help laughing again at the remembrance of the scene, and Mr. Gilchrist joined in his merriment. But soon there was no more time for jokes or laughter, stern reality claimed all their attention. Mr. Gilchrist was sitting one day upon a lounging-chair, beneath the shade of an awning, when the captain approached him with anxiety plainly imprinted on his face. "How now, Rogers?" said he; "your face is as long as from here to there!" "And with good reason too," replied the captain; "I fear that a terrible calamity has come upon us." "Why, my good fellow, what can be going to happen now?" cried Gilchrist, alarmed in his turn. "Fire," said Rogers laconically, but with grave emphasis. "Fire!" exclaimed both Gilchrist and Ralph at the same instant, staring around them in perplexity upon the placid sea, the sunny sky, the swelling sails, the pennon idly fluttering on the breeze. "Fire! Where? How?" For all answer the captain pointed to a few slender spiral coils of smoke, issuing from the seams of the deck where the caulking had worn away. Mr. Gilchrist looked aghast. "Do you mean the cargo?" he asked fearfully. "Even so," said the captain. "It may be only heating from water reaching it during the storm. We are going to open the hatches and see if we can put it out, but I fear that the mischief was done when we loaded the coal. It was such wet weather while we were taking it on board. Gilchrist," said he, lowering his voice, "if there is anything particularly valuable among your things, put it up in small compass, and be ready for the worst in case we have to take to the boats." "Do you anticipate such a thing?" "It is always well to be prepared." Mr. Gilchrist had many things--books, maps, scientific instruments, collecting cases, a costly binocular microscope with all its appliances, and other articles, nothing having been spared for his equipment; but in the shock of this surprise he forgot them all, and, springing from his chair, hurried to the scene of action. The whole crew gathered hastily around to know the worst, and gazed with blanched faces at each other as the hatches were carefully raised. A universal cry of horror escaped them, when such a cloud of steam and smoke, with so sulphureous a stench, rushed out, upon vent being given to the hold, that they were driven back gasping for air. "Good Heavens!" cried Mr. Gilchrist, "there are two thousand tons of coal down there! The Lord have mercy upon us!" "How far are we from land?" asked Ralph. "I do not know. I suppose that it depends greatly on the wind for calculating the length of time it will take us to reach it. I believe the captain hoped to make Moulmein in about a week or ten days more." "Where is that hose?" thundered the captain. "Bring it here at once. Douche the hold well. Mellish, we must try to jettison the cargo, and make room for water enough to reach down the hold." "Right you are, sir!" cried the first mate. "Who volunteers?" The hardiest men among the crew pressed forward. Two parties were quickly told off, one to relieve the other. The men flew to the pumps and hose; all was excitement and hurry--not a soul of them flinched. "Here, give me hold of a bucket," cried Mr. Gilchrist, taking his place in a line of men hauling up sea-water to supplement the volumes from the hose. Ralph rushed to assist at the pumps. Streams of water poured down the hold; volumes of steam arose, hissing, through the hatchways. It was long before the bravest of the men could descend, no one could have breathed in such an atmosphere; and when two leapt into the chasm at last, they had immediately to be drawn up again, fainting, scorched, choked with the sulphureous fumes. They were laid on the deck, buckets of water dashed upon them, and they came, gasping, to themselves. "'Tis of no use, mates," said they. "The mouth of hell itself could be no fiercer." It was indeed like looking down the crater of a volcano to glance into that awful depth--the fire had got complete hold of the coal. "We must take to the boats, sir," said Mellish. "Not yet," replied the captain. "We have no security yet from that cyclone,--did boats fall into its clutches, there is no chance for them. We may skirt it in the barque by God's providence; it blows from the west'ard quarter, and its tail may help us towards the mainland quicker than boats would take us. Batten down the hatches, but leave the hose room for entrance, and keep up the water as much as we can. Provision the boats, and have everything ready to man them quickly when all hope is over; but we stick to the old girl to the last gasp." There were two large boats, both capable of holding ten or twelve men; two smaller ones, which could accommodate six or eight each; and the captain's gig, usually manned by a similar number. It would require the whole five to receive all the crew, for it consisted of twenty seamen, an apprentice, Ralph, a cook, sailmaker, carpenter, boatswain, three mates and the captain,--thirty souls besides Mr. Gilchrist. Even with all the five boats there would be but little space to save much of their possessions, but there was the less demand for this as the men, taking fright at the state of the cargo, refused to go below even for their own kits. Indeed, the stench of sulphur, and rapid spread of the smother, justified them in their fears. The cook's galley and the storehouses were on deck, the latter in the poop, close by the captain's cabin, and the former amidships; it was therefore easy to store the boats with a sufficiency of provision and water, and Captain Rogers proceeded to tell off the men for each. He himself must be the last to leave the ship; and equally, of course, must Mr. Gilchrist be considered among the first. He must go in the first boat, commanded by Mellish; eight seamen, Kirke, and the carpenter would form its complement. But Mr. Gilchrist refused. "No," said he. "I am an interloper here, it is right that I should come last, and leave these poor fellows to have first chance of their lives. Put a married man in my place, there is no one dependent upon me at home." "Nay," said Captain Rogers, "you are my charge, I must see you safe first." "My good fellow," replied Mr. Gilchrist with determination, "do not waste time in arguing; I go with you." "And I too, uncle," said Ralph. "Do not ask me to part from you." "For you, boy," replied the captain, "right and good, you are as my own, and ought to take risks with me; but for you, Gilchrist, think better of it." "Now, Rogers," said Mr. Gilchrist, "why waste time? Don't you know when a man has made up his mind?" There was indeed a general perception that time was short, the men worked with all their might, and the boats were stored rapidly. The three mates and the boatswain were each to command one; the coxswains were selected from the best of the seamen, and every man was given his place, to which he was at once to repair upon a given signal. Was it wise to wait longer before embarking in them? A dead calm had fallen, an ominous stillness pervaded the atmosphere, no breeze, not the faintest sigh, was there to swell the sails, and a brassy sky in the west received the sinking sun. And the little coils of smoke grew larger, they writhed up from crack and cranny like snakes, and span and twisted, puffed and swelled, with horrible sportiveness. The men worked in silence, casting fearful glances on this side and that, as they trod those decks which formed so slight a protection for them from the fiery chasm beneath. They gathered in groups as the night fell with the rapidity of those latitudes, but they did not talk. In the quiet they could hear little slippings of the coal, little reports now and then, and they fancied that a sullen roar might be distinguished, now gathering volume, then dying away. The night was very dark,--was it the looming storm or the furnace beneath them which made the air so oppressive and close? Nothing could be done without light, and the suspense was horrible. Every now and then the captain, holding a lantern low, swept the decks, examining to see whether the smoke had increased or lessened. There appeared to be but little difference, but such change as there was lay in the direction of increase. Thicker and thicker grew the gloom, blacker and blacker the night, heavier and heavier the sultry air. Then a faint moaning was heard among the shrouds, a hissing on the surface of the water, and the cyclone broke upon them with a cry as of demons rejoicing over their prey. The vessel gave a shudder like a living creature, then bounded forwards, heeling over from force of the wind in the most perilous manner; every cord straining, every sail swollen to its utmost tension. It was but the edge of the cyclone, but even that gave them enough to do. The sea boiled around them; great waves tossed the devoted ship on their crests, and buried it in their trough, driving it onward with fury all but unmanageable. Then rose up a wall of water above their heads, it dashed down upon the decks, and rushed out from the scuppers in foaming streams; and in the next instant the mainsail was torn from its holdings, the mast gave way with an awful rending and crash, and beat about to this side and that, to the peril of all around. "The boats! the boats!" shrieked the men. "Take to the boats!" shouted Rogers. They sprang to the davits to loosen the boats, and the howling wind took the gear in its teeth and wrenched its supports from their hold, whirling the two first boats away as if they had been feathers. Floods of water poured over the decks, making their way plentifully down into the hold through a thousand clefts opened by the straining timbers, and the steam rose in thicker and hotter clouds as they washed away. Then a lull came,--were they out of the line of the cyclone? "Cut the ropes of the starboard boats," cried the captain. "We can hold out no longer. 'Tis life or death." Again was the effort made,--again did failure greet the devoted men; the smaller boat was swamped at once. Better fortune served them over the others; the large one and the captain's gig were lowered safely, and the men crowded into them with headlong speed, many throwing themselves into the seething water in their haste, some to be hauled on board by their comrades, and more than one to be swept out of sight for ever. Hardly could the united efforts of the captain, mates, and Mr. Gilchrist control the panic: they stood, silent and firm, with set teeth and blanched faces, as the seamen crushed past them and dropped over the side, only endeavouring to withhold them so as to give each his fair chance of escape. Minutes were like hours; the crowd lessened,--cries and shouts for haste rose up from the thronged boats. Captain Rogers turned, caught Ralph by the arm and swung him over the side; Mr. Gilchrist slipped down a rope and was hauled in; Mellish leapt; the captain stood alone, the last of all. He looked hurriedly around--all were gone, his duty done, and he too threw himself into the gig. So hampered were the rowers by the mass of living creatures crushed into so small a space, that they could hardly manage their oars; the boats were weighted down to the water's edge, and had not the storm spent its fury in that last awful burst, all hope of living in such a sea would have been futile. But the hand of Providence was over them; they shook down into something like order, and rowed away from the doomed ship with all the expedition they could raise; and not one moment too soon; for, hardly were they at a safe distance, when, with an awful roar,--a splitting and crashing of timbers,--an explosion like the crack of doom itself,--the deck was forced upwards, its planks tossed high in air, as if they were chips, by the pillar of white steam that rose exultingly into the sky; great tongues of flame shot rapidly up through it, crimson and orange among rolling volumes of smoke; and the rising sun paled before the glowing fiery mass that reddened the waters far and wide ere it sank into their bosom, leaving its débris of burnt and blackened wastry floating idly on its surface. A groan burst from the white lips of the men as the seething ruin that had been their home for so many weeks disappeared slowly from their gaze. CHAPTER IV THE RAFT What were the occupants of the boats to do? What would become of them? Twenty-six men in boats only meant to accommodate eighteen at most, and these with but little food or water, no change of clothes, few comforts of any kind, an insufficiency even of necessaries,--and they were within the tropics. The sun rose up in fierce majesty, and blazed down upon them like fire itself. Some had no hats, and suffered terribly from this cause. The sea was like molten metal heaving close around them; the crowd impeded all proper use of the oars or sailing gear. Of this last the captain's gig had none. The men looked at each other with haggard eyes, despair in their faces. It would require but a slight touch to make them abandon themselves to hopelessness, losing heart altogether, and becoming demoralised. They must be induced to do something, to strike a blow for their own salvation, or all would be lost. Rogers was the right man in the right place here. Out broke his cheerful voice-- "Three cheers for the last of the old _Pelican_, my boys! She dies gloriously after all. No ship-breaker's yard for the gallant old girl!" He led the cheers, which were echoed but faintly. "'Tis well," pursued he; "'tis a crowning mercy that we are in the current which sets into the Barogna Flats. It will bear us along softly and well, barring any more cyclones, but it is not likely that we shall have another of those wild customers now. It has swept over for the time, anyhow." "Will you not make for Diamond Island, sir?" asked Mellish, the first mate. "By all means," said the captain, "if we are able to _make for_ anything. But, my good fellow," dropping his voice, "we must take our chance of getting _anywhere_. In this crowd we cannot hold out long, neither can we pick and choose our course. We can practically only drift, and keep up our hearts." "We are nearly sure to be met by some ship going into Rangoon," said Mellish, speaking with more certainty than he felt. "There is a light on the Krishna Shoal, if we could reach that," said Kershaw, the third mate. "I was in Rangoon on my first voyage, and remember it; a thing like the devil on three sticks instead of two." A laugh followed this description of the lighthouse which all the old salts knew. "Ay, my lad," said the captain cheerily, "we'll make for your three-legged devil, and let him take the hindmost." "Zur," said old Wills, touching his forelock, "there'm a lot of spars and timbers afloat, would it not be best to try and draw enough in to make a catamaran, like az we used to be teached to make for a pinch when I wor in the navy?" "A catamaran!" exclaimed young Kershaw. "Why, man, what good would that be so far to sea? You may see them by the dozen off shore, but how do you propose to make one here?" "From timber-heads and greenhorn, zur," replied the old fellow very demurely. "Do you think you can?" asked Rogers, who was thinking too intently to have noticed this byplay. "The boats are of such different sizes." "'Twon't be a fust-class affair, your honour," replied Wills. "Not az if we had her blessed Majesty's resources to hand; but Osborn here, he du knaw what I mean so well az any, and I daresay there's others too." "Ay!" cried two or three. "'Twould give more elbow-room d'ye zee, zur." "It would," said the captain; "but you could not do it unless the boats were nearer of a size, I am convinced." "Maybe not, sir," said Mr. Mellish, "but there seem to be a lot of casks among the wreckage. If we could haul in half a dozen oil hogsheads, and put them three of a side, we might contrive what would relieve both boats considerably. Then we might leave the big boat to keep that company, and push ahead with the gig to fetch help." "Right you be, zur," said Wills. There was a coil of rope in the large boat, they made a running noose in it, and endeavoured to fling it over some of the coveted casks; but the difficulty was enormous, partly from want of room in which to work, and partly from the danger that floating wreckage might swamp their boat, and so destroy their only chance of life. Some spars and staves were collected, suitable to the purpose, but the sea was much agitated from the recent cyclone, and the difficulty of approaching the hogsheads was apparently insurmountable. The things might have been alive and spiteful, so persistently did they elude every wile. Just when the men, utterly disheartened, were inclined to abandon the effort as hopeless, the noose caught, apparently more by haphazard than by skill, and a hogshead of oil was drawn alongside. In their excitement the men nearly upset the boat, and Rogers had to repress them sternly. "Have a care, men, have a care! look at the sharks all about us. You don't want to fatten them, do ye?" "Broach that cask," cried one among them. "Let the ile out, 'twill calm the sea." "Ay!" said Rogers, "let it out." Another hogshead was brought in now, and, strange to say, the oil being emptied did make the water smoother as far as it reached around them. While the men in one boat redoubled their efforts to obtain more of these casks, old Wills and his mate Osborn connected the two empty ones by a spar laid across and firmly affixed to each end. They did this at the imminent risk of their lives, for it was necessary to get upon the spar, in a kneeling position, so as to secure the ropes firmly, and any slip into the sea would probably have been followed by a rush of white light to the spot, and the disappearance of the man, or at least of one of his members. Those in the boats watched anxiously the while, crying out now and then, "'Ware shark!" As these alarms were half of them false ones, the old fellows became too well accustomed to them for more than a passing glance from their work, which became safer for them as the casks were firmly fastened. In the meantime a third cask was obtained, but it seemed all but impossible to attach a fourth. There was one within approachable distance, but it bobbed a little farther off with each effort to cast the noose over it. Seeing the impunity which had attended the efforts of Wills and Osborn, a man called Whittingham, a strong active young daredevil, got upon the spar, and made his careful way out to its far end, rope in hand, coiled up, ready for a cast. He worked himself astride the spar with considerable difficulty, for the thing was up in the air at one moment, so that the lookers-on expected to see him flung backwards into the sea; then down the length would plunge, as if about to bury itself in some great green cavern, into which he must go headlong. It was like riding a kicking horse, but the hardy fellow kept his hold, reached the hogshead farthest from the boat, flung the coil, and it fell short though actually touching the cask. Reclaiming the length of cord, Whittingham, in defiance of all prudence, flung himself into the boiling sea and swam towards the coveted object. "Come back, man! Come back!" shouted the captain. "A shark! A shark!" roared the sailors. Whittingham paid no heed, he reached the cask and got the rope around it. He had a cord passed round his waist, and prepared to be hauled back by it, when his awful shriek rent the air, and a groan burst from the white lips of his comrades. A huge shark had rushed swiftly up, and taken the poor fellow's legs off at his middle. The sea was crimsoned with his blood, as his head was seen turned, with an agonised expression, at sight of the certain death come upon him. In another minute the tension of the strong hands relaxed, and the man's upper half also disappeared from sight. Ralph hid his face, trembling with horror. But the men knew well that this was the fate which awaited them all did the boats capsize before rescue arrived, and they redoubled their efforts to help themselves. The fatal cask was drawn in, reddened still with the lifeblood of poor Whittingham, which had splashed all over it, and it enabled Wills and his assistants to construct a sort of oblong frame, supported at each corner by the buoyant empty vessels. Pieces of wood were laid athwart, the short way of the raft, which became safer with each fresh plank as it was affixed. The chief difficulty was to obtain the wherewithal for making these planks and timbers secure. There was but very little rope, and only such nails as clung to the riven timbers, with a few which Wills, like all carpenters, happened to have in his pocket. The spars and planks were irregular in length and thickness, neither was it possible to rig up even a cord run around the raft, or any manner of bulwark wherewith to increase its safety. It could not be navigated by any means, but it could be towed at the stern of the larger boat, and serve to reduce the crush of people there, so as give free scope either to step the mast and sail her, or for the men to use their oars. Both boats being thus relieved, the captain's gig would then row away, with a light complement of men, and try to make Diamond Island, upon which a pilot station was well known to exist; or the Krishna Shoal, where it was probable that help might be either obtained or signalled for by those in the lightship. With help of the current this was possible, provided the weather remained calm. The question now arose as to who should be transferred to the raft,--who could best be spared from the boats. Mellish must remain in command of the large boat, with Kershaw. The second mate must go with the captain. The four officers must be thus divided to ensure a head in case of accident to either one among them. The crew of the captain's gig must also be retained. They were picked men, and the most likely to hold out in case of long-continued exertion or another gale of wind. "Uncle," said Ralph, "I will go on the raft. I cannot help in the boat, I do not know enough, but I can make room for a better man." "You are right, my boy," said the captain a little huskily. "You are a plucky chap, and your mother shall hear of this if any of us live." "I go on the raft, equally of course," said Mr. Gilchrist firmly. "Let we go, maister," proposed Wills, usually spokesman for himself and Osborn. "Uz will keep an eye on the young 'un, ef it be only because he'm Miss Amy's chield." The captain grasped the old fellow's hand in silence, and two of the ordinary seamen, of less use than the A.B.'s, were added to the little gimcrack craft's crew. The biscuit was apportioned out to each as far as it went, and the gig parted company from its fellows. When nearly out of sight, the men lifted their oars in the air as a farewell greeting, and the fast gathering shades of night engulfed them. Their companions, both in the boat and on the raft, watched their disappearance in silence. They were exhausted with the emotions of the last few days, and the heavy work of the last twenty-four hours. Little could be done through the night but wait for the dawn. They set a watch, and each tried to get some rest in turn. There had been a question as to whether Kirke should not have gone on the raft. It would have been fitter for him to have done so than for Mr. Gilchrist, who, always delicate, had recently been so ill. He was a guest, if not a passenger, and should have had the best place. He had, however, settled the question for himself, allowing no demur, and the men were grateful to him for so doing. Most of them were married men, with young children or other helpless ones dependent upon them. The safety of the raft was bound up in the safety of the boat. If anything happened to swamp the boat, the raft was doomed to share the same fate; whereas, were the raft lost, those in the boat still had a chance. Those who could work the oars and sails best were the right men to remain in it. But Kirke was not one of these; neither his strength nor his knowledge made him as useful as an O. S. would have been, but he claimed his place in the boat as an officer, and there was no time for debate. Captain Rogers let it pass,--perhaps he had his own private reasons for so doing. The men owned no reasons, public or private, for keeping this much disliked young man among them; they would far rather have had Ralph of the two; and thought that Mr. Gilchrist should have been kept in the best place. They murmured; they made remarks to each other aimed at the selfish apprentice, and which he perfectly understood; while Kershaw openly taunted him with selfishness and cowardice. Kirke maintained a dogged silence, but his brow became more lowering, and his mouth more set in a kind of vicious sullenness every moment. So night fell. CHAPTER V ADRIFT ON THE OCEAN Night fell over the shipwrecked men, a strange one for the denizens of the raft. There, at least, was peace, and a hearty determination to make the best of their position. They had some sailcloth and a boat cloak. The men arranged the packages, which had been turned out to disencumber the boat, so as to make a tolerably comfortable back; they laid down a couple of planks close together, rolled up the sailcloth into a kind of cushion above them, and placed Mr. Gilchrist upon it, wrapped in the cloak. That gentleman would gladly have shared these accommodations among some of them, but the men would not hear of it. "Lord love you, zur," said Osborn, "there's enough for one, but two wouldn't zay thank'ee for a part. We'm used to roughing it. 'Tis fine and cool after all the heat and pother to-day." Ralph, upon whom his friend urged his wishes more strongly, only laughed. He seated himself upon one leg on a packing-case, the other foot dangling; he crossed his arms on the head of the biscuit-barrel against which Mr. Gilchrist leaned, half-sitting, and, burying his face upon them, said he should sleep like a top there, for he was so tired he could not keep his eyes open. The sailors squatted down, finding such ease as was possible, and quiet fell over all. The night was a dark one, and very still; there was not a breath of wind to fill the sail in the boat, half the men there were getting what repose they could, and the others trusted more to the current than to their oars through the darkness. Silence had fallen upon all there as well as on the raft. But Mr. Gilchrist could not sleep. He was a nervous, excitable man, and the new and excessively perilous position in which he found himself precluded all possibility of sleep. His senses seemed rather to be preternaturally acute, and he could not even close his eyes. The lapping of the sea against the raft, the occasional gleam of something swiftly passing, and which he believed to be a shark accompanying the crazy little craft,--for what purpose he shuddered to think,--the occasional sounds which reached him from the boat, all kept him awake. He lay, half-reclining, with his face towards the boat, which was full in his view. He could faintly see the oars dipping into the water, keeping way on the boat, and Kershaw's slim figure holding the tiller ropes. Presently he saw the one set of men relieved by the other, he smiled to observe the mate's long arms tossed out, evidently accompanying a portentous yawn, and then he was replaced by a shorter, broader back, which Mr. Gilchrist knew must belong to Kirke. A sort of half-doze succeeded for a short time, then Ralph changed his position, which startled him into wakefulness once more, and discontented tones reached him from the boat. "What are you about? Steer straight. You will tip us all over. What's the fellow doing?" "Dropped my cap overboard. I was not going to lose it. Shut up!" A few more murmurs, then all was still again; but, was he mistaken? did his eyes, unaccustomed to judge of objects in the darkness, deceive him, or were they farther from the boat than before? He peered anxiously into the gloom, and felt certain that the motion of the raft was changed. There was less ripple against its prow. "Wills," said he softly to the old carpenter, who lay full length within reach of his hand,--"Wills, there is something wrong." The man was on the alert instantaneously. "Zur?" he asked. "I fear we have parted the towline," said Mr Gilchrist. Wills cautiously moved to where the rope had been fastened--it hung loose, there was no tension upon it, and he hauled it in hand over hand. "My God!" he cried, "we are lost!" They shouted to the men in the boat, but the distance was widening every moment between them. Kirke did not seem to hear, to understand. The men clamoured, the first mate arose, took the helm, and tried to turn her head so as to row back, but the darkness was greater than ever. Those in the raft could no longer distinguish the boat, what chance therefore existed of those in the boat seeing the raft, which lay so much lower in the water? They raised a shout, hoping to direct their friends by means of sound, but that hope failed them. They kept it up till they were exhausted, till a long line of faint light illumined the east, till daylight leapt out of the sea and all was bright about them. A little breeze sprang up with the dawn, the water had not yet quite calmed down from the disturbance caused by the tornado; they looked north, south, east, and west, but saw the boat nowhere. They were alone upon the sea, with but a plank between them and death; with no means of helping themselves, with only enough food for one day, and the sharks swimming around them in sure certainty of their meal sooner or later. One of the seamen took hold of the end of the towline, and held it up for the rest to see. It had been severed with a knife! It had not been so rotten as to give of its own accord from the strain put upon it; it had not frayed itself, or broken at any weak spot, it _had been cut_. They had been cast adrift by their own companions, of malice prepense. "God forgive him!" ejaculated Mr. Gilchrist. "Who?" gasped Ralph. "The unhappy wretch who did this." Ralph made no further remark; there was but one among the boat's crew who was malicious enough to be even suspected of such a crime, and the boy could not bear to think it of him. But that _somebody_ had severed the rope, was beyond doubt. The fierce sun blazed down upon the waste of water, there was nothing to be done but to sit still and bear it. Their limbs were cramped from their inability to change their positions, there was no help for that. Raging headache came on; there was a small tin pail, and Wills tried to dip up sea-water and cast it over Mr. Gilchrist's fevered brow. With the first movement such a rush of sharks was made to the place as caused them all to shudder. What had they expected that they snapped so eagerly at the pail? The men were hungry, but thirst overpowered hunger, and they must economise their little stock of biscuit and water. For how many days would it avail to keep life in them were they not picked up? About noon, as well as they could judge, Wills served out a biscuit each, and about a half-pint of water. Ralph sickened at thought of eating, and laid the biscuit down. "That won't do, Ralph," said Mr. Gilchrist. "You must take what means are in your power to keep your life, it is your plain duty. Your life is not your own, you are only placed in charge of it, and will have to render up an account of your stewardship. How can you tell for what your Master wants you? He may be preparing you by this terrible trial for the work He created you to do." "Lord, zur, 'ee du spit it out like a buke," said Osborn admiringly. "Eat it now, Maister Ralph, do 'ee now, like a good chield." Ralph was fain to smile, and took up the biscuit again, feeling less sick when he had swallowed it. At nightfall another was given round, and a few mouthfuls more water; then the long hours of darkness fell again upon them, only more endurable in that they were cooler. They knew that but one more meal remained, the pangs of starvation must then be theirs. It was no wonder that they had not much to say to each other, although none slept. They were in the track of ships going to Rangoon, that was their only hope; but so low were they in the water, so impossible was it to raise a signal in any manner, that even in broad daylight fifty ships might pass within sight of them and never perceive their extremity. But there were no ships to be seen, nothing to break the skyline, nothing of any sort _upon_ that wide expanse of heaving water but themselves, while--the sharks--the sharks were _beneath_ its surface. Towards morning, when the light breeze brought something of coolness and refreshment even to them, a little oblivion, a temporary half-forgetfulness of all around came over most of them, deepening into real sleep with some. Ralph slept, and dreamed happily. He thought he saw his mother and sisters walking together. He did not think it strange that they should be walking on the sea; they were talking earnestly to each other, when his youngest sister, a pretty flaxen-headed child of three years old, popped a rosy face out of the waves at their feet, and bubbled over into such merry laughter that he laughed too, and woke himself. "Why, Ralph!" exclaimed Mr. Gilchrist, aroused by so unexpected a sound. "Christ Jesus!" shrieked Wills at the same moment, awakened also. "Christ Jesus! What is here?" His yell was echoed by all the others, for a huge black mass reared itself almost above their heads, and was bearing down upon them. With the desperation of men at their last gasp they shrieked out, "Hoi, hoi! Hallo! Hallo!" Their voices seemed to make no noise, they raised them impotently to their own ears; but that was only the fancy of despair, they had a proper volume of sound in reality. They were heard, answered with an English cheer; English faces rushed to look over the top of that great thing; English voices clamoured; chains rattled; word of command was given; paddles splashed; a boat was lowered; men dropped into it over the side; a few strokes brought it to them; and they were taken on board, among exclamations of wonder and welcome. So stiff and spent were they that they had almost to be lifted into the boat, and were assisted up from it into the steamer which had rescued them; but movement eased them, and the joyous excitement of all around helped to restore them. Crew, firemen, officers, passengers, swarmed around them, to congratulate them, to shake them by the hand, to clap them upon the back. Hot coffee was brought as if by magic, and proved a wonderful restorer; wine, food, fruit, were lavished upon them; dry, comfortable clothes and beds were ready for their repose. Oh, how exquisite to feel the cool, clean linen around them, to bathe their scorched, blistered faces in fair water, to remove the dirt of days' accumulation, to be revived with food so delicious to their palates, to feel the sweetest sleep stealing over them as they laid their heads down in security once more! Until they had been fed, clothed, and rested, they were unable to give or understand information as to their whereabouts; but so completely had they lost their bearings, so utterly miscalculated the strength of the current, that though they had hoped to make Diamond Island, they had really passed that place, and missed all indications as to the entrance of the Rangoon river. The Krishna Shoal had been passed unseen, the Barogna Flats unheeded. They had never perceived the lighthouse, or been aware that they were near it, but were drifting aimlessly about just beyond that place. The steamer was taking passengers from Rangoon to Moulmein, where they were landed in the course of the next day, and carried straight into hospital in high fever. The seamen were tough fellows, and soon recovered. Mr. Gilchrist, though considered so delicate a man, also suffered less than Ralph, who, having kept up so bravely through the whole of their trials, now proved to have received a severe shock to his constitution. His brain was violently affected, and delirium was most distressing and persistent. For some days the doctors feared whether he would ever recover his reason even were his life spared to him; and, when the fever left him, his prostration was great. Youth and natural good health conquered at last, and he recovered. Then he learnt that the news of their rescue had been sent to Rangoon, and joyfully received by his uncle and shipmates. Rogers had made the pilot station on Diamond Island, and been helped into Rangoon, where he was cordially received by the friends of his owners, and business connections. The _Pelican of the North_ had been insured, though the cargo was not. The Liverpool firm of Herford Brothers was a wealthy and liberal one, Rogers and the other officers were to return home in another of its ships then unloading in Rangoon; the seamen could obtain berths in any homeward-bound vessel. But there was bad news for Ralph. The firm of rice merchants to which he was going had failed, and his hope of a situation in it doomed to disappointment. For some time the fate of the boat remained uncertain. CHAPTER VI THE DENHAMS AT HOME While the _Pelican of the North_ was making this disastrous voyage, troubles had fallen thick and plenty upon the Denhams at home. With Ralph's departure Mrs. Denham had felt herself able to take a second lodger. Mr. Benson, head book-keeper in the firm of Messrs. Herford Brothers, for whom Captain Rogers sailed, had lodged with her for some years. He was a quiet retiring man, an old bachelor, who gave very little trouble, being regular in his habits, which were simple. He occupied the breakfast-room, in front of the house, downstairs, and a bedroom, also in front, at the top of the house. There was a good-sized room in the front of the house, above the breakfast-room, originally meant for a drawing-room, and a bedroom behind it. Mrs. Denham had occupied the latter herself, hitherto, and made a nursery of the larger apartment. These she now proposed to let; she and all the children doubling up at night in two very moderate-sized bedrooms at the top of the house, and only retaining one parlour, the large dining-room on the groundfloor. To make the new set of apartments sufficiently comfortable to accommodate a lodger, the best furniture from all her own part of the house was collected in them; they were repapered, repainted, and new carpets and curtains bought. Captain Rogers had made his sister a present of money to assist her in these arrangements, but the greatest economy was necessary to make it cover these unavoidable expenses, and those of Ralph's outfit. Jack and Reggie stained the floors brown; Agnes and her mother toiled over the upholstery and little adornments; all looked very nice when finished; but, beneath the surface, things were not comfortable. The family was too much cramped for room. A lodger was quickly found, but the work of the house was greatly increased; and the tempers of both Jack and Lisa were difficult, and caused much unpleasantness. Mrs. Denham was glad that it was a lady who took the rooms, for she would not have liked either of her pretty daughters to help in waiting upon a gentleman except Mr. Benson, whom they knew so well; and, as her profits would not allow the keeping of a second servant, it was indispensable that they should do so. She superintended the cooking herself, as the maid-of-all-work was but a cheap willing drudge, unequal to the preparation of any but the simplest dishes. Mr. Benson only dined at home on Sundays, but supper was wanted for him, or chops with a late tea. The new inmate, Miss Mason, an elderly single lady, took all her meals in the house, dined in the middle of the day, and liked her food daintily served. It made heavy work, though comfort in the family household was sacrificed. Agnes had a situation as daily governess. She went to her pupils after breakfast, dined with them, walked with them, and did not return till nearly five o'clock, except on Saturdays, when she came back earlier. Lisa was at school. She was clever and ambitious, eager to pass examinations so as to rise in the world. She was fourteen, and her studies took up all her time. Jack came next to her in age; but there was a gap in the family, where one had died between him and Reggie; and a wider one, where two had died between Reggie and little Cicely, who was but three years old. The baby was nearly two, a very delicate child, a great anxiety to his mother. Agnes came in one evening in October. It had been a pouring wet day, and was already growing dark, for she had a long walk to and from her pupils' residence. "My dear," said her mother, who sat by a mere handful of fire, with the baby whining on her lap,--"My dear, how wet you are! You will take cold." "It is only outside wet, mother," said she brightly; "I will change my shoes and stockings, and soon be dry." "I am so sorry to ask it, dear," continued Mrs. Denham, "but Mr. Benson has sent up an office boy to say that he is bringing a gentleman home with him, and could he have dinner at seven instead of tea. I had a dish of rissoles for him, which will not be enough, but there is nothing else in the house. Would you mind stepping as far as the shops, and bringing in something which we could get ready in time?" "Oh no, I can run along very quickly, mamma. What shall I bring? A fowl to roast? That could be cooked best, I suppose; and a few sausages. Any vegetables?" "Yes, please dear, and some coffee; he will like a cup of coffee after dinner. And some tinned soup; there is no time to make any, and Monday is such a bad day on which to get fish. Will you mind bringing it all back with you, for Maria is trying to finish the washing, and the shop-people are so tiresome about sending to this distance?" "No, mamma, I'll bring it all home." "And a little something for dessert, Agnes." "Could you not open some of that ginger which uncle brought home? I'll bring some nice biscuits." "A good thought, dear." Agnes stepped along as quickly as she could, but these errands took her a long time. The nearest poulterer had no fowls left, and the next one lived quite a mile off. The omnibuses did not help her, because only a short part of her way lay along the main road; and her gown, which she thought safely pinned up beneath her cloak, came loose, hung down behind in a festoon, which held the rain and beat around her ankles at every step which she took. Contending with a heavy umbrella through blustering wind and driving rain, laden with a cumbersome basket, it was of no use to pick her way, or try to keep herself dry, so she splashed through all the mud and puddles, and returned home, drenched, cold and wretched. Hurrying up to put herself into dry clothes, she found Lisa in their bedroom, with books and papers all round her. "Oh, Agnes, don't put your wet gloves down there! That is my German paper, just written. How wet you are! Where have you been? I have wanted you so badly, just to hear me say these syntax rules. And do tell me what is the passive form of"-- "Don't keep me now, Lisa, I am in such a hurry. Mamma wants me. Could you not take baby for an hour? Mr. Benson has somebody coming to dinner, and nothing is ready. There is Miss Mason's tea to be got too, and Maria not dressed, and baby poorly. Mamma is driven every way at once." "I can't take baby, I have heaps of lessons to do. I should lose my place if they are not done. How can you ask me, Agnes?" "Well, I must run down, don't hinder me." "You might just stop one minute to hear me these rules." "I really can't, Lisa." "Ill-natured thing," began Lisa fretfully, but Agnes could not stay to hear her. Downstairs was chaos. The washtubs and wet clothes were everywhere; the two boys clamouring for their evening meal, and stumping about in their dirty boots; Miss Mason was ringing for coals; Mrs. Denham had sent Maria up to dress, and was trying to prepare the fowl with the baby in her lap. "Jack," cried Agnes, "you might just take up some coals to Miss Mason, to help us." "I'm not a footboy," said Jack ill-naturedly. "Where's Maria?" "We are particularly busy; do help," pleaded Agnes. "Help yourself," said Jack rudely. "I am helping all I can," replied Agnes. "Jack," said Mrs. Denham, "do what your sister asks." Jack did not exactly disobey his mother, but flounced off to fetch the coal-scuttle as sulkily as he could, and filled it with a tremendous clatter. "Here, Reggie, you lazy beggar, you can carry it up; you are doing nothing." Reggie took up the scuttle, which, being too heavy for him, upset upon the stairs, all the coals falling down with an appalling noise and dreadful mess. "I'm so sorry," said he, looking frightened. "Butter fingers!" cried Jack contemptuously. Agnes set herself to sweep the stairs and hall clean, drove the boys into the parlour and shut the door on them; then hurried to set Miss Mason's tea-tray, and send it up by Maria, who now appeared in her tidy apron and cap. Then she laid the cloth in Mr. Benson's room, and ran down to help her mother. "My dear," exclaimed Mrs. Denham in dismay, "I forgot all about a pudding, and I don't know what we can do!" "I brought some tarts in, mamma; and I thought we could toss up a sweet omelette while they are having their soup and meat." "But eggs?" said Mrs. Denham in despair. "I bought six pennyworth." "What should I do without you, love?" sighed her mother. By dint of great exertion the little dinner was cooked, and served to Mr. Benson's satisfaction. He, manlike, had not the slightest idea of the difficulties which had beset his obliging landlady; or that, though the hunger of Lisa and the boys had been assuaged with thick bread and butter in the intervals of work, Mrs. Denham and Agnes had not been able to spare time for food, and were sinking for want of it at nine o'clock. "You must have a nice cup of coffee now, mamma," said Agnes. "I made enough when I sent it up to the gentlemen. And here is a bit of fowl which I slipped into the oven to keep hot." "You must take some too, Agnes." "I'll have mine when I come down. Cicely has never been put to bed, she is asleep on the parlour floor." She set her mother down by the kitchen fire to take her supper, and carried off the baby, now asleep, as well as the little girl. Coming down from putting them to bed, she remembered that Miss Mason's tea-tray had never been removed, and stepped in to take it down. "I am so sorry," said she, "that you should have been neglected, Miss Mason. Mr. Benson has company, and gave us very short notice of what he wanted, so we have been rather busy." "My dear," said the kind-hearted Miss Mason, "you look fit to drop." "I'm rather tired," said Agnes; "but I am going to have some supper now." But before she sat down to it a telegram from the office was brought in. "Something's wrong, miss," said Maria, seeking Agnes. "Mr. Benson, he guv' a sort of a screech when he read it,--nasty thing,--and he says, says he, 'Send Miss Denham to me,' says he. I can't think why folks ever go sending them ugly yellow telegrams about, frightening people." Agnes did not listen to this tirade, she never imagined that a telegram for Mr. Benson could affect her. Strangely enough she did not think of Ralph, she was so tired, and her evening had been so full of pressing trivialities. But upon her entering Mr. Benson's room, that gentleman came towards her, telegram in hand, looking so full of sorrowful compassion that a cold thrill ran through her at once. "What is it, sir?" she faltered. "My dear young lady, there is some very sad news come. I want you to help me in breaking it to your poor mother. I am deeply grieved to tell you that the _Pelican of the North_ has been burnt at sea." "Oh, Mr. Benson! And Ralph?" Her white lips could hardly utter the words. "The crew and passengers left her safely, but the boat in which Ralph was is missing." Agnes swayed, turned deathly sick, felt as if she were going blind, caught hold of the nearest support, missed it, and sank upon the floor insensible. Neither Mr. Benson nor his friend had ever seen a girl faint before, and were terribly frightened. They tore the bell down in their agitation; they called for help in tones which brought everyone around them in consternation; nobody had their wits at command except Miss Mason. "Go downstairs, Lisa," she commanded. "Take away the boys. Maria, go downstairs; Miss Denham has only fainted, her mother and I are enough to help her." She assisted Mrs. Denham to lay the poor girl flat, to loosen her dress and sprinkle her face with water, as she spoke. She fetched salts; and when consciousness returned, she directed the gentlemen to carry her up to her own bed. None of them, for the moment, thought of asking what had caused the swoon. Mrs. Denham naturally considered it the result of over-exertion, and the wetting which Agnes had undergone; she was much concerned, but not alarmed. Miss Mason, not knowing of these predisposing causes, and seeing the telegram in Mr. Benson's hand, guessed more. She was also much struck with the lack of comfort in the scantily-furnished bedroom, crowded with two beds, and littered with Lisa's books in every direction. Leaving her mother to undress Agnes, she went downstairs with the gentlemen, and, entering Mr. Benson's parlour, she closed the door and asked-- "What caused this sudden faintness, Mr. Benson? Had that telegram anything to do with it?" "Indeed, I am sorry to say that it had, ma'am," and Mr. Benson handed it to the old lady. "Humph!" said she. "If you had any sense you would have sent for me, not that poor girl." "I'm awfully sorry," stammered out Mr. Benson, while his friend could hardly repress a smile at witnessing the autocrat of "Herford Brothers," before whom twenty clerks trembled when he frowned, being scolded and scorned by a neat little woman in a shabby silk gown and white curls. There was wine on the table. "Before you half kill the mother, as well as the daughter, you had better bring her down here and give her a glass of that sherry if it is decent wine," proceeded Miss Mason. "It is, ma'am,--it is very fair sherry," said the crestfallen Mr. Benson. "You don't think that she will faint too, do you?" Miss Mason's only answer was, "I will fetch her myself," and she walked off. Mrs. Denham did not faint, but it was a most distressing scene, and Miss Mason took command of the whole family. CHAPTER VII MOULMEIN Ralph was sitting, languid and feeble, in a long chair in front of the hospital, where he had lain ill for some weeks. The hospital was a mile or two inland from Moulmein; a comfortable place, but Ralph was weary of it. Everything had a parched, burnt-up appearance; the little pagodas, to be seen on the surrounding hills, were all alike; the punkah was working, yet there seemed to be no air to breathe; nothing suggested freshness, or gave him a start towards recovery. A grove of palm trees rose majestically on one hand, interspersed with tamarinds, and trees of strange form covered with brilliant flowers. Along the road came a girl in native dress, carrying a huge basket of roses, on her way to sell them in the bazaar. She had the flowers of a white, purple-striped orchid nestled coquettishly in the coils of her hair; and was smoking a huge green cheroot. Then a long procession of yellow-robed "phoongyees," or monks, came by; each clasping his lacquered begging-bowl, and staring before him into vacancy, with rapt concentration of thought. An open carriage appeared. "Come along, Denham," cried Mr. Gilchrist from it, "the doctor orders a drive for you, and we will go out to the Battery Point, to see whether there is not a breath of air to be met with there." "It will be very nice if there is," said Ralph; "this place is like a furnace. Is it always as hot as this here, Mr. Gilchrist?" "Not always. The rains are at hand; after that it will be cooler." They drove out to the Point, watching the native boats, light, square-sailed, fitted with thatched houses, rowed with great difficulty against the stream, by men standing, instead of sitting, to row. They looked out over Washing Head Island, with its pagoda mounting guard over the Holy Well, whence, it is said, is drawn the water in which the king once a year cleanses his sacred head. It was a pleasant evening, and Ralph felt its refreshment. "I am very anxious," he said presently,--"I am very anxious to get quite well; for, unless I can get something to do, it will be 'up a tree' for me. I don't know how I am to pay all the expenses I am costing now, or to get a new outfit, or earn my living at all. I lie and fret dreadfully about this." "You have not been yet in a fit state to bear much talking," replied Mr. Gilchrist, "or I would have relieved your mind. Your uncle wrote to me before he sailed for home, desiring me to let you want for nothing. Herford Brothers are disposed to be very liberal; and the captain's possessions, at least, were insured. Compensation will, I believe, be made to you; and there is little doubt but what this will take the form of a clerkship in the Rangoon house--a much better thing than the place you have lost. Your luck will be great if you get a berth in that house, for it is quite the first in the trade. But, Ralph, this must await letters from England. I also must await the replies from home, for all my scientific apparatus must be replaced there, and sent out to me; in the meantime the Rangoon house makes itself responsible for our expenses." "It is very liberal of the Messrs. Herford," said Ralph. "I have no claim whatever on them." "That I dispute," replied his friend. "You did your share of work for your passage, and did it so well and willingly that it quite entitled you to a claim upon them, for they made the agreement to let you go on those terms. You have suffered nobly; never a complaint whatever the hardships, for which you never bargained. You have lost everything you possess in their ship; and, besides all this, what can we not say of your attention to me, nursing me day and night, as you have done so kindly, and which was certainly not in the letter of your agreement. I am not ungrateful, my boy." "You have been so kind to me, sir, teaching me, and all that. One would have been a brute to do less." "Well, that is your way of putting it; mine is not exactly the same. But, Ralph, I am feeling better than I have done for years. This climate suits me, and will, I hope, suit you now that you have taken the turn. I will tell you what my plan is for you. I want you to go with me upon my orchid-hunting expedition. It will give your brain a rest, and set you up after this illness. The best time for the plants will come on when the rains are over, and the season be at its coolest. I mean to get what appliances I can here, and make a short expedition into the jungle around this place; then sending what I can collect to Rangoon to be shipped home. And by that time, having received better appliances from England, also having learnt to speak the language a little better,--we must study _that_, Ralph,--I shall make my way to Rangoon around the head of the bay; searching the various likely habitations for rare plants, at different elevations and in different kinds of soil. The weather will then be growing very hot, but we shall be seasoned to it. I hope thus to obtain an extremely valuable collection,--perhaps of insects as well as of flowers,--for we shall be collecting in every variety of weather and locality. Mr. Augustus Herford will not grudge money to this end; he gave me, virtually, _carte blanche_ to make what arrangements I found desirable when I got here; and if we do well, _there_ is your claim upon him." "I should like it of all things," cried Ralph, with sparkling eyes. "Well, you must be my assistant; and, as we shall need hands as well as heads, I have spoken to the rest of our poor raft's crew, and we have determined to keep together, hoping that our bad luck there will follow us no further. We feel that we all showed pluck enough over that affair to be able to trust each other in the future." "I am sure, sir, that I would trust you anywhere, and should look upon it as a very jolly thing to go with you. I like the men, too; we should be ever such a comfortable party of us. But, Mr. Gilchrist, I don't see that we had _all_ bad luck with that raft. I am sure it was very good luck that it never upset. Those sharks swimming about us, like silent death waiting for us, have bothered me dreadfully since I was ill. And it was very good luck to be picked up when we were. Has anything been heard of the boat, sir?" "Not yet, but the very absence of news is some hope. No wreck of it has been seen, no vestige at all. Ralph, when I think that we were cut adrift on purpose, from malice, I think sometimes it may be as well if that boat's crew never turns up." "Oh, don't say so, don't say so! It was the doing of one only, and he might have been half mad at the time. Perhaps--most probably--he has been very sorry since." "You are a good fellow, Denham, but it would never do to put more lives at the mercy of a person who could have doomed six unoffending people to all but certain death to gratify his own wicked spite. What the Commissioner may do were he to appear here, I cannot say. If they do turn up, I wish it might be anywhere else than here. I do not want to appear against him, yet it would be my duty to do so. The Commissioner is aware of the fact, and the severed line is in his keeping. If I had not spoken of it, old Wills and Osborn would have done so. They are very faithful to 'Miss Amy's chield,' Ralph. But see, there is the steamer from the Andamans in the offing." A long slender line of grey smoke was plainly visible upon the horizon, becoming more distinct each minute; and all the European officers and gentlemen in the place were congregating, in their white garments, upon the quay to see the vessel come in. Amusement was not too plentiful for such people in Moulmein in those days; an arrival of any sort was interesting. Mr. Gilchrist left the carriage to take Ralph home, and sauntered down to join the groups that were forming. Ralph was glad to be alone for a time, he was fatigued by the conversation, and much excited by the thought of making this expedition with his friends. The prospect was delightful to him, and on reaching home he resumed his former seat, thinking of all he might see, until thought became dreamy, and dreaminess sleep. He was aroused by a familiar cheery voice. "Hurrah! There he is! He has only left half of himself in the bay!" It was Kershaw. Ralph sprang up to seize him by both hands in eager welcome. "Oh, Kershaw! How glad I am, how very, very glad to see you again! How were you saved?" "The steamer for the Andamans, with passengers from Rangoon, picked us up, and carried us straight on there. It had some sort of big bug on board who could not be hindered on his way for such a trifle as the announcement of our safety, and we have been brought back here as fast as our own news could have flown. So, like the clown in the circus, 'Here we are again.' But, Denham, I'll go back to the Andamans, if they expect us _all_ to practise Banting here. What have you done to yourself? You are as thin as a whipping-post, and your face is all eyes." "Oh, I've been ill! but I shall pick up fast enough now. People are so kind to us. It is a very good world, after all, that we live in, Kershaw, in spite of what some folks say." "'It is a very good world that we live in, To lend, or to spend, or to give in; But to beg or to borrow, or get a man's own, 'Tis the very worst world that ever was known,'" sang Kershaw. "Oh, most wise and sapient third mate," cried Ralph, "you are easily hoisted with your own petard! If folks lend, spend, and give, do not other folks receive?" "Let me be among the other folks then. I have lost all the locks of hair of all the young ladies,--the dear creatures who adored me. There's a loss, Denham! Black, brown, golden, grey,--they have all gone to disagree with the sharks." "Ugh! don't talk of sharks, they haunt me in my dreams yet." "They use them for policemen in the Andamans. Fact!--the blue ones, because of the colour like the uniform, you know. They loaf about, round and round, just like bobbies on their beat; and if any poor devil of a prisoner tries to escape, and swim to the mainland,--hey, presto! they nip him up, and have him in a tight place in no time!" "Your experience of life has been enlarged since I saw you, evidently." "Yes, sir; nothing like foreign travel for enlarging the mind and perfecting the manners. Perfecting even the most charming natural manners, sir," said the mate, drawing himself up, and saluting with one finger. It was good for Ralph to have this atmosphere of boyish nonsense restored to him. Between its bright influence, and the relief of finding his friends alive and well, he improved wonderfully fast. All the officers and men of the _Pelican_ came to see him, and all appeared to be drawn more closely together from remembrance of the hardships through which they had struggled. There was but one exception, that of Kirke, and why he did not form one of that friendly group must be explained later. The friends went to walk in the bazaar, amused to see the shops, or booths, so simply arranged by throwing upwards the side of the house, and propping it up with a pole; and the odd conglomeration of articles exposed for sale beneath this primitive awning. Here, in a hole simply dug in the ground before the houses, were Burmese women cooking rice in the joints of the bamboo. There were others selling "pickled tea," and other abominations, by means of weights fashioned after the semblance of the sacred duck. Silver trinkets, lacquer ware, earthen jars and pots of native manufacture, were oddly mixed up with the commonest glass and earthenware from Staffordshire and St. Helens; stuffs of Oriental make and pattern lay beside Manchester coloured handkerchiefs and Madras muslin jackets; images of Guadama wore a suspiciously Brummagem air, and might be seen--though never sold--side by side with lamps of native pottery with distinctly classical shape, in the establishment of some Chinaman, over whose booth the picture of his patron saint presided. Mats, baskets, cylinders of gold, ornamented more or less, and worn by the ladies as earrings poked through the universal hole in the ear, were on every side,--together with Peak and Frean's biscuits and Bryant and May's matches,--looking oddly out of place. The people who bought and sold were as mixed a lot, and as queer to the unsophisticated boy's eyes, as the goods in which they trafficked. Burmese men and lads, whose close-fitting blue-patterned garments turned out to be their own skins tattooed; women, their abundant tresses dressed with exquisite roses or orchids, but displaying one leg bare to the knee beneath their gracefully-draped "tameins"; children, even babies in arms, smoking cheroots; bullock-carts, saffron-robed priests, officials; half-naked children everywhere, under everybody's feet; gongs sounding, bells tinkling, laughter echoing, strange calls and cries and speech on all sides,--formed a never-ending entertainment for Ralph, who had not previously seen more of the world than the rather dull and prosaic streets of mercantile Liverpool. All was new to him, all amusing, nothing more so than the idleness and merry temper of the natives, coming so suddenly upon him after so stern an early struggle with the grave realities of civilised life. The rains were now over, and the pious Burmese, with great tenderness for the little fishes left behind in many pools, collected them in jars, and carried them in procession down to the river, that they might be thus carefully restored to their native element. The fish would doubtless have proved to be as grateful for this humanity as the fish was to the queen in the old fairy story, did it not happen that they were nearly all dead before they reached the water. Their would-be saviours then ate them, and all ends were secured. Piety and hunger were equally satisfied, and both "nats" and men pleased. CHAPTER VIII KIRKE ESCAPES Kirke's jealousy of Ralph Denham had dated from the earliest commencement of their ill-fated voyage; and Ralph had not been as way-wise as an older person might have wished him to be in avoiding occasions for arousing it. His own dislike to Kirke's character; his scarcely concealed contempt of him for throwing away the chances in life which he himself longed so ardently to possess; the notice taken of him by Mr. Gilchrist, and of which he was so proud,--all tended to inflame Kirke's ill-will towards him. Ralph had tried, unavailingly but persistently, to draw little Jackson from his influence, and Jackson's services were useful to Kirke. The two old Cornish seamen kept aloof from the elder apprentice, and did many little things for their countryman, as they regarded Denham; and Kershaw, just a trifle older and higher in the service than Kirke, took to Denham, laughed and joked with him, sought his society, and made of him a companion. Kirke felt his seclusion, and resented it upon Denham. Such feelings feed upon themselves, and grow apace. Little Jackson's sudden death was a shock; and, somewhat softened at heart, though too proud to confess to the fact, Kirke would have been glad of comfort and sympathy Ralph had no idea of this, but, repulsed on his first evidence of kindly feeling, made no further attempt at consolation; and Kirke, in his loneliness, raged the more bitterly in secret because Denham had not found out that he wanted him. So one thing acted and reacted upon another, and culminated upon the unhappy night in the boats. Envying Ralph's pluck and heroism, admiring him for it; emulous of their comrades' appreciation of his gallant daring, he yet could not bring himself to imitate it, for he felt so afraid to die,--he dreaded so terribly what came after death, which he considered certain upon that raft. He knew that he was not fit to die,--his whole ill-spent life rose up, in one instant, with awful clearness before his mental vision, and he dared not face its consequences. He believed in spite of himself, and his faith brought him nothing but fear. He hung back, and then resented the plainly-expressed scorn of Kershaw and the sailors. Mellish, with the authority of captain delegated to him, stopped their taunts with a high hand, but was powerless to alter the expression of contempt upon their faces. Accustomed through all his early life to the surface respect paid to him as a gentleman's son, he could not bear the lack of deference now displayed by the men whom he regarded as his inferiors; and, when the watch was changed, and Kershaw yielded to him the tiller, saying, "Here, take the ropes, I suppose you aren't afraid of _them_," the climax was reached. Half-frenzied with pride, anger, jealousy and fear, he drew out his knife, severed the rope without thought of anyone but his rival, saw in one flash that he had practically murdered six helpless and inoffensive fellow-creatures, and remorse seized him for a prey instantaneously. No one in the boat suspected him, it was supposed that the rope was weak or rotten, and gave of itself from the strain upon it. A shark might have bitten it; no one knew what had happened exactly. Kirke, in horror at his own deed, called upon the others in the boat to turn her head, to row back, to search for the raft. His agitation, the frantic energy with which he worked, redeemed him somewhat in his shipmates' eyes, but may have caused him to steer unequally, injudiciously, wide of his mark. However it happened, they could find no trace of the raft, and, though they did for a time hear the voices of the castaways raised on the breeze, the direction of the wind made their whereabouts uncertain, and the sound gradually ceased altogether. Did that mean that they were gone? Drowned? Fled before God's judgment-seat, to be for ever witnesses against him? God knew that he did not mean this! But would He pardon?--could He pardon? Still did the unhappy wretch maintain a sullen silence as to his deed. He could not confess, and those around him were kinder to him than usual, perceiving his sorrow, but ignorant as to its source. Next day they were picked up by the steamer, and carried on to the Andamans. Everyone at Port Blair was kind to them, but the word "murder" seemed to be on the air. "What! are you a convict?" someone would ask of butler, washerwoman, syce, coxswain or coolie. "What are you in for?" "Murder, Thakin" (Englishman, sir), would be the calm reply, with a polite gesture and fascinating smile. The convicts seemed to think no more of such a crime than of crushing heaps of cockroaches. Oh, that he could be equally dense! They were detained at Port Blair but a very short time, when they once more embarked for Moulmein. Upon nearing the port, the first figure which he descried among the groups on shore was that of Mr. Gilchrist. He stared as if he had seen a ghost,--but it was an avenging spectre. Within the first five minutes of their landing, Mr. Gilchrist accused him of the crime of cutting the raft adrift; all shrank from him with detestation, no one stood forth to say "I do not believe the charge." Wills and Osborn confirmed Mr. Gilchrist's accusation; the two ordinary seamen, Price and Simpson, gave testimony against him; even Ralph, upon whose forgiving nature he fastened hope, said, "Oh, Kirke, how could you have done such a thing!" He was put into the police guardroom, and a watch set over him. What could be done to him he had no idea, and imagination played strange pranks with his fears. Should he be sent back to England, in irons, to be tried there, where his father would be broken-hearted, his sisters disgraced; where all would appear in the papers; and, whatever the event, he could never hold up his head again? Would they send him back to the Andamans, to herd with those half-savage convicts, mutineers from Delhi, the scum of Rangoon? Would they shoot him, or hang him, or flog him? Image after image of terror succeeded each other, while the guard gossipped, laughed, and dozed. These men were careless of their charge. Where should a European go if he did escape? They paid little heed to him, and he began to perceive that escape was possible. Where he should go troubled him not; how he should live, how travel, without knowledge or help, in an unknown country where his European face would make him a marked man. He had some vague misty idea of ruby mines; and, in his ignorance, supposed these to be scattered about all over the country. That rubies were to be picked up by anyone, as nuggets had been streamed out of the sand in Ballarat by the earliest adventurers, was a fixed notion of his. He would make his way to such a place, lose his identity among the rough miners, find some splendid jewels, make his way to some other port a rich man, and return to England to lead a better life. Opportunity presented itself at last. It was the feast of the "Tawadehutha," the most joyous of all the Burmese festivals. Feasting and merriment lasted for three days, and holiday was observed everywhere. Even the Commissioner was forced to keep business in abeyance, and leave Kirke in his easy durance; perhaps the more willingly as, his offence being so unusual a one, and his family known to be so respectable in England, that gentleman himself was in perplexity as to what course he ought to pursue. So in the guardroom the offender remained, under the care of the Burmese guard, who cared nothing for his crime, though they were afraid of displeasing the Commissioner. It was hard upon them that they should not be allowed to take part in the jollity which they would have enjoyed so greatly, and their black scowls and grumbling tones were comprehended by Kirke, although their actual words were not understood. The festival was a religious one, and the _raison d'être_ was that of presenting gifts to the various pagodas, of which there are so many in all parts of Burma. It is regarded as a highly meritorious thing to build a pagoda, although the erection is practically of no use. It is not a church, or temple, in which religious services of prayer or praise are held, or any charitable work carried on. Their very structure forbids that, for they are solid blocks of masonry, upon which graceful cupolas and spires are erected, painted, gilt, and decorated with many bells. These bells are gifts, and are sometimes very costly, formed from pure gold or silver, and set with jewels. It is good for the soul to present these gifts; but any repairs done to the building as it suffers from age or weather, counts to the merit of the original constructor alone. Therefore, when any rich Burmese wishes to make his salvation secure, he builds a new pagoda, large or small, all by himself,--he does not care for another person's eternal welfare. Let every man look out for himself in the kingdom of the "nats." But gifts are another matter, _they_ are offered to the priests, and make plenty of show both in this world and the next; so the pagoda festival is a particularly brilliant affair, and a very picturesque one. Long processions streamed through the street, attended by boys and girls dancing, and bearing in their midst long bamboo poles decorated with spires covered with tinsel paper, gilt balls, and all manner of toys, which gave them the air of gigantic Christmas trees. Some bore aloft pasteboard images of "nats," or beatified spirits, who bring good luck to men, acting as guardian angels. Some carried huge, frightful representations of "beloos," or demons, who must be alternately conciliated and treated with every indignity to frighten them away. Kirke's guard rushed out to exclaim at each fresh group that trooped past the guardhouse. Many an "Ameh!" was ejaculated, and this one was admired, that one despised;--now great delight was manifested, then contempt expressed in voluble jabber, and with no reference to their prisoner. He cared for none of these exhibitions, so childish in his eyes--which were fatigued by the glare and noise. White umbrellas, decorated with frills of paper lace; gold umbrellas; long bamboos, gilt or silvered; the constant stream of gay moving figures; the flash of tinsel in the sun; the beating of drums, carried in carts whose wheels creaked and groaned in unison; the clashing of bells great and small; the songs and cries of the thousands of people,--all wearied and oppressed his brain almost beyond endurance. The screams of delight which the guard constantly uttered, ran through his ears with great distress; and then the climax arrived, in the sight of a huge "silver tree," attended by prancing hobby-horses, and from the trembling boughs of which hundreds of rupees hung quivering, each wrapped in coloured tinsel paper, and followed by the inhabitants of the whole country village which had furnished it, and who danced like mad around it to the music (?) of their own voices. Kirke could bear no more; hoping to be left alone for a little while, he produced such silver as he had in his pocket, and presented it to the guard, who seized it with delighted gratitude, and rushed out in vast excitement to expend it in pickled tea, leh-pet, cheroots, and sweetmeats of strange fashion. They offered some on their return to their benefactor, all their sour looks changed into smiles, but he shook his head and motioned to them to leave him alone. Surprised and compassionate, they seated themselves on their haunches outside the door in the verandah, and gabbled and feasted happily while watching the constantly passing crowds. A pasteboard cow is drawn by oxen in the midst of richly and gaudily dressed people; a cart bearing a huge gilded pot in which the milk sacred to Guadama is to be cooked; a gorgeously-attired maiden, laden with jewels, represents the milkmaid; still more and more crowds yet; more drums, more bells, more songs, more cries, more colour and noise and flashing lights, more beloos, more nats, more hobby-horses. Night fell, and the revel was still maintained. Torches and fires cast a strange and lurid light over the motley scene. What is this terrible figure advancing? A huge snow-white serpent, a hundred feet long, fierce fiery red eyes glaring from out the voluminous coils of its luminous body, as it writhes on its slow onward course in pursuance of a great rolling ball of light. The Burmese excitement could stand no more. Springing from their heels, they rushed down from the verandah to greet the apparition with dance and shout like the rest. They ran, shrieking with admiration, along with the multitude, and Kirke was left alone. It was an opportunity not to be missed. All Moulmein and the country side about it were in the streets, his figure would be unnoticed among the rest; he arose hastily, and ran out from the guardhouse into the town, where the brilliancy of lights in some parts made the obscurity deeper than ever in others. No one observed him, no one spoke to him; he hastened along at his greatest speed, at first mixing with the people, then choosing the quieter places, fearing lest any English should see him and recognise him. Everyone was, however, attracted by the gay sights around; the English residents were chiefly in their own bungalows, watching the processions from their own verandahs, and distributing gifts as the various groups paused before each house to display themselves. No one thought of him, and he stole along in the darkness out into the vast misty unknown country beyond the town, unperceived. When the processions had all reached the great pagoda; when the mystery play was over; when the old legend of Guadama being nourished by the sacred milk was acted out; when all were tired, the lights out, the crowds dispersed, the fun over,--the guards bethought them of their trust, and returned to take it up again. In dismay unutterable they found their bird was flown, nor could he be found anywhere. In great alarm they made up the best story they could for the Commissioner's ears; and, to their wonder, found him strangely lenient to their misdemeanour. In truth, the great man was thus relieved from a dilemma; he pretended as much wrath as the carelessness of the guard deserved, but was almost grateful to them in his heart. A search was instituted for the prisoner; but not very vigorously prosecuted, and soon abandoned when no signs of him could be discovered. CHAPTER IX NEWS FROM RALPH "Oh, that I had never allowed him to go!" wailed Mrs. Denham, the morning after the alarming telegram arrived, rocking herself to and fro in her misery, tears streaming down her face. "My dear, dear boy! He went to help me, and this is the end of it. The best, the dearest, the most unselfish boy in the world! How can I bear it! how can I bear it!" But Agnes, when she recovered, showed much sense and strength of mind. "Mother," said she, "it only says that the boat is missing, it does not say it is lost. Those seas are full of vessels, please God some ship has picked them up, and dear Ralph is safe yet. Do not despair, God is good." "You are my only comfort, Agnes," sobbed Mrs. Denham; "but, oh, if I had only refused to let him go!" "Agnes is right," said the sensible Miss Mason. "Your son did his duty in taking the chance offered to him, and God is merciful. You must trust to Him, Mrs. Denham. Agnes, my dear, you are not fit to go to your pupils to-day. I have written a note, and Jack can take it before he goes to school." "No, thank you, ma'am," said Agnes. "Mrs. Dallas is particular. I am quite well enough this morning; the walk will do me good. I mean to be brave, and keep up heart." She smiled, but it was a wan smile. "Perhaps you are right," replied the little old lady, with secret admiration of the girl's resolution. "Duty and work are a real help in trouble." Miss Mason became a firm friend to Agnes from that time. She was a lonely woman. Death had lately robbed her of all who were near and dear to her; it had lessened her means, and taken her home from her; but she had an affectionate heart, into which she took her young acquaintance from that time, and found an unexpected source of happiness in so doing. Many were the little ways of relieving the strain upon Agnes which she found. She allowed Lisa to bring her school-work into her parlour for preparation; and the quiet harbour of refuge proved to be an immense boon, and lessened the constant irritation of the girl's temper. She often took Cicely to walk with her; she taught her to read, and quite took her off her mother's hands. In another week, a second telegram assured the family of Ralph's safe arrival at Moulmein; but all particulars had to be sent by post, and before they arrived all the children were down with measles. Lisa and the baby were excessively ill. Lisa's lungs were much affected, she had been growing very fast, and the time of year was against her; while the complaint seemed to bring out latent mischief in the baby's constitution: spinal disease asserted itself, and the medical man pronounced that, if he lived, he must be a hopeless cripple. Agnes, who had taken the measles in the first instance from her pupils, was left with a cough which every east wind aggravated, and she became thin and pale. The assurance of Ralph's safety was a great cordial, but the letters which arrived by post, in due course of time, brought with them renewed anxiety. They related only the bare facts of the escape from the ship, and that of Ralph's severe illness. Captain Rogers had sailed from Rangoon so quickly as to have missed Mr. Gilchrist's account of particulars, addressed to him there and reposted to him in Liverpool. Thus, though he himself arrived very soon after his own letter to the firm, he knew little or nothing further. The Messrs. Herford wished him to go out again as soon as possible. They had every confidence in him, attributing no blame whatever to him for the loss of his ship; but an official inquiry into the circumstances was inevitable, and all the appliances for Gilchrist's orchid hunting had to be renewed, besides the usual business of loading his new ship. He ran down to Cornwall to see his wife, and was obliged to be in London about the business, so could scarcely spare time to see his sister. As soon, however, as Mr. Gilchrist's letter arrived, a copy of it was sent to Mrs. Denham; and the same post brought one to her saying that her son was out of danger, and relating details of his recovery. These letters did more than relieve the terrible suspense of Mrs. Denham and her family, they aroused the deepest interest in the minds of all in the office of Messrs. Herford Brothers. Mr. Augustus Herford, talking over the matter with the captain, complimented him highly upon the conduct of his nephew. "He must be a lad worth helping," said he; "and the mother, for whose sake he has plunged into so much danger, shall not be forgotten. What other family has she, Rogers?" "Two more sons, sir, younger, and whose education is difficult to accomplish,--a crippled infant, who must always be a burden,--and three daughters." "Six young children!" exclaimed Mr. Herford. "Poor soul, poor soul!" He was a rich and liberal man, and acted upon his impulse. A situation was offered to Ralph in the house at Rangoon, where he might rise more rapidly than in England. Reginald was put into Christ's Hospital; and Jack should be apprenticed to his uncle as soon as he was fourteen. This would not be for nearly a year; but Reginald went soon, which relieved the crowd in the house,--and Ralph's heroism, the illness at home, and the dreadful suspense as to his brothers fate, had exerted a very favourable influence over the boy's character. He saw how Ralph was respected and admired; he witnessed how much he was beloved and missed at home, and determined to win the same regard if possible. At anyrate, he would not disgrace his brother. The hope of soon entering upon a manly career added to his improvement; his last few months at home should be useful in leaving a good impression behind him, and little annoyances which would so soon be over were more easily borne. Ralph would have been more surprised than anyone had he realised how widespread the consequences of his own simple adherence to duty had become, or how his own dear ones benefited through it. Time passed on, the invalids improved in health; spring advanced, and a letter arrived from Ralph himself, saying little of his troubles, but full of the kindness he had received, and the pleasure with which he was anticipating his journey with Mr. Gilchrist. "Kershaw, my friend, is on his way home," he wrote in conclusion. "He has promised to call and see you, dear mother. I have sent a few trifles for you from the bazaar here, and he will tell you much which I am hardly strong enough yet to write about." It was not long after receipt of this letter before a tall, good-looking, sunburnt, and extremely grave young man called one evening. He proved to be Ralph's friend, the mate Kershaw, and he was received with effusion. Tea was just ready, and he was at once invited to remain to partake of it. Miss Mason was fetched down, and questions about the dear absent one poured out upon him. He replied to everyone with the most demure politeness, but it was not long before Agnes, as well as some of the others, observed a twinkle in the bright eyes, not exactly in accordance with the gravity of his manner. Also some of his calm observations were, to say the least of them, startling. There was home-made saffron-cake on the table, and Mrs. Denham offered him the plate. "Ah!" said he, "no wonder that Denham is a little dissatisfied with Burmese cookery, when he gets such cake as this at home." "I am glad that you like it, for it is a kind of cake which we Cornish people particularly affect. Do you happen to have Cornish connections, Mr. Kershaw?" "No, madam, I am of Irish extraction." "Irish!" cried Lisa. "I should so like to visit Ireland. I want to see Fingal's Cave and the Giant's Causeway." "I suppose you know, Miss Lisa, that the Causeway is supposed not to be a freak of nature but of man's manufacture." "No, I never heard that," said Lisa. "What ground is there for supposing such a thing?" "There are so many sham rocks in Ireland," said he sadly. "Stuff!" said Lisa rudely. The others laughed. "I suppose you heard that Ralph is to go up into the jungle, orchid hunting, with Mr. Gilchrist?" said Mrs. Denham. "Yes; it will be a most interesting expedition. I could have wished to have joined it, only it was necessary to come home and pass my examination for master. Without my master's certificate I cannot take a berth as first mate, you know. Otherwise I should have liked to have gone with them, natural history is my great forte,--particularly Burmese natural history. I should have liked to have seen the Kain-no-ree, which inhabit lonely parts of the jungle." "What sort of creature is that?" asked Jack. "It is the missing link between birds and men, which Mr. Darwin failed to discover. It has the body of a bird, and the face of a man, and can talk away like anything." "What a strange creature! I never heard of such a thing before. Are they pretty?" "No, rather queer old birds, but conscientious. They have tongues which never told a lie. Then the links between the monkeys and the orchids are as much a question of degree, only upon one side, as those between monkeys and natives on the other." "I believe," said Miss Mason quietly, "that we occasionally see the latter peculiarity at home. I have observed it in sailors." Mr. Kershaw looked up at her. "Present company always excepted, of course," said he. "Oh, certainly so! particularly when the company present is of Irish extraction," she replied. "Miss Denham," appealed the young man, in injured innocence, "this lady is very severe upon me. Will you not take my part?" "But, Mr. Kershaw, you did take even me in for a minute. How can I believe you again?" "Even you? Was it so? I cry, _Peccavi_. _Even_ you." "And now you are laughing at me." "I? I would not laugh for the world, not even at you." "I wish I could be even with you, Mr. Kershaw." "And I wish that I could be evened to you, Miss Denham." All laughed there; then Mr. Kershaw's accounts of Burma began again, in a curious medley of truth and fiction difficult to separate. "The Burmese are a very strictly religious sort of folks. They kick off their shoes to pray, and sit upon their heels. They must not take life, not even kill their fleas or their black-beetles; yet they are the most determined murderers on the face of the earth. There is no country in which human life is less considered where offence has been offered." "But does the English Government allow this?" asked Mrs. Denham. "Well, madam, the murderers make such good and cheap servants, you see. Of course they must not kill the English." "I do not know how to believe you, Mr. Kershaw." "Other ladies have the same difficulty at times, ma'am, but I may assure you that it is a fact. English people are perfectly safe from them. Other customs are peculiar. Whenever they wish for a wet day, they send a white elephant out to take his walks abroad, and the rain is sure to come." "Now, Mr. Kershaw!" "It is quite true, madam. It would be done more frequently were there more white elephants, but there are very few, and it does not answer to whitewash them. Unfortunately it is one of those cases where the converse of a fact does not work in an opposite manner. There would not be six months of rain at a stretch if sending out a black elephant would stop it." "I daresay not," remarked Miss Mason drily. "Will you take some honey, Mr. Kershaw?" "No, I thank you, ma'am. Burma has cured me from a boyish taste for honey. They embalm their dead with honey there; and, after a time, tap the mummies, in a spirit of true economy, and sell the honey in the bazaars to Englishmen unsuspecting of guile. Such honey is said to be peculiarly nourishing,--to eat it from the tomb of your fathers is to taste all the sweetness of friendship with your venerated ancestors. It is a poetical idea." "Mr. Kershaw! How can you talk so? Have you no pleasanter or really beautiful things about which to tell us?" "The most beautiful idea of which I have heard there, is the notion that people's souls are like butterflies, and that when you dream of an absent friend, it is really because your butterfly and his have escaped, for a time, from their prison-houses, and meet in dreamland for a chat." "Oh," sighed Agnes, "I wish that my brother's butterfly would escape this very night, and tell me what he is doing at this moment!" "Don't wish that, Agnes dear," said Miss Mason. "Should he be in pain or difficulty, and you could not help him, it would be better for you not to know of it." "How can you say so!" cried Agnes. "I should always know when he is happy, and if troubles came I could give him my sympathy." "Suppose you give it to me, Miss Denham, to keep for him. I would take great care of it." [Illustration: They were examining his clothes with grins of delight (_p. 193_).] "I fear that you would put it away so carefully that you would not know where to find it at need," said Agnes. So they chatted on, now in joke, now in earnest, and an atmosphere of youthful brightness came into the house with the sailor and dispersed much of its gloom. He often called to spend a few hours with them, for he had few friends in Liverpool, and liked all the family. To Jack he became very useful; and Mrs. Denham grew to regard him almost in the light of another son. CHAPTER X THE LEOPARD It was a great relief to Ralph, as well as to some others, when he learned that Kirke had escaped; but the men were very wrathful, and Mr. Gilchrist both dissatisfied that he should have avoided punishment, and more than anxious as to his safety. What, he thought, could such a young man do in the jungle, or among the half-civilised Burmese natives, without being able to speak their language at all, or help himself in any way. All the weeks which he himself had spent in Moulmein, and during which he had worked hard to master the language, only resulted in enabling him to make himself imperfectly understood. Ralph, indeed, succeeded better, though by ear rather than from book lore. With the happy effrontery of boyhood, he made the most astounding shots at Burmese; and, though the Burman lads laughed at his mistakes till they were fain to roll upon the ground from merriment, they, somehow, appeared to comprehend his meaning. But nothing availed to make the two old Cornishmen speak anything but their own tongue. Kirke had received no lessons, gained no experience, what could he do? "My good sir," said the Chief Commissioner, to whom Mr. Gilchrist imparted his doubts--"My good sir, the lad is certain to be discovered, and brought back here. He is a marked man among the Burmese, and they will not feed him for nothing. A reward will cause him to be brought in before long." "Drat him!" said Wills. "Good-for-nothing never comes to harm. I hope they there black fellows will read him a good lesson." None of them were aware that the apprentice had with him a considerable sum of money in English sovereigns, and time passed on, during which nothing was heard about him. Meanwhile, the mates and seamen proceeded to join their captain in Rangoon; Price and Simpson, the two sailors who had also been upon the raft, electing to go with their shipmates when they had once more met with them. Wills and Osborn adhered to their agreement to join Mr. Gilchrist's party; and that gentleman willingly parted with the others, considering that Indian coolies, Tamil or Telegu natives, would be of more use to him. It was time to start upon the expedition now, and preparations were soon made. The Rangoon branch of Herford Brothers' house of business franked all expenses; and a bullock-gharrie, or native cart, was purchased, furnished with an awning to protect the travellers from sun and rain, and drawn by a couple of stout buffaloes. Light baskets and other means for packing orchids were prepared; and stores of various kinds were added, as coffee, tinned meats and biscuits; but they hoped to obtain some provisions as they went through Burmese villages. The gharrie was packed, the buffaloes harnessed, and the travellers were taking their seats, when suddenly a distant roar was heard. "Hark!" cried the coolie in charge of the animals, holding up his finger. The sound distinctly approached, and shouting some unintelligible words, the fellow goaded the buffaloes into as rapid movement as possible, hurrying the whole concern back into its original shelter in the compound. The reason was quickly made apparent, for black clouds drove up from the weather-quarter, and sheets of rain descended upon the hot baked earth, which, unable to absorb anything like the deluge, allowed it to run off, in every direction, in plentiful streams. It did not last long. Before two hours were over the ground showed but slight traces of damp, the gharrie was brought out again, and the party set off down the Mapoon road, following the course of the stream upon the way to Amherst. "What did the fellow tie that bunch of plantains up to the front of the gharrie for?" asked Ralph. "We don't want fruit all covered with dust and flies." "That is not fruit for us," replied Mr. Gilchrist, laughing. "That is an offering for any spirit whom we may chance to meet wandering about. It might be unfortunate if we should offend such gentry." "Is it to warn them of our approach that they let our wheels make such a creaking? Cannot we oil them, or something, to stop it? And must we be deafened by those ugly square bells tied to the buffaloes' throats?" "I believe that it will be best to try and put up with the customs of the country in which we find ourselves, Ralph; at least until we are quite certain that altering them to please ourselves may not be giving the natives unnecessary offence. We shall soon become used to such trifles as that. See, we are approaching the great timber works." Huge trunks of teak, and other valuable trees suitable for ship building, were floated down as rafts from the dense forests up the river, and here cut into suitable form and size for being transported to England. It was wonderful to observe the skill and judgment displayed by the elephants employed in moving these immense hulks from the river-banks up to the spot where machinery awaited them. They were no less skilful in perceiving the best way for pushing, lifting, or driving the timber, than wary in avoiding the machinery if obliged to pass near it. Ralph was immensely diverted to observe how each animal, in making his way by the place where a circular saw was at work, invariably moved his own tail to the farther side, so as to preserve his cherished appendage scathless from injury. He was told that at one time many elephants had their tails cut off by accident here, until they learnt caution to this extent. So much interested and amused were the travellers by all which they saw in this place, that they proceeded no farther that day, it having been late when they started; but the next morning saw them early on their route; and that day, leaving the high roads, they plunged into forest paths, and began to make their way through the jungle in earnest. They proposed driving to a small Karen village to which a native had offered to guide them, and which was situated in a locality where many orchids were reported to grow. The native hired to show them the way promised that they should arrive there in "the boiling of two pots of rice." This was understood to be in about half an hour, but the little journey really occupied thrice that length of time, for rain again poured down in a perfect sheet, and the bullocks could hardly make their way through it. All were glad when they arrived, and were able to procure shelter. The houses were raised upon high posts, comfortably built of wood, and thatched. Whether this elevation was intended to preserve the family from the damp, or from wild animals, they could not discover. Mr. Gilchrist thought the form of erection partook of each reason. The lower part had a verandah around it, and was floored a little above the ground with bamboos. The gharrie was accommodated in a portion of this lower place, and arranged for the travellers' accommodation at night. The women of the house prepared them some rice while this was being done, and served it, with fish upon a separate platter. The rain was over for the time when they were rested and refreshed, so they started for an expedition into the jungle, with which the village was closely surrounded. They soon found plenty of orchids, and became so much interested in the selection of the rarest specimens, that the light failed them, and they could scarcely "distinguish the veins in a man's hand," which their Burmese guide seemed to consider a felicitous method of describing the hour. They remounted the gharrie, and were proceeding on their way with the slow deliberation which formed the bullocks' greatest speed, when Ralph perceived a huge, dark mass of something lying right across their path, with two points of living fire gleaming sullenly from it. It was an enormous leopard, taking its rest, but with watchful eyes. The bullocks, perceiving the danger in the same moment as the men, made a sudden lurch to one side, nearly upsetting the gharrie, and causing the wheels on one side to sink into a mud-hole, half filled with water from the recent rain. They stuck fast in this, and the terrified beasts could not drag them out. They plunged, snorted, and laboured desperately; while the beautiful sleek brute rose, stretched himself, and prepared to spring. Ralph thought his last hour had arrived, but firearms were at hand. Mr. Gilchrist snatched up a loaded gun, fired, but with too uncertain an aim, for he could not control the trembling of his nerves at this first and sudden sight of so terrible an animal in his native jungle. The driver of the gharrie, with a howl, abandoned his seat in front, and crept into the recesses within to hide. The leopard made his spring, and fastened upon the nearest bullock. Ralph uttered a cry as desperate as that of the native, and discharged a pistol full at the creature. So close upon them as he was, it was impossible to miss hitting it somewhere; the bullet entered its shoulder, and a trickle of blood bore witness to the fact. The pistol was a revolver, and Ralph shot again and again, for all the chambers were loaded; but his hand shook, and several bullets went wide of the mark, though he hit the leopard in the ear and in the side. The creature abandoned its work of mangling the poor bullock, when it suffered the first shot, raised its proud head and looked the boy full in the face; crouched again, and, lashing its tail with fury, was on the point of leaping straight into the waggon, when, his arm steadied by the emergency, Mr. Gilchrist discharged his second barrel in its face, and shot it straight through the head. Osborn at the same moment, having withheld his shot until it was certain to take effect, hit it in the neck, and the animal rolled over in its dying agonies. The Burmese bullock-driver now emerged from his retirement, very glorious over the defeat of the enemy; he danced round it with joy, and lauded "_our_ courage," "_our_ success," "_our_ bravery," until old Wills was obliged literally to spit out his contempt. "Shut up!" he growled. "Hold your ridiculous jaw! Much good you were, you coward! Next time we will throw you out for the cat to set his talons in those absurd blue breeches of yourn. Better you than our poor buffalo. Here, hand me that knife, and let me put the poor wretch out of its sufferings." For the buffalo was not dead, though paralysed by the leopard's teeth and claws in its spine, at the back of its throat. It turned a pathetic eye upon its friends, as it asking for help, but there was nothing to be done but to put it out of its misery. Ralph shuddered, and felt very sick; Mr. Gilchrist also was faint when the pressure of excitement passed away, and Wills made both of them take some cordial to steady their nerves. Osborn meantime lit their lamps, and set some flaring torches into the ground, preparatory to skinning the leopard, which was a splendid beast. Ralph collected wood, and built up a fire with some difficulty, as the rain was coming down again almost like a waterspout. However, it stopped after a while, the boy was lavish with his kerosene oil, poured over the damp branches, and a bonfire rewarded his exertions, drying their garments, illuminating the wild scene, and enabling him to boil some coffee, of which they all gladly partook, with biscuits and other comestibles from their tinned stores. It was late before the leopard was safely and carefully skinned. The buffalo was not worth the trouble, being too much mangled, but the men cut off its head, as the skull and horns were worth preserving. It would soon be reduced to bare bones if left to the mercy of the white ants. To preserve the fine hide of the leopard from them was a greater difficulty. The party camped down in their gharrie, with fires set around them, for the short night, when all was done; and proceeded in the cool of the morning to the Karen village. Here they were received with great delight when the driver announced the event of the night. The villagers immediately started to bring in the carcase of the leopard upon hurdles. Part of its flesh was dried and pounded, to be used as medicine; but they feasted upon the remains of the bullock; and tried hard, both by fair means and foul, to induce Mr. Gilchrist to part with the leopard's claws, to be used as charms, but he refused all overtures of this kind. In spite of this, the poor people were very kind to our friends, and they made up their minds to remain there for a few days until they could find a suitable buffalo wherewith to replace their loss, which did not seem to be easy in this place, the people being very poor. CHAPTER XI WHAT BEFELL KIRKE AFTER HIS ESCAPE Kirke had hurried away from Moulmein as fast as he could walk. He knew that he must make his way northward but there all his knowledge ceased. He had plenty of English gold with him, for he carried his money in a belt round his waist, and thus had saved it when he lost all else in his haste to leave the burning ship. But though he had gold, he had nothing else, nor could he speak a word of the language. So great was his desperation, however, that he cared nothing for this. He walked on and on, till he arrived at a small village, where, though it was in the middle of the night, the people were all out and about still. Some girls were squatting behind a lamp blazing in an earthen vessel raised upon three pieces of bamboo. They were smoking--like everyone else--and selling sweetmeats and rice. Kirke made signs that he wished to buy some, and offered a George IV. coin. The girls stared at him and his money, jabbered together, and shook their heads. He did not understand them; but, supposing that they made some mistake as to the value of the coin, not recognising it as gold, produced another piece. He was naturally reckless of money, and now wanted food, and silver change with which to proceed on his way. The girls laughed, nodded, took the second coin, which had the Queen's head on it, and gave him Indian silver change in profusion for it, besides rice in a red bowl, fruit, and sweetmeats, for which they reserved a small amount; but they would not have the coin with the man's head. Kirke could not comprehend their objection to it, which really was their idea that only "woman coins" fructify and increase, but he was satisfied with the result of his shopping, and proceeded on his way. His road seemed to lie between a chain of villages; and, fearful of being overtaken upon it, where he would be so easily recognised and caught, he turned off towards the coast again, soon coming to a stream, across which a man in a canoe took him. The sun was now high, and he tried to find a place where he might lie down and sleep. With some difficulty he made the boatman understand what he wanted, and take him to a hut, where they spread a mat for him with a rug, and he took a long rest. He could purchase nothing except rice and fruit upon awaking, but the owner of the hut offered oil and salt with the former, and some unutterable abomination of putrid fish, which he called "ngapé," and which he seemed surprised to find rejected with disgust. When the heat of the day was over, his host offered milk and more rice, from which Kirke made a second meal. He would have liked stronger liquor, but could not make himself understood. He then obtained a seat in a native bullock-cart, neither knowing nor caring where it was going, so that it was still northwards, and not to any English station. So he wandered for some days, aimlessly and drearily, with no object before him, no one to speak to, no settled plan of action. By degrees he became used to this existence; youth restored his energies, he became less afraid of pursuit, learnt a few Burmese words, and liked this life so full of new sights and sounds. He came to a large river, the course of which he followed upwards for several days, for the rapids in it caused all the people to shake their heads when he tried to get ferried across. He succeeded at last, and congratulated himself now upon being safe, but here his luck deserted him. He found that there was gold to be got in this place; and from the contemptuous air with which the people turned over his coin, and the few flat flakes which they showed him in return, chiefly worn as amulets, he gathered that their gold was considered much purer than his, but he did not seem able to find any of it for himself. The people also evidently endeavoured to dissuade him from wandering about alone, making him understand that there was danger from wild beasts in so doing. This was a hindrance which had never before occurred to him, but was a very sufficient obstacle. The weather was extremely sultry now, and there had been several violent thunderstorms. The place was mountainous, and the valleys between the hills grew very wet. To his surprise the ground never seemed to dry up; though after a tremendous storm, when the sun blazed out again, it positively steamed, as a pot of water might steam over a fire. The storms became more frequent, the deluges of rain heavier and more constant, the valleys fuller and fuller of water. All wandering was at an end perforce, except in canoes. The people expressed no surprise, they appeared to be prepared for such a state of things. They all had boats of some kind or other; old and young, men and women, were evidently familiar with their management. The huts were raised upon piles, in some places twelve feet high; even their bullocks and other live stock were stabled aloft, and the stench from their close accommodation was all but insufferable. The children fished through holes in the floors of the huts; every foul refuse was simply upset through them; all objects were damp and ill-smelling. The poor people were very hospitable and kind. They gave Kirke of their best, charging him incredibly small sums for his keep. There was no getting away until the floods abated, but life under such unhealthy conditions was what none but a native could withstand; and in spite of incessantly smoking, as they did, Kirke had not been two months in the village where the rains had surprised him, before he was down in a raging fever. There he lay, in that secluded Burmese village, struggling between life and death for a long time. His constitution had been severely tried by his early excesses, and had he not passed some months upon enforced abstinence from alcohol on board the poor _Pelican of the North_, so that he had, in some measure, been restored to a more healthy state of body, it is doubtful whether it would have been possible for him to have fought through the terrible fever, which had been induced by hardship and exposure to malaria. His chief chance of life lay in the continuance of the impossibility of obtaining stimulants where he was. The Burmese are a water drinking race; and although they do distil a pernicious fiery liquor from rice, it is not much used, or easily procured, in such out-of-the-way places as those into which he had wandered. Medical science is very imperfectly understood among this people; and when his host fetched a native doctor for the sick stranger, he brought with him such strange-looking compounds in gaily-painted joints of bamboo canes, that Kirke could not bring himself to trust them any more than the charms, in which the village Galen evidently possessed more faith himself. Perhaps this was well for him, but he was brought to the verge of the grave before the constantly recurring attacks of ague and fever gradually subsided. And oh, how lonely he felt as he lay on his bed of sickness now! God seemed to have forsaken him; left him to his own stubborn, hard heart, and allowed him to take his own way. But not in reality. Lonely, suffering, weak, with no one to speak to, none to care for him, none to help him, his hour had come at last. Broken in spirit, he repented his evil courses, he sought his God in prayer, and his Father did not despise his humble and contrite heart. Exhausted by the struggle through the morning's rigor which attended his complaint, he lay prone one day, in what was half sleep, half unconsciousness, on his mat. A pleasant breeze had sprung up, which rustled the branches of the trees, and wafted towards him the scent of flowers, overpowering that of rotting vegetation which always seemed to pervade everything. It brought with it also the gentle tinkle of bells from a pagoda upon a rising ground in this valley. In his half awake state, he fancied he smelt the Gloire de Dijon roses that grew round the drawing-room bay window in his father's rectory, and heard the church bells ringing afar off, calling the villagers to the Sabbath service. He remembered how, as a little child, he had been led by his gentle mother's hand through the pleasant garden and shrubbery, to the gate which opened thence into the churchyard heaped with grassy mounds. Among them was a little white marble cross, over the grave of his baby sister who had died. His mother stayed her feet at this place, and laid before it the pure white rosebud which she had plucked as they went over the lawn. A tear ran down her cheek as she did so. "Jamie," said she, "little Leonora would have been five years old to-day if God had spared her to us. Oh, my dear little girl, my dear little lost one!" His father had come up to them. "Not lost, wifey," said he,--"not lost, but gone before." Why did he recall all this now, when he had never thought about the scene for so long. His mother had gone before too, ten years ago. He had despised his father's simple piety because he was not intellectual. He had scoffed at his attempts to teach him, scorned his affectionate nature, neglected him for pleasures and friends which had brought him to this. What had he done with his stronger mind, his superior talents? His father was beloved, respected, a welcome visitor beside many a dying sinner's bed. He himself was a fugitive, an outcast, alone in the world. Pondering these thoughts, he fell asleep, for he was very weak. His slumber was not lengthy, nor did he seem to have dreamed through it; but he started up from it suddenly, as at the call of a trumpet voice, shouting with triumph-- "Not lost, but found!" Bewildered, confused, this voice seemed to him real. What did it mean? All at once the barriers of pride gave way; there was no one to see him, and he turned his face to the wall, weeping bitterly. A softer, better mood succeeded, and a stronger feeling of peace than he had felt for long. He determined to remain in this place until he was quite well; and did so, his health gradually returning to him. Kirke's illness, and long residence among them, had been to these people as good as a wreck to the Cornish seaside population of old,--it had brought unusual prosperity to them. Small as their charges had appeared to him, they were really four times as high as the true value of the goods supplied to him had been to them. The simple villager was no simpleton when matters of trade and finance were in question; and, if they prayed at all, their petitions to Guadama, for years afterwards, would have been that the Lord of the White Elephant would be pleased to send them another sick stranger. He had paid royally for the medicines in those red and yellow bamboo bottles, which the doctor had carried away again as full as he brought them. He had paid handsomely for the rice, the ngapé, the pickled tea which he could not eat, and over which his entertainers had enjoyed a high old time while their guest's butterfly soul was wandering about the world, at sport with other butterfly spirits, leaving its lawful owner unconscious upon his mat. They were now reaping an abundant harvest, doubtless a part of the luck which their hospitality to the stranger had brought to them, and they were rich. They did not want to be rid of their invalid,--not they. No hospitality was more genuine than theirs. If they could only conceal their riches from the knowledge of the dacoit chief,--who commanded his band of scoundrels from a neighbouring village among the hills at a little distance,--they might, should their treasure of a sick man recover,--and after all his money was spent, not before,--conduct him to the nearest English military station, and be paid all over again by the innocent white-faced Thakins there for their kindness to their countryman. So the virtuous Burman sang and laughed over his work, in his simple _gaité du coeur_; and gathered the jungle flowers and fruit which cost him nothing at all, but which the Thakin would doubtless be so grateful to them for bringing to him. And Kirke lay pondering as to what course he must pursue when he should recover. In the first instance he must write to his father, confess his sense of the sins which he had committed, and ask pardon for his conduct. But, after that, what? Would it be necessary to give himself up to English justice, and to permit the law to take its way with him for his attempt to lose the raft? That would be a very bitter pill to him,--must it be swallowed? At anyrate, moving was impossible at present, though he was recovering fast; that question must wait, but he could write to his father and keep the letter by him, waiting for some chance of sending it. He would be more at peace with himself were the confession made on paper, even were no one ever to read it. He would feel more in earnest as to his repentance. Many days were spent over that letter, and it was a very pathetic one when finished, for it was simple and manly in its tone. In it he confessed his sorrow for his past life, and his hope that he might be spared to redeem it, in some measure, by his future career. "If I can," he wrote, "I would wish to get something to do here, rather than return home. I would like to prove to you that I can and will work hard at some honest employment before asking you to receive me into your presence again. I am recovering from a severe attack of jungle fever, and I cannot say where I shall go, or what I must do when I can move; but if you forgive me, please write to the Herfords' house in Rangoon, from whence I will endeavour to obtain letters as soon as may be. I hope that God will give me a fresh chance; but if I die, will you try to believe that I am truly sorry for the past." He wrote and rewrote this letter, now fearing that it did not express enough humility and contrition, then dreading lest it should seem servile; but he completed it at last, and laid it carefully aside. CHAPTER XII THE KAREN VILLAGE Whilst detained in the Karen village, Mr. Gilchrist and Ralph were invited to the christening feast given by the principal man in the place. They were surprised one morning by a visit from five young ladies, dressed in their best silk "tameins" of rich pattern, with white muslin jackets drawn on above them, and very gay silk handkerchiefs thrown loosely over their shoulders. They were bedizened with a quantity of jewels, roses nestled in their splendid black hair, cheroots were in their mouths, and each carried a handsome lacquered tray, heaped with little parcels done up in gilt paper. They advanced to the verandah, where the gentlemen were sitting--very much to their own comfort--in free and easy costume suitable to the intense heat. Ralph coloured scarlet, conscious of his shirt sleeves, bare feet thrust into slippers, and generally loosened attire; but, the girls having come upon them suddenly, nothing could be done except a frantic effort to button his shirt at the throat, which resulted in dropping the stud, and seeing it maliciously roll out of reach. "Never heed them, maister," whispered Wills, who was in attendance. "They'm used to wuss, you may take your davy. Ef 'ee don't take no notice, they maids won't nother." An overpowering desire to laugh took possession of the boy at this, the more impossible to control as all the girls advanced giggling and smiling at each other. Mr. Gilchrist was vexed. "Behave yourself, Ralph," said he sternly, very anxious to maintain his dignity. He rose, took off his hat with a flourish, and bowed low. Ralph tried to imitate him; and one of the girls became spokeswoman for the rest. "My little sister's head is washed to-morrow, at sky shutting-in time," said she. "Will the royal selfs lords be good enough to join the feast?" "We shall be pleased to do so, Mah----?" replied Mr. Gilchrist interrogatively. "Mah Ngway Khine" (Miss Silver Spring), said she, understanding perfectly that he meant to ask her name. The other girls all laughed, and each gave her own name, pointing each to her own face to indicate that this meant herself. Miss Pretty, Miss Naughty, Miss Loveable, Miss Beyond Compare. Mr. Gilchrist bowed to each; then, pointing to Ralph, introduced themselves. "Moung Ralph Denham,--Moung Alexander Bruce Gilchrist." The girls thought this an excellent joke, and laughed heartily, trying to pronounce the names as hopelessly as ever Wills himself had failed in mastering Burmese. Mr. Gilchrist then handed to each girl a cigar from the box lying beside him, which seemed to give great pleasure. "I am going," said Miss Silver Spring, after that. "Be pleased to eat this pickled tea," and she handed to each one of the little packets upon her tray. The party then went gaily off to give their invitations further. "Ralph," said Mr. Gilchrist, "we must see what we can find for presents to our hosts to-morrow. We had better visit the bazaar." "Lord, zur," quoth Osborn, "they du knaw the cost of all the old trade there better nor we. They can get all that whenever they want. Give 'em sommut what they doan't zee every day." "But what have we to give of that sort, Osborn?" "English money, zur,--more particularly ef 'ee will stand goold. English things at after. 'Ee've got tin canisters painted up smart, haven't 'ee, with coffee and thiccee like in 'em; and pots, with picturs a-top of the lids, with potted meat?" Mr. Gilchrist thought this good advice, he purchased some gay silk handkerchiefs of native make in the bazaar, a silver betel-box or two; looked out the newest sovereign in his possession for the infant, polished it up till it glittered finely; and then searched his stores. There was not much of the ornamental among them; nor was he willing to part with a great deal of his potted meat; for he could buy so little animal food of other descriptions in these country parts, where the people objected even to selling them live poultry for their own eating, or even eggs for them to cook. The Burmese will devour raw the eggs of any creature, fowls, turtles, crocodiles, or iguanas,--but they will cook none. A little fish was to be got at times, but in such small quantities as to be very unsatisfying; nor was milk to be procured, as the people neither kept cows nor used milk themselves. Our friends were growing very tired of vegetable diet, and were obliged to trust to their own stores for everything else. However, a tin canister of coffee, decorated with gay paper, was selected; and a pair of earthenware pots full of potted meat, on one of which was a representation, in bright colours, of Jack Sprat and his wife, sitting on either side of a table, with the joint of roast beef on the platter between them; while the other displayed the time-honoured portraits of Uncle Toby and the widow. Happy in the hope that pleasure was to be the meed of these gifts, Mr. Gilchrist and Ralph dressed themselves in clean white suits, and set off for the entertainment at the hour specified. The baby was a very small one, only about a fortnight old. Ralph thought it looked like a little goblin changeling, with its dark skin, lean body, and twinkling black eyes; but it was displayed with great pride. "A very--very--nice little girl," pronounced the bachelor Scotsman, with sudden inspiration succeeding his utter ignorance as to what he ought to say. "Very like his father, ma'am," said Ralph with great solemnity. "Has it any teeth yet?" Wills, marching behind his masters, with the presents arranged among flowers upon a tray, burst into a great guffaw at this moment, and tried to cover his misdemeanour by a most unnatural cough. Mr. Gilchrist looked daggers at him over his shoulder. "'Ee should have stopped at half-way, Maister Ralph," whispered Osborn, on the broad grin. "Don't Burmese babies get teeth?" inquired Ralph innocently. "I am sure that I have heard dozens of old women ask my mother that question when they used to come and see our babies at home. I thought I was all right there." "This little maid be too young, zur," said the sailor, who had his own quiver full at home. "Oh! that's it, is it?" cried Ralph. Perhaps he had not been understood, for none of the Burmans appeared to be surprised; but they were all much taken up with the pride of the company of these distinguished foreigners at their feast. The father related to them that the child was born on a Thursday, so she would prove to be of a mild, gentle disposition; also that Thursday was the day represented by the elephant without tusks; and he pointed to some red and yellow waxen effigies of this animal, prepared for offerings to be presented on his daughter's behalf upon the steps of the nearest pagoda. The astrologer, an old phoongyee, had cast the infant's horoscope, which was a most favourable one. Mr. Gilchrist listened to all this with gravity, and then presented their offerings, laying the bright sovereign upon the baby's breast. This evidently gave great delight; as did the packet of choice cigars to the father, the silken kerchiefs to the elder daughters, the betel-boxes and sweetmeats to the sons and younger children; but something was noticeably wrong about the jars of potted meat brought for the mother, nor could the Englishmen understand what was the matter. That offence was taken was evident; and Mr. Gilchrist, seeing one of the pots hurried out of sight, begged, in much distress, to be told what he had done wrong, assuring the head of the house that no offence was intended; he had hoped that the English jars might, when empty, be useful to the lady for holding betel nut. After some difficulty, it appeared that Uncle Toby's attitude, with regard to the fair widow, was not considered proper. "No Burmese gentleman would smell his wife's cheek in public," explained the phoongyee, scandalised; but willing to overlook the ignorance of foreigners who made such handsome presents. To "smell a lady's cheek" is Burmese for kissing her; and Mr. Gilchrist, a most punctilious man in his deference to all the fair sex, coloured highly, as he explained that the gentleman in the picture was only removing from the lady's eye a bit of some extraneous matter which had blown into it. This being perfectly understood, harmony was once more established. Miss Silver Spring and her sisters handed round cheroots; all seated themselves, and began to discuss a suitable name for the child; while the nurse washed the little one's head in a decoction of the pods and bark of the soap acacia tree; which was afterwards carried to each guest in turn, with an invitation to lave his hands in the same lather. Many were the names suggested for the child; some being discarded as not beginning with the same letter of the alphabet as that of the day of the week upon which it had been born. Others met with disfavour from different reasons. But at last, with an evident desire to honour Mr. Gilchrist, and make up for the misunderstanding which had taken place, he was entreated to propose a name--an English name. "Madam," said he, "I think there is no name ever borne by an English lady so sweet as that of Lily." He took a beautiful lily from among the flowers heaped on every side, and laid it in the tiny hand, which closed upon it. All regarded this as a favourable omen,--the child's butterfly spirit had accepted the flower, and Lily must be her name. More cheroots--more betel for chewing--more fruit--more sweetmeats--then a grand feast--after that a pwé, or theatrical play. Money was given to the nurse, to the phoongyee, and all went merry as a wedding bell. Ralph soon made friends with the boys of this village, a set of merry fellows, who taught him to play at ball in their way, and were much impressed by his accounts of the games played in England. He showed them how to play at hockey, and delighted in their skittles, played with the great flat seeds of a jungle creeper. Wills instructed the blacksmith in the art of making quoits, to the throwing of which both men and boys took very kindly, and many a merry hour was thus passed among them. Osborn whistled melodiously, and considered himself a dab at singing "The Death of Nelson," "The Bay of Biscay," and other sea-songs, with which he often favoured his new friends; and Mr. Gilchrist, who was musical, gave them songs of a different type. Ralph knew one air, and one only, which he sang for ever, and which the Burmese boys soon caught up from him, so that it became quite popular. It was-- "I'll hang my harp on a willow tree, I'll off to the wars again," etc. On the Sunday evenings, Mr. Gilchrist gathered his own party around him, and conducted the evening service, which amazed the villagers greatly. They would gather around the worshippers in a ring, listening, and trying to join in when they sang the evening hymn, or "Abide with Me," but never interrupted the prayers. Mr. Gilchrist was particular in giving alms to the begging monks every morning, and the phoongyee became fond of talking to him, and asking about his religion, relating to him pious sentences and precepts which often contained great beauty. He, on his side, liked to hear the Englishman repeat the beatitudes, the Lord's Prayer, and various texts, which he could understand, but evidently linked on to the sayings of the lord Guadama in some strange fashion. Mr. Gilchrist often wished that he possessed more teaching power; but he was a wise man, and thought it best to offer a little, chiefly of simple Bible words and broad principles, which might sink in if repeated frequently, rather than attempt what he did not feel qualified to explain thoroughly. He likened himself to Apollos watering the good seed extracted from the Christian's safe storehouse--the Word of God. He would give the increase in His own time and way. So they lived for several weeks among these poor simple people, in great harmony; collecting many rare and valuable plants, some insects, and much experience in the language. When the people learnt what was wanted, they would go themselves into places of which they knew, sometimes at great distances, and bring them plants; for which liberal payment was always offered, but in many cases the flowers were insisted upon as gifts,--expressions of goodwill. After waiting for some time, and despairing at last of finding a suitable buffalo with which to pursue their journey farther, Mr. Gilchrist made up his mind to return to Moulmein by the route he had come. His store of provisions was much lessened, he had very little left, and his gharrie was pretty well laden with jungle spoils. Teak shingles, with orchids nailed upon them, were fastened all round the head of the vehicle--or what the sailors insisted upon terming "the prow." The bamboos which supported the awning were festooned with slight baskets, in which were planted other specimens. It was hopeless to think of preserving their skins, feathers, or insects from the ants and beetles without better appliances than they had at command there, for all which they had brought of carbolic soap, Keating's powder, and camphor, was used up. So they made presents of all the tins and jars which remained, bid their friends farewell, and set off upon their return journey, accompanied for the first stage by many men and boys upon forest ponies, and followed by lamentations from a crowd of women and girls who went no farther than the village boundary. CHAPTER XIII THE MAN-EATER During the orchid hunter's stay in this village, the whole party had improved their skill as marksmen. The difficulty of procuring any animal food except by their own exertions, and the excellence of the wild pea-fowl, jungle-fowl, and deer, made Ralph, in particular, very keen after them; and, with the delight of a boy who had never before had the command of firearms, he missed no chance of familiarising himself with their use. Mr. Gilchrist could give him no instruction in the art, but old Wills knew more, and was persuaded that it was necessary for some among the party to be fair shots, as otherwise their lives might be in terrible danger one day upon these wild adventurous journeys. He therefore encouraged Ralph to seek sport upon every occasion, and the lad was fast becoming practised in the art, which pleased him much. Although the village people would not kill for their own food, they entertained no objection whatever to profit by the peril into which, in their estimation, these strangers brought their own salvation; and fresh meat was much nicer than the half-rotten flesh, and that of animals which had died of disease, upon which they would greedily feed, and which entail upon them leprosy and other dreadful disorders. They gratefully accepted all the Englishmen's benefactions therefore, and Denham went out shooting nearly every day. The fame of the liberal-handed Englishmen, and their absurd fancy for out-of-the-way plants from the jungle, had spread during their stay in this village, and on the day before Mr. Gilchrist had determined to start upon his return to Moulmein, a man arrived from a remote hamlet, bringing with him an orchid of such beauty and rarity as to throw him into a state of the greatest excitement. "Denham," he said, "we must secure a good supply of this at any cost; it is a perfectly new one. To send this home will be to secure my fame, and be the ground-work of my fortunes. It is worth all that we have got before put together, but the fellow has mangled it terribly in bringing it as he has done. I must find the place where it grows, and take the specimens properly myself, or they would never reach England alive." "All right, sir," said Ralph; "I'm game." They made their preparations with all possible speed, retaining the Karen who had brought the plant for the purpose of conducting them to the spot where it grew. This man declared that it would be impossible to take the bullock-gharrie with them under any circumstances; the jungle tracks were too much overgrown and tangled to admit of so large a vehicle making its way through them. Ponies were therefore hired for the purpose, little vicious creatures, which were used to scrambling and to the hilly country for which they were bound. One of these carried such equipments as Mr. Gilchrist considered necessary. "I wish," said he sighing, as he added a couple of guns to the other preparations,--"I wish that I could have foreseen, in my youth, that I should ever be likely to find myself wandering about in places so wild as these in which we are now. I would have made myself a good shot in time. As it is, I fear, Denham, that we must trust Providence not to let our lives depend upon the accuracy of our aim at any time." "We are improving, sir," said Denham. "We cannot call ourselves crack sportsmen, I suppose, but I don't feel as much at sea as I used to do, and we have managed to bring in a good deal of game lately." "You and Wills have, not I," replied Mr. Gilchrist. "We've got it, at anyrate," said the boy. Osborn was to remain behind with the driver of the bullock-gharrie. He did not mind being left alone among the natives now, for he felt as if he knew them all, and was among friends. The others were soon ready to start, and pursued their way among giant trees and matted underwood, through marshy spots, ankle deep in water, and over stony ground where little rivulets of water streamed among broken rocks. The damp hollows steamed with moisture, heavy clouds hung low over the jagged hilltops. Now they had to cleave their way through walls of climbing plants that cast out great tendrils, or branches; taking root in crevices and crannies, to start afresh into luxuriant life. Then they emerged upon some long defile where exquisite trees were budding out into every shade of green among dark cliffs and boulders; or upon some forest glade where flowers of gorgeous hue clung to the trunks of palm and peepul tree, clothing them in purple majesty, or hanging curtains of crimson, orange, golden yellow or snowy white, across the misty vista. Birds of radiant hues flitted from bough to bough, chattering and screaming; occasionally a deer might be seen, or a small sambhur, standing to gaze at the intruders, then bounding away into shady solitudes where he felt secure. Once a creature of the wild cat species was observed slinking along among the undergrowth; and many lizards were feeding upon white ants and other insects in the coarse grass. They were approaching the hamlet, when, in some soft ground near to a pool of water, their guide uttered a horrified exclamation as he stooped to examine the pug of some animal very freshly made in the mud. "What beast's footmarks are those?" asked Ralph. "Big tiger, paya," replied the man. "He has been here last night." "Do you consider that there is any danger of our meeting it in the jungle?" "Well, paya, they wander very far sometimes in the night, but these marks are fresh. It is not long since he was here." "I suppose," said Denham, "that if we do not disturb him, either in eating or sleeping, he would take no notice of us? If we 'nothing say to him, he'll nothing say to me,' eh?" "Perhaps not, paya," said the man, "but there is no knowing. He may be hungry, we must be very careful." "Pleasant," murmured Mr. Gilchrist. "All in the day's work, sir," said Ralph cheerfully. "Hi, there!--orchids, orchids!" "And the very ones we want!" cried Mr. Gilchrist, so delighted that he forgot the tiger forthwith. It was not a particularly good specimen of the orchid, but the native said that there was plenty of it, as well as of other varieties, in the jungle around; they would not have to go far for them. "There is a lot of what they call tiger-grass here, zur," said Wills; "will it be safe when we know that there is one of those gentry near at hand?" "It may be miles away now," replied Mr. Gilchrist. "We may have passed near to him, or to another, as we have come through the jungle already. Don't let us die several deaths in fearing one." "Just as you please, zur," said the old man. "Are the guns loaded?" "Ay, zur, all right." "Keep a wary lookout then; but if we were to come across the creature, ten to one it would rather slink away than attack us." "It won't do that," said the Karen; "this is a man-eater." "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Gilchrist quickly, turning upon the native. "Man-eater tiger, paya,--tiger that roams about alone, and eats nothing but human flesh. There was one about the village a little while ago, but we thought it had gone, for we have not seen it lately. It has eaten five or six men that I know of. It is an old beast, very large, very fierce, and very cunning. Nobody can kill it." This description fired Denham's ambition at once--he longed to kill that tiger. What a feather in his cap could he but contrive to do so! He was just about to exclaim in his eagerness, when Mr. Gilchrist expressed an opposite desire, so he thought it best to hold his tongue. "I hope we shall not come across it," said the more pacific elder man. "Do your best to keep us out of its way. How shall you know whether it is the man-eater if we should be so unlucky as to fall across it?" "Man-eater dark coloured, paya. Mangy about its head, fur worn off in patches,--man flesh bad for him, not agree, you know." "I have heard something about that before," said Mr. Gilchrist. "I believe that it is a question as to whether the creature is diseased from improper food, or whether it be too old to chase its natural prey as nimbly as would be necessary to secure enough, so is driven to entrap men, who are more unwary. But, see, there is a very choice clump of the orchids, let us set to work." They were busily engaged in selecting orchids, when a rare and beautiful butterfly came sailing along on widespread painted wings, and Denham, who collected these insects with ardour, gave chase. He followed it somewhat deeper into the jungle, unheeding of the distance from his party to which it was leading him; but Wills cast an uneasy eye in the direction which he had taken, and presently moved to follow him. Just as he had done so, he saw the boy's light figure come tearing back at headlong speed. "The tiger! the tiger!" he cried. "It is there, it was asleep, but lifted its head and looked towards where I was, as I stepped among some branches. It could not see me, for there was a big tree between us; I saw part of its back and tail first, then hid myself and peeped. Give me a gun, Wills, quick! Come along." "Massa paya will be breakfast for tiger if he go along like that," said the Karen. "He must climb a tree, and watch till it pass him. Keep quiet, no get excited, keep steady hand." The man knew what he was about, it was not the first time that he had assisted upon a similar occasion. He selected a tree, up which Mr. Gilchrist climbed; then posted Ralph in another at a short distance, commanding a somewhat open glade, into which a track from the jungle led, and passed out of it again towards a large pool of water. Wills joined the Karen and the coolies, who proposed, in two parties, to move from opposite directions round by a detour, and try to drive the animal down this path, where each gentleman might have a chance of shooting it from the safe elevation of his tree. They had pistols, and moved off to right and left as quietly as possible at first, but as soon as they had attained to suitable positions, they began to fire into the jungle, to utter loud cries, to throw stones among the bushes, and do all in their power to disturb the animal, and to perplex him as to whence the assault proceeded. They did not succeed in catching any glimpse of the beast, however; and but for Ralph's certainty that he had seen it, would have doubted whether there had not been some mistake. The Karen climbed a tree, which gave him a sort of bird's-eye view of the surrounding jungle, but if the tiger were there it was well concealed. He descended the tree, and recommenced beating round the circle agreed upon. Hardly had he done so, when one of the two coolies with him suddenly caught hold of him, and pointed with his long skinny arm in silent excitement. A crackling of twigs might be heard, a long line of tawny yellow colour seen gliding among the scrub, and, as an open place intervened, a magnificent creature appeared, half concealed as it slunk along, its head depressed till it was in one line with its body, and its tail drooping at the other end. It walked a little lame, and presently lay down and licked one of its paws, which seemed to be sore. The beaters held their breath, and it did not seem to be aware of their vicinity; the air, such as there was of it, leading their scent away from them; but the other party was drawing nearer, and the tiger evidently was more alive to danger approaching from that side, for it lifted its head, pricked up its ears, and listened. Then it resumed its trot in the direction of the pool; and the beaters, allowing it to gain a little way ahead, recommenced to drive it forwards by every means in their power. The other party was drawing near to them, also acting on the offensive, and the tiger increased its pace, though evidently inconvenienced by the injury to its paw. Both parties now coalesced; and, forming a wedge-shaped cohort, followed upon the animal's track, driving it forward by all sorts of annoyance. The distance was not great, it soon reached the tree in which Ralph was perched, eagerly looking out for it, with his gun commanding the path upon which it was heard crashing heavily along. The fierce, striped face, and angry eyes, emerged from the jungle; one cruel, strong paw protruded, the beast looked warily round, then emerged wholly, and proceeded on its way. Ralph waited till he considered his aim secure,--he covered the creature's head, nerved his arm--fired!--and nearly fell out of the tree from the terror induced by the awe-inspiring, wrathful howl of pain which resounded through the air. He had hit the tiger, certainly wounded it, but by no means had he administered its death-blow. It paused, staggered, and bounded forwards. Mr. Gilchrist fired hastily and injudiciously, missed his aim, and the tiger abandoned its former intention of making for the water, and, hurriedly turning to the right, was lost sight of once more among the scrub. Ralph and Mr. Gilchrist set themselves to reload their guns with all speed; and as they did so, the beaters came up. "This is unlucky," said the Karen. "It has gone off to the bed of a stream among the rocks, in a defile there. It will have a den or lair among the caves there, from which we should find it almost impossible to dislodge it; but it is wounded certainly, and was lame before; it may stop to drink at the stream before seeking its hiding-place. See, here is blood, it is hard hit, let us make haste." Only pausing to complete the reloading of their weapons, the whole party proceeded _en masse_ upon the trail. The path was difficult, for a stream carried off the rains from a height at a short distance, and brought stones of a considerable size with it after a heavy downpour, emptying itself into the large pool or lake before mentioned. There was not much water in the bed of the stream yet, but sufficient to make the stones slippery, and fill many hollows between them with half-liquid mud. It was not easy to proceed with caution, yet never had caution been more desirable. Silently, slipping, scrambling, holding their guns aloft, reaching a helping hand from one to another, they proceeded for a couple of hundred yards; then caught sight of the magnificent brute, extended at full length upon its stomach beside a basin-shaped pool, lapping eagerly, yet crimsoning the limpid water with its blood the while. Ralph sprang upon a rock which commanded his prey, fired again, hit the tiger in the neck, behind the ear, and it rolled over, faintly kicking for a minute, then becoming still in death. They could hardly believe, at first, that the danger was over,--Ralph himself least of all. Mr. Gilchrist fired again at the animal as it lay, to make its death quite certain; and, after all, approached it cautiously. It then appeared that Ralph's first shot had taken effect in its shoulder, the bone of which was splintered, and from the wound a quantity of blood had flowed. But the poor creature had previously injured its foot, in the cushion beneath which a large thorn had become embedded, and caused a gathering, or abscess, to form. This was the reason why it had been lame, for it must have been very painful to tread upon it. Without this accident it might not have been so easy a prey, for it was a huge fellow, measuring nine feet from tip to tail. Wills set himself to skin it immediately, and they camped out for the night, as it was far too late to return to the village then, but the ovation with which they were greeted next morning was very great. The villagers had become superstitious with regard to this tiger, and could not sufficiently praise their deliverers. CHAPTER XIV TATTOOING The spoils from this expedition now amounted to such a quantity that it was desirable that the explorers should return to Moulmein, and ship them off to England. They had the skins of many deer, sambhurs, wild cats, and various smaller animals, as well as those of the leopard and tiger. There were many orchids, some beautiful butterflies, and the skins of rare birds; curios had been picked up in the native villages, and specimens of the ornamental woods which grew in the forests. Ralph had a famous supply of gay feathers, and other articles, for his mother and sister; and sundry small things which he knew would give pleasure to them and the younger children, though he had no money wherewith to purchase articles of much use or value. Their load was more cumbersome than heavy, but it filled up the bullock-gharrie so completely that they determined to stop nowhere on the road. They would return as fast as possible to Moulmein. They jogged along therefore very cheerily, talking over their adventures, and planning what they would do upon their longer journey. "How odd it seems," said Ralph, "to think that this time last year I was only going about the town in Liverpool, backwards and forwards to school, and never thinking about all the strange sights I was to see so soon. And now, it seems as if I had always known these places. Things I never knew of then, surprise me now no longer. This tattooing, for instance. How queer I thought it at first, and now I never think about it." He pointed, as he spoke, to a Burman who passed them, gorgeously tattooed. "Tattooing is not uncommon among seamen in England," said Mr. Gilchrist. "Is it, Wills?" "No, no, zur, it b'ain't. 'Tis a very useful thing too, to hev' a mark set upon a chield so as he can be telled, dead or alive, at any time." "Ah! it be so," said Osborn. "I mind when I wor a boy hearing tell about a young gentleman as were a midshipman in the navy, Danby his name was. He was in a frigate, cruising about in the South Seas; and going in command of a boat's crew one day to get water and fruit from one of those cannibal islands, the beggars set upon them, and murdered them all, as 'twas said. The frigate sailed away, after revenging the murders by a broadside poured in on the island, and reported the whole boat's crew dead. "Twenty year passed away, and the affair was nigh about forgotten, when an English merchantman was sailing near the same island again, and a man leaped into the water, off a rock, and struck out, swimming for dear life towards the ship. "They lowered a boat, and took him on board. "'Who be you?' asked the captain. "'Charles Danby,' said he, speaking good English, for all that he was tattooed all over his face like a native. "'How did 'ee get theer?' asked the skipper. "'I wor a midshipman on board His Majesty's frigate _Achilles_,' saith he. 'I wor sent in command of a boat's crew to get water, and they set upon us, and killed all but me. One of the women took a fancy to me, and hid me. She would have me marry her, but I didn't seem to care about it, and stuck out so long as I could.'" "Poor soul," said Mr. Gilchrist. Ralph laughed. "I'd like to see the dusky bride who would wed _me_ against my will," cried he. "She'd soon find that she had caught a tartar." "It worn't no laughing matter for _he_," said Osborn. "They there savages, they showed him his comrades, brought up one by one, and forced him to look on while they murdered them, roasted them, and _eat_ them. They'd ha' served him the same but for the woman protecting him, and she threatened him that if he wouldn't have her she'd hand him over to the cannibals, who were always coming to look at him, and saying what a nice tender morsel he'd be, for he was so young and fair and rosy." "I've heard of a _man_," said the incorrigible Ralph, still laughing, "who said, when he was first married, that he was so fond of his wife that he could have eaten her; and, afterwards, that he often wished he had." "You go along, Maister Ralph," quoth old Wills. "What should a babe, the likes of you, know about such things." Ralph made a face at his old friend, and begged Osborn to tell him the end of the midshipman. "Well, 'ee doan't deserve as I should," said Osborn; "but, howsomever, the boy gave in. He wor but a babe hisself,--only fourteen,--and life was sweet to him even at that cost; so he took the woman, and tried to do his best with her, though it was sorry work. They tattooed him all over, face and all, to make him look as like themselves as they could; and he wore no clothes, but lived just like them. He got to do so exactly like them that he could pick up a fishhook from the ground with his toes, just like they could; and he had some children, and was looked upon in time just like the rest. "He lived twenty years like this, and never saw a British ship, nor a white face, nor a sign of home all that time, for the island was an out-of-the-way one. Then, one day, all to once he saw that there merchantman in the offing. He wor a-fishing by himself, and he watched the vessel sailing nearer and nearer, old half-forgotten thoughts of home, and friends, and old England, cropping up clearer and clearer every minute; and with them a yearning for them, tearing at his heart like, till he could bear it no longer. He just jumped into the sea, and swam off to the ship. "The poor fellow was so afraid of being caught and claimed again by his family in the island, that the skipper changed his tack, and sailed away from it, so he was brought home in safety. "Then came the difficulty of proving himself to be Charles Danby, for nobody could recognise him. He'd left home a rosy-faced, curly-haired lad of thirteen; he came back looking like a South-Sea islander of thirty-four. "His father was dead, but his mother was still living, and she did not know him all to once, nor none of his friends. "But it wor no such tale as Tichborne's. He remembered all sorts of things that none but he could know,--people's names, old jokes, old stories, people in the village dead and gone, things that had happened at school. "It was for ever, 'Where is the old cabinet that did stand here?' 'What has become of the gamekeeper's boy, Jack?' and so on. "He soon satisfied his mother, his old nurse, and such like; but there was some money to come to him, and it was necessary to prove to the law that he was the right man to have it, and that was a harder matter. "'Had he no mark upon him?' asked the lawyer of his mother. "'Ay,' said she, 'he had a small mole on his cheek.' "But that was either gone, or covered up with the tattooing, and could not be seen, nor could they think of anything else. "'I was tattooed C. D. on my right arm,' saith he, 'first time I went to sea. C. D. it were, and the Union Jack, but it wore out. The natives didn't tattoo my arm there, because it wor done already, but it has not lasted like their marks have done. See, here is the bare spot.' "Sure enough, there was a bare round place among the marks on his arm, but no flag nor letters wor to be seen. He hunted up the very shipmate as had done it, and who swore to having done it, and showed the fellow-mark on his own arm, only with the letters different, for each had taken the initials of his own name, though the pattern they said was the same in both. "'Ay!' saith Mr. Danby, 'I mind what an arm I gave you, and how you swore at me for going so deep. You mocked at me for holloing out while you did me, and I vowed I'd make you holloa too.' "'So 'ee did,' said the other officer. 'What did 'ee do it with?' "'With three big darning-needles out from a red-leather huswife that my poor dear sister Mary gave me for a keep-sake when I went away. It had a looking-glass in it, and little blue flowers worked inside. She told me to mend my stockings when I was at sea, but it's not many stockings as I've worn.' "'I have the huswife now,' said his mother; 'it came back among his things. Many a time did poor Mary cry over it before she died. She used to say, "He minded what I told him about his stockings, mother, for the darning needles are gone."' "'We lashed them together, threaded through the eyes with a bit of wire,' said Mr. Danby. "'So we did,' said his friend. "Well, this was all very good, but the marks wor gone, you see, so no proof in law. Just then the doctor came in, and 'What are you saying?' asked he. So they told him. "'Show me your arm,' said he; and Danby put it out. "The doctor took and rubbed it hard, till it wor red as a lobster. "'Hold hard, doctor! you'll rub down to the bone.' "But the doctor knew what he was doing, and when the place was well scrubbed, 'What do 'ee call _that_?' saith he, pointing for the lawyer to see. "There was, quite plain, the Jack and C. D., inside a circle of little dots, all in white marks upon the reddened skin. It was exactly like the blue marks upon the other man's arm, except for the initials being different, but hadn't been done so deep, so the gunpowder had worn out by degrees. "They gave him his money, but he didn't live long to enjoy it. He was quite unfitted to live like a Christian after so many years of savage life, and civilisation killed him." "Poor fellow," sighed Mr. Gilchrist; "it is a strange story." Wills then began to relate some of his reminiscences. He never liked to be out-done by Osborn. "Two or three voyages ago," said he, "we had a black cook on board; and when we were at the office, being shipped, some talk went on about tattooing. One of the young gentlemen was entering our names in the ship's register, and a sailor was showing his arms and chest the while. He was beautifully tattooed with red and blue both. He had the royal arms on his chest, and a girl, skipping, with a wreath of flowers round her; and his arms were all over letters and anchors and crosses, and what not. "'Is any other of you so grand as this?' asked the young gentleman. "Two or three had marks, but none so good, and he turned to the nigger. "'You don't need mark of mouth, Sambo, I suppose?' said he. "'Me marked though, massa,' said the darkie, grinning from ear to ear,--'me marked. Me fall in fire when boy, and the mark of burn never gone. Scored, massa, me was,--branded by hot bar. Golly! it were bad.' "And he rolled up his sleeve, and showed the scars of a terrible burn. "Well, we sailed in bad weather, and met with an awful storm two days after. The ship was pooped, the name-board washed away, and much damage done. We managed to put it to rights though, and went on our way; but others were less lucky. It was off the coast of Wicklow, and in that same storm, another ship went down with all hands; and some of the drowned men were washed up among the wreckage, _and our name-board_, with '_Osprey_, Liverpool' painted on it quite plain. "Of course the word reached 'Herfords' that it was we that was lost, but the rig of some of the spars washed up, and the colour of the paint, did not agree. One of the dead seamen was a negro, but another of them was reported to have had two fingers of his left hand gone at some former time; and though there was a negro among us, and both were reported fine, tall, big fellows, we had none among our jack-tars maimed in the hand. "So the young gentleman that shipped the crew was sent over, with Lloyd's agent, to the Wicklow coast, to see if he could identify the corpses. Some two or three days had passed, while letters had been written backwards and forwards, and as the poor fellows had been sadly knocked about among the wreckage, there was no chance of recognising them, and they'd all been buried before the young clerk came. "'Tis a pity as it's so,' said he, talking to Lloyd's man. 'If he were not underground, I'd have known the negro, because he had the big scar from an old burn on the inside of his left arm, reaching nearly from his elbow to his wrist.' "'Say you so,' said Lloyd's agent, 'then we'll have him dug up again.' "The young gentleman did not half like that, but it was done, and he had to be there, with result that the dead negro had no mark at all on his arm, so could not be the same man. "Captain Rogers was chief mate on that voyage; and your ma, zur, was prettily relieved when she heard this, for it was a long time before we was able to report ourselves. News did not fly so soon in thiccee times as now." "Well," said Ralph, "the outcome of all this is that I had better get tattooed as soon as I can. Will you do it for me, Wills?" "Better wait till 'ee du get to Rangoon, maister, for 'twill make your arm very sore for some days." "No, no, Denham; don't be foolish," said Mr. Gilchrist. Ralph laughed, and the party stopped for their mid-day meal, which changed the conversation. CHAPTER XV THE OLD MEN'S FAITH The journey back to Moulmein offered no further adventures worthy of mention; and, when arrived there, Mr. Gilchrist remained in that place quietly until after the New Year. The floods had then subsided, and the articles for which he had sent to England arrived. He sent off to Mr. Herford all that he had collected during his first expedition; and received advices from Rangoon, with money, and full credentials for making every possible preparation whilst he was waiting. Ralph and the two Cornish seamen were regularly engaged, at liberal salaries; and Captain Rogers wrote to his nephew of the situation reserved for him in the Rangoon house of business,--a situation which, if he were assiduous and steady, would assure his fortune for life, and enable him to forward the interests of his younger brothers. Ralph also received letters from home, and from Kershaw, relating how kindly he had been received by Mrs. Denham. He mentioned his determination to pass for his master's certificate before again going to sea; and assured his friend that he would often call upon his mother and sister, to tell them all particulars about Ralph himself, which he might omit when writing. "I daresay he will," thought Ralph; "and a pretty farrago of rubbish they will hear from him, too." Letters arriving faster than the heavy goods that were sent round the Cape, one from Mrs. Denham, giving the account of the mate's second visit, reached Ralph before he again left Moulmein. "Your good-looking young friend, Mr. Kershaw, called again last night," she wrote, "and was most amusing. I do not think I have laughed for many years more than I did to hear him relating your imaginary love-affair with a Burmese belle. With the gravest face, and pretended sympathy for us, he went on piling up the agony, while Agnes believed every word, and her big blue eyes dilated with horror. 'She is a very charming thing in natives, from a Shan district,' he said, with a sly glance at her; 'she is dressed chiefly with a tablecloth and a rose; she carries a green cheroot in her ear, and she and Denham smoke it by turns. She sells Burmese cats in the bazaar, and has a fascinating way of sitting upon her heels, which leaves nothing to be desired as to grace. She will be able to teach you much in the way of cooking, Miss Denham; this cake, which I understand is made by yourself from a Cornish receipt, is delicious to _me_, but Denham has quite taken to Burmese ways now. You should see him devouring rotten fish. He is very partial to it, with rice; and finishes his light and wholesome meal with Chinese patties made of sugar and fat pork.' "'Mr. Kershaw!' she cried. She could really say no more, her horror was so great. "He turned to her with the kindest air. 'It is sad, Miss Denham, is it not? Your dear brother seemed made for better things; but, after all, an early attachment is often the saving of a man. I think that I could draw a sketch of the lady if you would favour me with a pencil.' Then he drew the most awful-looking picture which you could imagine; and Agnes watched every line with her whole soul in her face, and heaved the deepest sigh when it was finished. 'It is a pretty face, is it not?' asked he politely. 'Perhaps I have favoured her a little, she may not be quite so sweet-looking in reality, but she really is a charming girl.' "He has just walked in again, and brought Agnes the present of what he calls a Burmese cat, and declares that your _fiancée_ sold it to him for twopence three farthings, and a dish of fried maggots. It is a thing upon wires, or joints of some kind, like a perfect demon, sprawling and jerking about, and has already frightened baby nearly into a fit." "I would like to punch his head for him," soliloquised Ralph. "What an idiot he is!" But this is somewhat out of place. Mr. Gilchrist was not desirous of remaining long in Moulmein after his stores had arrived from England. The sooner he started, the cooler would be the weather, and the more time there would be for his journey before the rains set in. Their friends, however, would not part with them until they had passed Christmas in company; and Ralph was a little disappointed to find that the merry water-festival was not to take place upon the English New Year's Day, but on that sacred to Burma. He found that this day fell about the beginning of April, so he must wait to see the images washed, and to share in the sport of throwing water at everyone, until that time, when he would probably have arrived in Rangoon. Mr. Gilchrist knew that many orchids could not be found in bloom before February; but, as the jungles around Moulmein had been pretty well investigated, he wished to reach fresh fields and pastures new by that time; and travelling was slow work in Burma, where the people resolutely refuse to proceed on their way if they consider the day unlucky,--if a snake cross their path at the outset of their journey,--or if the white witch of any district, who is always consulted _en passant_, pronounce that the nats are adverse. Upon the whole, the chances for this new expedition were considered to be favourable, as a very fortunate day was selected in the first instance, and the scouts of the party lighted upon a magnificent bed of mushrooms before the sun was well up. With great delight they collected a goodly supply of this delicacy; Mr. Gilchrist produced a tin of gravy soup in which to stew them, and they feasted upon them for breakfast. Even the Englishmen were cheered by the satisfaction apparent on the faces of their attendants at this favorable omen. "Well," said Wills, "ef it be an omen, 'tis no manner of use to set oneself up against 'un. 'Tis well az it be a good 'un, for there be a pesky lot more of whisht 'uns than of 'tother zooart." "Ah! there be," said Osborn; "and of spreets too." "Did you ever see a spirit, Osborn?" asked Ralph. "I did, my son," said Osborn. "Tell us all about it," pleaded the boy. "Well, it wor when I was a young shaver, nineteen or twenty, or theerabout, to age; and I'd gone down St. Minver way to stay with my old granfer, who lived in thiccee parish. There wor an awful storm came, fust week in December, and the breakers were mountain high against the cliffs. Word went az how a big three-masted ship of foreign rig had been zeen trying to make for Padstow Harbour when night came, but never a stick of it wor zeen again. 'Twor supposed az it ran on the Doom Bar theer, at mouth of the harbour. I must needs go down to Hell Bay, az they do call 'un, next day, to zee the waves, az was foaming out for miles; and a fine sight it wor, though the tide had turned, and wor roaring out then. I walked along the head of the cliff so az to get out amongst 'em; and az I went, I zeed an old man, with a long grizzled beard and moustache, like a forriner, a-leaning hisself against a stile. "'Good-marnin', zur,' saith I; but he only turned his great sorrowful eyes upon me, with dark fire blazing out of 'em, and never spoke a word. "'You'm an unmannerly chield,' thought I to myself, but I made to pass him without no more to zay. But he stood in my road, and lifted his hand, and beckoned, like a chield az was used to be obeyed. "Then I did zee as how his hair was wet, dripping with watter down over his cloathes, and zayweed and little crabs stuck to it, and his hands and face wor all battered and bruised and torn, and he wor soaked through and through with watter. He moved on, making signs for me to follow of 'un, and the watter squelched in his shoes az he went, and I didn't dare to hang back. "He led me out right to point of the cliff, and down over the rocks to a little cove behind, where a great broken mass reared up in front of a cavern, and theer, a-lyin' on the strip of sand, beside the great pool of watter, lay a lady, and she had a little child held tight in her arms, with its face cuddled down on her neck, as ef 'twor asleep. When he pointed to thiccee, he gave a dreadful great wailing cry, and wor gone. "I thought the lady was alive at first; for the wind lifted up her long black hair, az ef 'twor playing with it; and for all that her white gown were torn, and a great rag of lace fluttered from it, it wor decently folded round her, but she wor dead and cold enough when I come to touch her. "I got help, and she wor carried round, and buried up in the churchyard, with her little 'un in the same coffin, but neither I nor any living chield ever saw the forriner more." "Osborn!" cried Ralph. "Do you really mean to tell me that you saw that yourself?" "I did, Maister Ralph." "That Hell Bay be a quare place, zur," said Wills. "I du knaw she well. Ef there du be sech things az spreets, thiccee be the spot for 'un. Many and many a good ship have gone to pieces there; never a winter passes but three or four du go. I mind me of one awful gale when a big ship were seen there, throwing up lights and firing guns for help, but no help could drae near to 'un. Next day one little baby's shoe wor washed up,--a purty little blue kid shoe, with a silver button to it, but never a sign more of who or what the volks might be that had all gone in the dead hours of the night." "Ay," began Osborn, once more resuming his reminiscences. "That wor the gale--I mind it well--when a brig rode safely into Padstow Harbour, and wor saved, with never a living soul aboard of her. The crew had been scared, and took to their boats, when ef they'd stuck to the brig they'd have been saved. Never a one wor zeed, but the clock were ticking away when the brig was boarded, a-telling the time for the dead men; and the fried bacon and tetties wor a-keeping hot over the galley fire for them az would never eat a meal more." "Don't you think of these things when a storm comes while you are at sea?" asked Ralph. "Do they not make you nervous?" "No, maister, I dunna knaw az it du. Men must die sometime, and the Lord's will must be followed. He du be so near to uz on zea az on land." Ralph was silent, but he thought much. The old men's simple trust in their God struck him forcibly in all its truth and beauty. It was not ignorance of the risks which they ran, it was not heedlessness, it was not fatalism,--it was faith. Were he called upon to face death--instantaneous death--while life was still strong and lusty within him, could he meet it in the same steady spirit? He feared not. Then he remembered a passage in the Bible, where men persecuted were counselled not to perplex themselves by wondering what they should say in hypothetical circumstances, for it should be given to them, in that same hour, what they should say. Perhaps it would also be given to others what they should do. He prayed inwardly that it might be so. Life was teaching this lad many lessons, though unconsciously to himself. Also the simple straightforwardness with which he was performing his duty, under such untoward claims upon it, was influencing those whom he loved, at home, in a manner of which he little thought. He had gone out to Burma, because he wished to relieve his mother of his keep, and this was the only manner in which he saw the possibility of so doing at once. He had thus been the means of introducing into his mother's household a lady who proved to be a most valued and valuable friend to the whole family. By his conduct during the voyage, he had secured the attachment of several important friends for himself; opened for himself excellent prospects for prosperity in life; and earned the advantages of seeing a new country in a manner which few succeed in doing even after long residence in it. This, in after years, proved to be of material service to his career. The accounts of his heroism in the fire at sea, and the esteem for his character which that aroused, called out all that was best in his brother's heart; and made the favourable turning-point in his life at a critical and dangerous age. Finally, this same heroism induced Mr. Herford to take great notice of his mother and the whole family. He befriended them in many ways,--assisting in the children's education, securing for them many cheerful pleasures, and making them valuable presents from time to time. None of these advantages would have accrued to himself, or to those he loved, had Ralph been idle, selfish, or neglectful of his duty; but now he was destined to go through a yet greater trial of endurance than any before. Little did he think, when he set out so gaily upon his second expedition, of all the dangers which were about to beset his path while pursuing it. CHAPTER XVI BIG GAME When the New Year had come, all preparations being satisfactorily completed, our friends set forth upon their second journey; feeling themselves so much better equipped, and so much more experienced in both travelling, and speaking the necessary languages, that they started in the highest spirits. Mr. Gilchrist enforced various strict regulations, with regard to the safety of his party. None were to wander alone, far from the rest; none to start off upon independent explorations; all were to carry upon their persons, at all times, suitable firearms, always ready for use; ample supply of charges for them; hunting-knives in good order; and a small supply of food, in case of accident. Native villages were plentifully scattered upon their road,--English stations not unfrequent. The weather was agreeable, and all promised well. The party was successful in finding many rare orchids; so that, though their progress was slow, they were content. They did not cross the river Salween, preferring to proceed along its banks northwards, and to search the rocky country upon its eastern side for some distance first, as the plants seemed to be of a different character there from those which they had already collected; and the cessation of traffic upon the river, in consequence of the frequent rapids in it, rendered a passage across it difficult. Mr. Gilchrist perceived that, from the solitary character of this district, it was one in which they might possibly meet with danger from wild beasts; but he thought it unlikely that any such creatures would attack so large a number of people, or could not easily be beaten off if they did. At first the whole party was wary; but, seeing no big game, they became less apprehensive of danger. Many peacocks and other birds were met with, and Ralph became quite an adept in shooting them. Their flesh made a welcome variety in the commissariat department. One day his gun was heard popping at a short distance; and Wills began to prepare a peeled wand, to serve as spit upon which to roast the expected treat, when the lad burst through the bushes in great excitement, his blue eyes blazing from his sunburnt, flushed face, beneath his dark waves of hair. "Come quickly!" he shouted. "Come at once! Here is a whole herd of elephants crossing the river! Such a sight!" All hurried after him. It was a fine sight. There must have been twenty or thirty elephants, with their trunks uplifted in air, swimming across where the water was tolerably quiet and still. One old female had a baby elephant with her, and encouraged the little one as she went with sounds that the young one might consider words of advice or caution. "Oh, see, see!" cried Ralph. "There are more young ones, but bigger. How carefully the old ones guard them. I wonder why they are going across! I am glad they are not coming this way." "They go over to feed on big tree, paya," said one of the Burmese. "Elephant like juicy branches of trees like those." In effect, the whole herd began to feed at once upon reaching the farther shore. They could reach the tender boughs at the tops of the largest trees by stretching their trunks. They tore them down, and ate them with vast relish. None of the Englishmen had ever before seen wild elephants in a natural state, and were deeply interested in watching them. Suddenly a terrible noise was heard approaching them from behind; an angry, surly "Hunf, Hunf," which struck terror into their hearts, even before they saw a huge infuriated elephant coming, crashing and tearing its sullen way through the undergrowth. "Fly! fly!" cried Mr. Gilchrist. "Ameh! ameh!" shrieked the Burmans. "Lord defend us!" exclaimed Osborn. "Maister Ralph, Maister Ralph! Thee'rt just in his road!" vociferated Wills. The old man rushed forward and fired at the monstrous creature. The elephant turned and charged down upon his assailant. "Run, run; I'm all right!" he cried. "Run, my son, run!" Ralph fled. He was standing a little apart from the rest, and escaped up a gulley or defile among the rocks, in a different direction from that taken by the others. They made for a group of rocks a little separated from the range among which they were orchid hunting; a few trees grew in a clump hard by. Wills alone was left at the mercy of the raging creature. The trees formed his only chance of shelter, and he doubled, flying back towards them. Panting, labouring for breath, he just reached the tiny grove, and concealed himself behind a mighty bole. Hidden from immediate view there, he slipped backwards, and doubled again behind another, just as the elephant, with a tramp that shook the earth beneath him, ran full tilt at the first tree, set his shoulder against it, and levelled it to the ground. At the same moment, above the crashing and rending of timber, the splitting of branches, and the trumpeting of the mad brute, came the clear ping! ping! of two rifles, as Mr. Gilchrist and Osborn both took aim, and hit the creature in the shoulder. Wills fired, at the same moment, from behind his shelter upon the other side, and a trickle of red blood upon the elephant's flapping ear bore witness to the justness of his aim. In the next moment, Gilchrist's and Osborn's second barrels rang out; and a volley of small shot from the rest of the party peppered the great mass, which, at such near quarters, it would have been difficult to miss. It seemed to be too hot a place for the intruder. With an awful cry of anger and pain it shambled heavily to the river's bank, plunged into the stream, and swam down it. The distant echo of a gun was heard at the same moment, up the defile, but no one attended to it, for the form of old Wills was seen to sway, to totter, and to sink upon the ground. Had he been injured? Had he trod upon a snake? Had some other poisonous reptile or insect attacked him? His friends, in the greatest anxiety, hurried up to him, raised his prostrate figure, and found him in a deep swoon. Osborn ran for water; Mr. Gilchrist supported him in his arms, and called to the chief coolie to fetch his brandy flask. The Burman implored the master not to arouse the insensible man until his "butterfly spirit" returned to its mortal prison-house, but no heed was paid to him; and presently Wills opened his eyes, with a bewildered expression, and looked around. "Where is the boy?" he asked. "Is the boy safe?" No one could answer him, for Denham was not there. What had become of him? It was no time for seeking him then, however; none of the men supposed that he was very far off, or in further danger now that the solitary elephant had gone down the river. "He is all right," said Mr. Gilchrist soothingly. "He'll be here in a minute. Let us take you back to the bullock-gharrie, you must lie down in the shade." Wills offered no resistance, but he could not stand; he was trembling from head to foot. The men constructed a hasty litter with their rifles, some branches, and grass; they laid Wills upon it, and carried him back to the spot where their gharrie was in waiting for them. Though certainly clear-headed, and quite himself for a few minutes after he first came out of his swoon, a confusion seemed to overpower his mind again, and his speech was not distinct. Mr. Gilchrist felt very uneasy, as he feared that the sudden shock had induced some form of a stroke; and he knew himself wholly unfit to deal with a matter so serious. He called up the Burman, and asked him where the nearest doctor was likely to live. "At English station, paya," replied the man; "one only half-day's journey, or a little more, from here. The royal self's lord may reach it by sky shutting-in time, if make haste." "Is there an English doctor there?" "Good doctor, paya; half-caste,--wise man." There seemed nothing to do but to take Wills on to this station without loss of time, and Mr. Gilchrist gave orders to prepare. The day was now far advanced, no more time ought to be lost; but it suddenly occurred to them all that Ralph was not with them. What had become of the boy? He had been seen flying from the elephant up the defile, as Wills had turned the charge of the mad creature upon himself. Some of them remembered now that the discharge of a gun had been heard afterwards up this defile; but why had the boy not returned? Mr. Gilchrist sent the chief Burman and some coolies to search for him. Osborn would not leave his friend, over whom either sleep or stupor seemed to be creeping. Gilchrist himself went, with the rest of the men in another direction, ascending a hill which promised to afford a view up that defile; but nothing could be seen from the thickness of the jungle below. They shouted, called, fired off blank cartridge,--but no response came. Slowly, and much perplexed, they returned to the gharrie, to find Wills growing rapidly worse. The search party came back with no news. Not a trace of the lad could they discover; but they brought in two young tiger cubs, that they had found lying asleep, to all appearance alone. It was not to be supposed that two such very young cubs could have been there, and their mother be far away; but though there was evidently a lair there, no vestige of the parent animal was to be seen. The certainty of such creatures being in the neighbourhood, however, hastened the men's return. They had killed the cubs with their hunting-knives, lest the sound of guns should have brought down the female tiger upon them, and then they had hurried back, as fast as possible, from desire to secure their own safety. Had Ralph fallen a victim to these creatures? Was the absence of the mother from her cubs due to the destruction of the poor young fellow? Mr. Gilchrist shuddered, as he recognised the probability of this explanation. But one shot had been heard, and no further sound,--no cry for help, no call, no other report of firearms. What could this mean except one thing? And what must he do now? Was it of any use to wait, to search further for Ralph? To save Wills they must push on to the English station. It would be best to do so, and return to search for the boy. There could be little doubt but what he had fallen a victim to the tigress; but at least some evidence to this effect might be found,--his gun, some portion of his clothing, at least, might be there. If he had escaped, he could have come back. He had ammunition with him, though it might not be much, for he had shot a good supply of birds that day. He had some biscuits with him. Finally, Mr. Gilchrist ordered a little tent to be pitched for him, a large fire to be built up, which would serve to mark the place from a distance, and would identify it to himself when he returned to it. He wrote a few lines upon a piece of paper, affixing it to the tent-pole, to desire Ralph to wait there until he came back to join him, which should be done as soon as possible. He would have left some of the men there, but the near neighbourhood of tigers had terrified them out of all discipline, and every one of them utterly refused to remain unless the royal lord stayed himself to protect them. There was no help for it, therefore; and the party set forth with sad and anxious hearts; the day being so far spent as to place themselves in some peril from the possible attack of wild beasts, coming down from their rocky fastnesses to drink at the river. They had to keep near the banks of the stream, too; for the road was more open there, and they could not take the bullock-gharrie through narrow or tangled paths. As it was, poor Wills was terribly jolted very often, but remained in a state of semi-consciousness, wandering in his mind when aroused. Mr. Gilchrist walked, to leave more room for Osborn to tend his friend; but he kept near the head of the gharrie, where he could hear and see all that went on in it. The attendants surrounded or followed, bearing flaring torches after the darkness fell, and the anxious hours passed on. CHAPTER XVII THE JUNGLE FIRE Mr. Gilchrist supposed that they might be drawing near the English settlement, which he found, upon conversation with the chief Burman, to be a police-station; when on the farther side of a small tributary to the river, which it would be necessary to ford, a bright glare of light flashed upon them suddenly as they rounded a spur of rock. "What is that?" asked he anxiously. "Paya, it is the jungle on fire," said the man. "It is the first jungle fire I have heard of this year, but it happens frequently in the heat every season." "Good God!" exclaimed the gentleman, "what a sight! Are we safe here?" "From the fire? yes, certainly," said the Burman. "See, my royal lord, there is a strip of clear ground on the farther bank of the stream, and the water would quench anything that is likely to reach it. But form up closely, for wild beasts may burst through here, being accustomed to drink at this place, and cross the ford where it is shallow." "Load the guns," cried Mr. Gilchrist "Close round the gharrie; take out the bullocks, and fasten them to the wheels,--we can surround them better so. Set your backs to the cart, and keep your weapons ready." He would have had Osborn remain in the gharrie, beneath shelter, with Wills, but the old man was out at the first hint of danger. He laid his friend's head upon a cushion, renewed the wet rags that lay upon his fevered brow, gave him some cool drink, and was ready to help his master in five minutes. He was needed. Gilchrist looked round, his numbers were short. Had the uncertain light deceived him? Surely there should have been enough men to surround the gharrie and bullocks; also the two tats, or ponies, and the larger horse, that were now brought into such close space, and fastened to the cart. He counted heads. Three Burmans were missing. A very short search discovered them,--they were crouched upon the ground, beneath the gharrie, hiding, in an agony of fear. "Come out, you cowardly rascals!" thundered he. "Come out, or I will shoot you all as you lie there! Come out this instant!" The men crept out, shaking with fright, and imploring the royal lord's self to pardon them. They did not know whether to be most afraid of him, or the fire, or the possible wild beasts. They were not likely to be of much use whichever danger arose first. Mr. Gilchrist posted them between the coolies, Osborn, and himself, with orders that the first one who abandoned his post should be shot without mercy. Meantime, animals were flying by, now by one or two at a time, then in herds. Sambhurs, with terrified eyes, bounded along at headlong speed; peacocks flew past, screaming; water-fowl rose in air. Monkeys jabbered and leapt by, wild cats scurried across. Then a great roar was heard, and a pair of leopards sprang out of their covers, and stood glaring at the little band, every hair upon their beautiful spotted skins seeming to bristle with wrath. Out rang Mr. Gilchrist's rifle; out rang Osborn's,--the female fell; the male, hardly braver than the Burmans, though more ferocious, turned tail and fled. The leopard was not dead, her leg was broken by one shot, her side entered by the other; but the contents of the second barrels despatched her. Hardly had she been dead ten minutes, when, with a heavy flapping of dark wings, many vultures were seen sweeping past and settling upon the nearest trees. The branches were weighed down with the black mass of these ill-omened birds. Meantime the fire wound along among the jungle-grass in brilliantly sinuous lines; and ever as it ran hither and thither, a screaming, fluttering, shrieking rush of animal life followed it, though not always taking the direction of our friends. After the first, though clouds of birds and bats flew over their heads, deer, and larger beasts, hurrying to places of safety, turned aside upon perceiving them, and scampered farther down the stream. Rats and small fry ran in the shallow water along its banks; and monkeys swung themselves, hand over hand, among the trees. By degrees the fire burnt itself out upon their road, and swept farther away; but it was broad daylight before the travellers dared to relax their vigilance, or breathe freely once more. Mr. Gilchrist served out a modicum of brandy to each man, and some biscuits. The refreshment was much needed, and gave them heart. In the cool early morning, Wills was better; his temperature went down, his mind appeared clearer, and his speech less confused. Then, too, rising above the blackened jungle, perched high upon a hillside, appeared the police-station; and a group of horsemen might be seen, in fresh linen garments, riding down in their direction. A lady was one of the party as well; she cantered along in her easy grey habit, with long curls blowing back beneath a shady black hat, a pleasant sight to all. She proved to be a girl of nineteen, just come out from home, the bride of the young police officer; a bonnie, slender thing, with smiling lips, frank blue eyes, English roses still upon her cheeks, Burmese roses fastened into the bosom of her jacket. So short a time had elapsed since her marriage, that she still gave a little involuntary start of remembrance when anyone called her Mrs. Brudenel, the name which she had been accustomed to hear only as that of her husband's mother, while at his "wifey," a flush of colour would suddenly mantle upon her fair young face. Mr. Gilchrist had his own private hopes, which caused him to watch these little signs with secret interest, though he betrayed no outward symptom of his pleasure in them, and maintained a formal show of deep respect towards her. She was kindness itself to poor Wills, and treated him with a skill which showed her familiarity with illness. No sooner did she receive him into her house, than she directed her ayah to prepare her one spare room for him,--a cool pleasant apartment; she bathed his brow with a fragrant lotion, applied mustard poultices to the back of his head behind his ears; she supplied all other things desirable, and devised means for throwing out a profuse perspiration upon his body. Wills gradually recovered his full senses under this treatment, but was very weak. The doctor soon arrived, and so played his skilful part, that, upon bringing to him a basin of such soup as he had seldom enjoyed, Wills looked up anxiously in Mrs. Brudenel's face. "The boy?" he asked. "Is he safe?" "We hope so," replied she gently. "Only _hope_, miss?" "Only hope at present, but my husband has taken his men to bring him in. We shall soon have good news for you, please God." "Ay, please God," said the old man. "The cheild has come to be like the apple of my eye,--the best fruit from a fine old stock, lady. Please God, please God." "Would you like me to pray with you for his safety?" asked the lady. "Ay, ef 'ee will," replied he. Mrs. Brudenel knelt by the old seaman's bed, took his horny hand in her soft white one, and poured out a supplication to the God and Father of them both, that He would keep this boy safely beneath the shadow of His everlasting wings, and restore him to his friends without injury. As she rose from her knees, the old man's lips moved again. "Amen, amen," he muttered. "Please God, please God." He fell into a sleep, still murmuring these words, and holding the lady's hand. She did not try to release it, but sat patiently by the bedside until his fingers relaxed of their own accord, as his sleep deepened; then leaving the ayah to fan him, and be ready to give him more nourishment when he should awake, she stole away in search of her husband. Mr. Brudenel, having helped his other guests to refresh themselves after their night's strain of anxiety, having placed baths and refreshment before them, had now gathered his own men together, and, with Mr. Gilchrist and Osborn, was proceeding to search for Ralph. "How is your patient, wifey?" asked he, as he observed his wife's approach. "Better," said she in a cheerful voice. "He was quite clear in mind for a short time, and is now asleep. I hope you will find your young friend safe and well," she added, turning to Mr. Gilchrist. "Thank you, madam," replied he. "If not, I shall feel guilty of his loss to my dying day, for I took him from comparative safety, chiefly for my own pleasure in the company of his bright boyhood." "Pooh, pooh!" cried Mr. Brudenel. "We will have him all right in a couple of hours. Lads like he take a deal of killing. I have been in queer places dozens of times myself, but always turned up again like a bad shilling. Forward, my friends!" They rode down the hillside; a turn in the path hid them from sight; then they reappeared upon the plain through which the stream flowed, and picked their careful way across the ford, the horses throwing up the sparkling water at each step as they splashed through. Then they slowly mounted the rocky track on the farther side, and disappeared from sight. Mrs. Brudenel watched the cavalcade to this spot, and then returned to the invalid. "We will go to the tent first," said Mr. Gilchrist. They did so. The fire which they had built up was burned down to a handful of smouldering ashes; the little white note was still there upon the tree, plainly in sight; the tent was deserted, no sign was there of any person having visited it. The silence and solitude was significant and oppressive. With a gloomy brow, Gilchrist turned his horse's head towards the defile up which Ralph had fled. This led away from the direction of the river, back into the jungle through which they had come, but farther east. No word was spoken among the searchers as they rode up the pass. It was very narrow, probably but the bed of a mountain stream when the rains had fallen plentifully, and now dry. The jungle closed in thickly upon it, and became more and more dense as they mounted the hill. The natives who accompanied the party pointed out the spot where the two tiger cubs had lain, and been killed. It was marked by the bleached and scattered bones of various deer, some sambhurs' horns, and remains of other creatures, which had formed the prey of the parent animals. With a sick heart, Gilchrist nerved himself to examine this débris. He turned over leg bones, skulls, and all which he could find, not leaving one unnoticed, but none were human remains. Not the slightest sign appeared to show that Ralph had been there, nor that the full-grown beasts had revisited the spot. They pursued their way with difficulty, so thick was the tangle of the underwood. Huge ferns reared gigantic fronds among shrubs of a hundred different kinds; orchids hung pendant from lofty trees; creepers of many sorts, with blossoms of every colour, drooped from heights, clung to branches, wound their devious way from trunk to trunk, cast curtains of foliage and flower around monarchs of the forest and humble scrub, touched the fertile virgin earth, took fresh root, and started upon new complications in other directions. But what was this? Dark vultures concealed a massive form stretched upon the ground in a little glade, comparatively open. What were they devouring? At the approach of the searchers they rose, heavily flapping their ill-omened pinions, among hoarse cries, and awaited the completion of their meal from short distances. Mr. Gilchrist turned very faint, he could not proceed, he leant against the trunk of a tree while the rest cut their way through the intervening vines, and a jackal sneaked away at their approach. A cry of surprise and relief broke from Mr. Brudenel's lips. "It is a female tiger's remains, nothing worse!" shouted he. "She has been killed by a magnificent shot, here in the neck! A single bullet did for her! Your man has been this way, without doubt; and does he not know how to handle his rifle! _He_ is no bungler, that's certain." Mr. Gilchrist took fresh heart, and approached the spot. The tiger's bones were picked nearly clean already; the foul birds of prey had wasted no time. Little but the skeleton remained of what had, only twenty-four hours earlier, been so fearsome and so splendid a brute; and which had been done to death by one little piece of lead buried in its spine. The eyes which had glared with yellow fire were picked clean from the head, the jaws which had uttered many a dreadful cry were lying wide open in ghastly mockery of rage, and the tongue was torn from behind them. "We will keep this skull," exclaimed Brudenel with triumph. "There is little else worth carrying off, but this will be a trophy worth keeping. Your friend has got safely away from _this_ peril, at anyrate, Gilchrist; we will find him yet, you will see. He's no fool to have shot like this!" Gilchrist smiled. A faint ray of hope pierced into his heart at the cheery words. It certainly must have been Denham who had killed that tiger,--that must have been the shot which had been heard. But why had he not returned? Where was he now? CHAPTER XVIII THE DACOIT'S HEAD The search now proceeded with fresh spirit. Taking the spot where lay the tiger's carcase as a centre, the party closely examined every exit from it, but quite fruitlessly. It was tolerably easy to perceive from which side the shot had been fired,--where Denham must have been standing at that moment,--they proceeded first in that direction. A little breakage among some succulent plants betrayed a slight farther progress there; then this trace ceased wholly. A wall of thick foliage interposed,--a purple flower bedecking it with rare beauty, but it turned them back. A long stalk of _Amherstia_ lay on the ground at a short distance, as if it might have been broken off short in an attempt to mount a tree by its aid, but this clue also failed them. The glade narrowed at one side to a tiny track, possible to penetrate. They advanced along it in single file, now climbing over fallen tree-trunks all smothered in ferns, then stooping beneath loops and trails of _Dendrobiums_, and a variety of plants, matted together with convolvuli, and tendrils of many kinds. It opened out upon a blackened vista over which the jungle fire had swept, burning away every trace of animal life; a desolate track of waste and ruin, among such super-abundant life, as was strange to see. Stranger still to observe a glorious butterfly--a fragile, delicate creature, just emerged from its chrysalis tomb--spreading its painted wings, yet damp from its new birth, in the warmth of the sun as it streamed down upon the scorched grass. It was a living allegory of Life after Death which could not fail to strike every soul. "It is your friend's 'leyp bya,'" said one of the Burmans. "It must have been out upon a ramble when the fire overtook him in his sleep, and it cannot now find its home again in him." The charred scrub no longer presented further difficulties in the way of search. It was comparatively easy to penetrate in almost any direction; and the party separated, scattering themselves over the cleared space, and closely examining every rood of ground. Not a sign of man was to be found. Would any such exist after so fierce a flame had swept over it? Could it have been expected? Mr. Brudenel laid his hand upon Gilchrist's shoulder. "It is useless, my friend," said he. "The boy has gone, and left no trace. You must bear it like a man. If he yet should have escaped both fire and wild beast, he will be heard of in time. He can find us, but we cannot find him." "Oh, do not say that I must abandon hope!" cried Gilchrist in agonised tones. "There must be something yet to be done." "Offer a reward to any Burman who may bring in the smallest trace," suggested Osborn. "Those fellows have their network of connections all over the land. Make it worth their while to bring in anything that they may find. The stock of his rifle might be burnt, but the barrel must be there in some form. So must his hunting-knife, and many little things, as buttons, buckles, and such like, on his clothes. No wild beast could eat up thiccee neither." "I will give any reward which Mr. Brudenel thinks likely to succeed," cried Gilchrist eagerly. "Not too fast," remonstrated the police officer. "Offer too liberal a sum, and, should he live, some of our worthy neighbours will murder him for sake of it. Leave that to me, I will manage that." He had really no hope whatever that Denham lived, but was too kindly at heart to say so in plain words. "Stay with me awhile, till we feel that we have turned every stone to find the lad," he suggested. "You will have every facility for search with us, and a rest will do yourself no harm after all you have gone through. Your old man will not be fit to move yet, either. Let my wife coddle him up into good health again first, and I can give you some sport the while." Mr. Gilchrist readily accepted the invitation, for he could not bear the idea of relinquishing all hope of Ralph. They returned sadly and silently to the station, where every comfort awaited them, but which they could not enjoy from a haunting dread of what Ralph might be suffering in some lonely spot,--perhaps burned and bruised, yet living, and beyond help. The nice dinner choked Mr. Gilchrist, he could not swallow the dainties which Mrs. Brudenel, in the pride of her young housekeeping, had laid before them; sleep forsook his pillow; he had no apparent answer to his prayers; gloom took possession of his soul. With gentle wile did Mrs. Brudenel try to cheer her visitor, and distract his thoughts from constant brooding over the inevitable. She succeeded with him better than her husband did, though he was as kind as he knew how to be; but he was accustomed to rougher experiences, and used to losing his comrades by death under many phases. His wife walked in the verandah with her afflicted guest; she told him of Wills' state, which steadily improved. She consulted him as to the garden, which she was anxious to make very beautiful, and how to grow the plants which she admired most, and which were all new to her experience. Gilchrist tried, for sake of her kindness, to take interest in her pleasures, despite his heavy heart. "I fear," said he to her, "that we give you much trouble, and are sadly in your way." "Oh no, no! far from that!" cried she eagerly. "You are such pleasant company for my husband, to whom it is such a treat to have English faces about him; and you tell me so nicely how to manage the orchids, of which I am anxious to have a good collection. Yours is just the help I wanted; and if you want any drawings of specimens, I may be of some assistance to you, for I am fond of drawing." "Fetch some of your pictures, wifey," said Mr. Brudenel. "See, Gilchrist, is not that thing nice, it looks just as if it were growing there. I have ordered a carved frame for it, from a fellow here who does that sort of thing admirably." "It is indeed an excellent drawing of the specimen," said Gilchrist; "but, excuse me, madam, you have copied the blossom from one plant and the foliage from another." "I did," said Mrs. Brudenel, surprised. "I only had the flower, which was brought to me cut from its stem, so I put in the leaves from that one which grows in the verandah." "And that one, which is not yet in bloom, will bear a blossom of white and lemon colour, whereas this is purple streaked." "Oh, Mr. Gilchrist!" cried she, in pretty dismay, "what can be done? Can I alter it and put it right?" "It would be best to do so, certainly," said he, unpacking a tin case of his own sketches; which, though less finished than the lady's drawings, were far more accurate as botanical specimens. But among them were some of Ralph's hasty schoolboy productions; one done in a merry mood, when he had contrived to introduce the semblance of a grotesque human face among the convolutions of the plant. Mr. Gilchrist came upon this unexpectedly, in his search for the one which he wanted, and broke down completely over it, as it brought so forcibly before him the boy's laughing eyes and bright expression as he had held it up for inspection, with some harmless nonsense. Oh, Ralph! Was that smiling face cold and set in death already? Were those pleasant eyes closed for ever, those jocund lips pale and grim? Was that dear brave boy lying scorched and blackened by the jungle flame, or torn limb from limb by the tiger? Had he gone through so much by sea and land, for his fate to remain an unsolved mystery for evermore; a secret--a dreadful haunting secret--only to be divulged on the last day? Mrs. Brudenel put her kind hand upon Gilchrist's shoulder. "Do not despair, my friend," said she gently; "do not abandon yourself to despair. God is very good,--very merciful. Perhaps Ralph is safe yet. No sign of him has been found, and had the tiger killed him there surely would have been some. Let us seek for faith." "I do not know how to have faith, dear lady," groaned Mr. Gilchrist. "There seems no ground for faith." "Ah, my dear sir," was her innocent reply, "faith would not be faith were there ground for it. It is simple trust in our Father's goodness." Gilchrist could not reply. He knew that she was right; he knew that she was nearer to God than he; he felt rebuked, though she was far from having intended to administer rebuke,--it did not occur to her that she had done so. There was silence for a few minutes, then she began again. "Tell me about Ralph, he must be about the age of my brother Sydney." "Not seventeen," replied Mr. Gilchrist. "And what a hero he is! how much bravery he has shown! Sydney would be so envious of him. He is very high-spirited and daring too. He is going to be a soldier,--papa is a soldier, you know." "Yes, madam?" "I have heard papa say that the hardest thing soldiers have to do is to _wait_ until they are wanted. When they are charging down upon an enemy, and fighting, they are carried on by the excitement, and forget everything but the work in hand. When they are standing still, doing nothing but keeping steady, and seeing the battle carried on by others on every hand, it is a very hard thing for them to hold themselves in." "Waiting is always hard," said Mr. Gilchrist, sighing. "Yes. Papa had to do it the very first time when he was in an engagement. It was in some Indian skirmish with native troops, and papa's company was one held in reserve to pour in fresh when the rebels were tired, and meantime to hold a pass and prevent them from moving round to the rear of the English. I believe," continued she, with a smile, "that I am expressing myself badly, like an ignorant girl, but perhaps you understand what I mean?" "Yes, madam, your meaning is perfectly clear to me." "Well, papa found it so hard to stand still, with nothing to do, that he took up a bit of stick and whittled it to keep himself steady. When the call to charge was sounded, he put the half-peeled stick and the handful of chips into his pocket; he never knew why, or even that he had done so, until mamma found them there long afterwards, and asked him why he kept such things. Then the sight of them called up the whole scene to him more plainly than anything else, he said: the dark-faced rebels, with evil looks and angry eyes; the glare and flashing guns and smother of smoke; and the poor creatures shot down before his face, and lying howling and bleeding on the ground, among plunging horses and shouting men; and some lying still who had been so raging just before, and the set determined look upon the Englishmen. "Mamma has those chips now, put away among her treasures, and shows them to us sometimes on a Sunday evening, when we have been reading the Bible to her, and talking about being resolute, and such things." "Your story reminds me of the poet's words, 'Those also serve, who only stand and wait,'" said Mr. Gilchrist. "Yes, does it not," cried she, her sweet face kindling. "I do so like those lines." Mr. Brudenel here returned from his morning duties, and invited Gilchrist to take a turn in the verandah with him. "No news yet, I am sorry to say," said he. Mr. Gilchrist turned to Mrs. Brudenel, "I will try to 'stand and wait,' patiently," said he. Some excitement was here observed among the natives and servants. A man had arrived, carrying something large and round, tied up in a gaily-coloured handkerchief, which he swung carelessly in his hand as he approached. The little crowd pressed closely about him, all eagerly talking at once. Some words attracted Mr. Brudenel's ear, that of "dacoit" prominent among them. He rose hastily, and marched down to the excited group. "Oh," cried Mrs. Brudenel, "perhaps the man has brought news of your friend! let us hasten to hear what he says. What can he have in that handkerchief?" She rose, and almost ran through the compound; in her eagerness quite outstripping Mr. Gilchrist, who longed, yet dreaded, to hear the news which he felt had come at last. Mr. Brudenel lifted his hand in warning to his wife, but she did not perceive his caution; nor, in the babble of Burmese tongues, catch his desire that she should not be present. "What have you there?" asked she in her excitement, airing one of the few phrases of the language which had been so recently taught to her. Quite proud to be addressed by the English lady, and pleased with himself, his burden, and the news which he had to impart, the Burman untied his bundle with an amiable grin of delight, and out rolled, to the horrified girl's feet, the ghastly, gory, head of a dacoit chief, with its fierce expression set in death upon the parted blackened lips, and in the deep lines around the sunken eyes. With blanched face, she recoiled in terror; and her husband, hurrying forward, passed his stalwart arm around her for protection, while she hid her face on his breast. The Burman, meantime, was pouring out a flood of explanations, and the history of his having watched the robber, seen him possessed of English things, followed, tracked him from place to place, and, finally, set upon him in a lonely spot, killed him, searched him, and found upon him--this!--holding up a silver watch. It was Ralph Denham's watch, Mr. Gilchrist knew it well. Moreover, it had R. D. engraved upon it on the back. It had been a present to him from his mother before he sailed, he valued it extremely, and had it upon him when the _Pelican_ was abandoned, being almost the only thing of value which he had saved. Indeed, it was nearly the only trinket which he had ever possessed. How it had fallen into the robber's hands could not now be ever known, for the man was dead. Had poor Denham escaped the tiger, been spared from the fire, to fall a prey at last to a fellow-man? Had he been the victim of other perils, and had the dacoit only found the watch in the jungle and appropriated it? Was the fellow even venturing to bring it in for the reward, and could he have told more of the gallant lad's fate? Who could say now? Mr. Brudenel questioned the Burman closely, seeking confirmation of the story in its every detail of place and time. The man knew nothing of Denham, nor as to how the watch had fallen into the hands of the dacoit, who was one of a band of robbers that was harrying the mountain villages at a little distance. The watch was useless to him evidently. It had run down, and was silent. Either he had not possessed the key, or did not understand how to use it; and he had worn it round his neck as an ornament in a conspicuous manner, which had attracted the Burman's notice. Mr. Gilchrist paid the offered reward in silence, carried the watch into the house, and, laying it down, broke into a passion of grief which, for a time, admitted of no consolation. CHAPTER XIX LOST IN THE JUNGLE Ralph, upon flying from the infuriated elephant, had followed the defile before described, rushing up its tortuous windings with little heed beyond that of his own safety. If he thought at all, he believed that the others were following him at no great distance; attracted, as he had been, by the rough stones lying in the bed of the stream; where, after the rains, it tumbled headlong down the pass, a mountain torrent of double its present width. The loose boulders, and jagged fragments of rock, would, he considered, cut the pads in the elephant's feet and deter the animal's pursuit. In this he was mistaken, but the idea guided his flight at the time. He did not pause for reflection; it was instinct more than deliberation which impelled his flight. On he ran; his active, well-trained young limbs covering the ground rapidly; leaping from rock to boulder, springing over pool and marshy hollow, and instinctively taking advantage of every soft grassy slope. All at once his heedless progress was arrested by summary disaster. He stepped upon something soft, which turned beneath his foot instead of proving to be a rounded hard stone. A fearful screech was heard, curdling the very marrow in his bones, and bringing his heart to his mouth as he fell, measuring his length prone upon the sward. An unearthly spitting and growling assailed him, which, as he quickly came to himself after the shock of his fall, he first thought emanated from an enraged cat; but the next moment, was, he perceived, the token of something far worse. He had tumbled over two young tiger cubs, and their dam was hurrying up to their rescue, from the pool where she had been drinking. He saw the rich colour of her soft fur; he marked the beautiful dark waving lines crossing the yellow body; the graceful power of her strong limbs was impressed upon his mind in the moment's view which he had of her, lifting her head from the water at the cry of her offspring, and bounding back to their lair. Then she crouched for her spring upon him, the sun lighting up her splendid eyes, contracted as they were from the intentness with which they glared at him, her tail lashing itself to and fro, as she warily crept two steps nearer, with fell purpose apparent in her every curve. That pause for her spring saved him. How he took his aim he never knew; he could not have done it had he stayed to consider, it was an accuracy born of desperation. He seized his gun, as he rose to his feet, pointed it, fired, and saw her drop. The shot had entered the creature's neck, near the shoulders, and pierced directly to its heart. She rolled over with a faint struggle, and was still for evermore. Oblivious of the death of their dam, the two cubs, replete with food, were already curling themselves around to resume their disturbed sleep. Ralph could not believe in his own deliverance. He dropped his arms, and stood for a moment dumbfounded, expecting to see that agile sinuous mass of beautiful peril move again. He gazed at it in silent, fixed horror, till, gradually realising that he was saved from it as by a miracle, he drew a long breath. At the very same moment he became aware of two brilliant points of topaz-hued light fixed upon him from the jungle. They were the eyes of the male tiger, stealthily advancing upon him from another side. It was too much for the boy. Terror seized upon him, and he fled precipitately in the reverse direction; tearing his way through creeper and jungle-grass, breaking through bush and bramble, panting, gasping and sick with fear, till, perceiving a gnarled tree easy to climb, he flung down his gun and swung himself upwards, from branch to branch, till he could seat himself upon a point of safety. The tiger leapt, and leapt short of his prey. With a roar of baffled rage it bounded up to the tree where the boy sat with blanched cheeks and horror-distended eyes, and, rearing itself upon its hind legs, stretched a strong paw upwards in endeavour to reach its enemy and pull him from his refuge. Up went Ralph's legs with an instinctive spasm. He crouched closer to the branch where he sat, and clung faster to the boughs and cord-like creepers around him. The tiger, with ferocious growls, snuffed at the gun, prowled round the tree, and cast baleful glances upwards to the place where the boy was plainly visible; but it made no attempt to climb the trunk, which Ralph feared it would do. He did not know enough about the habits or power of these creatures to be sure what it would attempt; and was alternately divided between this dread and that of being no longer able to maintain his hold, but of falling headlong from his perch into the grasp of those cruel fangs and terrible paws. But though every minute seemed to be an hour, the time was not really very long before the creature gave up its pursuit, and made off with head drooping and a long stealthy stride of its supple limbs. Ralph could not at first believe himself to be safe. He thought that the tiger might return; he thought that it was watching him from some secret lair; he was not certain that his shot had proved fatal to the female tiger; and the more he thought about it, the less probable did he consider it that she was dead. He glanced this way and that, expecting to see a gleam of golden colour creeping among the undergrowth of deep green scrub; he strained his ears to hear soft footsteps crash among the brushwood, or low-muttered growls uttered beneath him. He was cramped and stiff from his attitude and the rigidity of his hold; he grew very cold as the sun went down; he was hungry and very, very thirsty; his lips were parched, his mouth fevered,--yet he dared not descend the tree. After a long time, he ventured to change his position to one of greater ease. He shifted his place to a mighty branch, upon which he might recline at full length, or sit with his back against the bole. Then he began to wonder what had become of his companions. He could see none of them, nor hear a sound which could proceed from human lips. Where were they? What were they doing? Why did they not come to seek him? Had any of them been trampled under foot by that mad elephant, or devoured by the tigers? Surely some dreadful thing must have befallen them, or they would have come to his assistance. Mr. Gilchrist--Wills--Osborn--why did none of them come? By degrees his thoughts concentrated themselves upon his gun. It must not be there in the long grass, dark and wet with heavy dew. He must go down and take it up, but dreaded the descent. Still, his gun must not become rusted and useless, or what would become of him. Slowly, silently, he crept down, swinging himself from bough to bough, pausing and listening every moment for the tiger's low growl. Now he thought that he heard it; then he believed that it was but his imagination. Under one idea, he hung poised in air; under the other, he ventured a little farther. All at once a treacherous branch, to which he had trusted his weight, gave way beneath him; and, with a sudden jerk, he fell crashing down to the ground. His fall was broken by the thick tangle of the undergrowth, so that he fractured no bones, but he was terribly shaken, cut and scratched, and one foot sprained. For a few moments he lay stunned; then pulled himself together, reached out for the gun, and having possessed himself of it, tried to mount the tree again. But he could not succeed. His arms felt as if they had been all but pulled out of their sockets; blood trickled into his eyes from a deep scratch on his brow, and blinded him. But he dared not remain upon the ground, so he moved on a little to seek a tree which might be easier to climb. The moon had risen in radiant beauty, and there was plenty of light, but no tree suitable to his purpose grew about that spot, and he moved deeper into the jungle, as he thought that now here, now there, he had found one. He did discover one at last, made his painful ascent of it, and, when he thought that he had mounted sufficiently high, he found a tolerably easy seat, and determined to await the dawn there. He was extremely tired, but was afraid to sleep lest some snake or noxious insect should coil around him or sting him. He had enough to do to ward off the attacks of myriads of creatures as it was. Mosquitoes hummed gaily over their feast upon him; huge beetles flopped in his face, smaller ones ran up his trousers and sleeves, and tried to penetrate down his back. Ants got into his boots, and slimy things crawled over his hands and endeavoured to fix themselves on his face or neck, or cling to his hair. Would the tardy day never begin to break? What was that red glow upon the sky to the eastward? It was not like the dawn, it was not in the right place,--but what could it be? It was like the reflection, upon the sky, of a mighty fire,--but where was the fire? He could see none. Ralph was not aware how far he had run up the defile, or noticed the direction which he had taken in escaping from the tiger. In reality he had skirted round the farther base of the hill upon which the police-station was situated, and was wandering in the jungle at its base. The tardy sun rose at last; much of the terror of the night was swept away under its beneficent influence. Ralph pulled himself together, determined to walk off his stiffness and soreness; shouldered his gun, and set off--down quite a new gulley, under the idea that he was returning down the same through which he had come on the previous afternoon; and limped resolutely forward, away from his friends, away from the station, away from all help and succour. He walked for a long time before he found that he was not going rightly, for the defile came to an end. Its close was completed by a wide shallow pool, fringed with bamboo canes, and upon which many water-fowl were disporting themselves, while more were preening their plumage upon its banks. The sight made him feel how hungry he was, and he argued to himself that the sound of his gun would betray his whereabouts to his friends, who would answer the signal by another to let him know in which direction to turn. He fired, therefore, upon the covey nearest to him, and two plump birds fell. Forgetting his fatigue and his lame foot in the excitement, he splashed through the muddy shallows and pools, picked up his game, and brought it back to _terra firma_. "Well," said he to himself, "there is nothing to be gained by rambling farther away. I may as well stay here and cook my breakfast, for I don't know which way to go, and it is as likely that I should go wrongly as in the right way. If they don't hear my gun, they will perhaps see the smoke of a fire, which will guide them." He therefore gathered some dry fuel in a heap, and, having the good fortune to discover some cutchwood trees, collected the withered branches lying scattered around, and soon had a splendid fire. The flames emitted from the cutchwood were, however, too fierce for his cookery, so he piled on some greener wood, and sat down to pluck his birds, while the blaze was dying down to a nice glowing bed of red ashes. We say "pluck his birds," but Ralph was no gourmand; nor was he cook to a first-class gentleman's club. Plucking was too lengthy an operation for him; he cut the skin of his game down the back, and pulled it off, inside out, like a stocking from a foot, having first chopped off the heads and legs. This operation was completed before his fire was ready; so he took a plunge into a clear pool, reclothed himself, and then broiled his breakfast, having split his birds open like spatch-cocks. "They are not bad," thought he, as he devoured them, tearing their limbs apart by help of fingers and knife, like a young ogre. "They are not bad, though they would have been more savoury if I had had some pepper and salt, with a dab of butter. How Agnes would have jeered at me as man-cook. I wonder what the dear old girl is doing now. She little thinks where I am. Lost in a Burmese jungle! What a pretty kettle of fish it is. I know no more than the man in the moon which way to go, or what to do. Well, no predicament is so bad that it can't be mended. If I walk straight on, I must come somewhere, sooner or later. Those fellows don't mean to join me here, that's plain. So Ralph Denham, Esq., marching orders are yours. Forward!" He knew that he must regain the main stream of the Salween River, up the eastern bank of which his party had come; but where was the Salween? He must climb one of these mountain-spurs,--one sufficiently lofty to command a bird's-eye view of the country, so that he could take its bearings. He therefore set himself to the ascent of the most lofty hill which he could perceive. The ascent was, however, no joke. His foot was very painful. He had dipped his handkerchief in water, and bound it tightly round the ankle, but the heat rapidly dried it, nor could he constantly find means of rewetting it to keep it cool. The jungle grew thicker and thicker, more and more impenetrable, with every step. He had to cut his way with his knife through the tangle of creepers, linked and bound together in impenetrable masses, and his knife soon became wholly inadequate to the task. To proceed straight forward was utterly impossible, for the thickness of the interlacing stems quite baffled his strength. He found an easier place to the right, and essayed that; but after a few steps he was pulled up again. He discovered a slighter barrier to the left, again to be baffled wholly. After hours of work, he had advanced but a dozen yards, and made up his mind that to penetrate such a jungle as this, with no better appliances than he possessed, and with no help, was a completely hopeless task. He sat down to rest, and consider what would be his next best plan. CHAPTER XX JUNGLE THIEVES It was easy to sit down, and easy to ponder the question, but any decision at all was another matter. All the thinking in the world would not tell him either where he was or which way he ought to go; and the more he deliberated, the more puzzled he became. To mount the hills was impossible, from the impenetrability of the jungle; to follow a stream was to expose himself to the attacks of wild beasts coming to the water to drink. How then could he proceed? But to remain still was quite as unsafe, for he had but a small quantity of powder and shot; and when this was expended, would be wholly at the mercy of savage animals. To follow the windings of a stream must lead him, in process of time, to some large river; and the danger of this course was no greater than that of any other. He determined to adopt this plan, and prepared for a start; first recommending his safety, by prayer, to Divine mercy, and imploring for help and guidance from on high. Forlorn enough did he feel as he resumed his gun and other accoutrements, preparatory for so hopeless a task, but he tried to be brave, and once more set himself, as a preliminary, to "hang his harp on a willow tree." It would not do, his voice sounded thin and poor, there was no volume in it; the silence around him seemed yet more awful in contrast to it; the words struck him as most intensely foolish in face of the majesty of nature which surrounded him. He gave it up, and tried the Old Hundredth Psalm. This brought up, to his mental vision, the picture of his home, and the dreary old hand-organ man who droned out that psalm tune in the street regularly every Friday morning. He could see Agnes in the shabby little parlour, and his mother's sweet, sad face, in her widow's cap, with the crippled baby in her arms. A great lump rose in his throat, and he dashed his hand across his eyes. But it would never do to become sentimental, as he termed it, so he set himself vigorously to finding a suitable stream to follow. Now, the difficulty became that of finding any at all. The jungle surrounded him on every side, he could not free himself from it. Every now and then he found what he thought a free glade or opening pathway, which he would pursue for a short distance, only to be again brought up in front of a tangle of creepers, glorious in colour, rich in purple or yellow festoons of exquisite flowers; snowed over with pure white blossoms, long wreaths of beauty pendant from the branches of the trees, and wholly preventing any progress. Exquisite as the orchids and other plants were, he became weary of them and their sameness. Their perfume sickened him, their glory palled upon his sight. They were the same kinds--now common to him--over and over again. Oh, for a clump of English primroses nestled among moss and last year's brown leaves! Oh, for a bush of pink wild-roses, with golden hearts and delicate faint fragrance wafted upon a light breeze! Here everything was heavy and oppressive; too brilliant, too much, too unfamiliar, too unlike home. Insect and reptile life troubled him greatly. The weather was growing very hot, and the density of the trees impeded every current of cool air. This was doubtless the cause of the difficulty in finding water, it was drying up so fast everywhere. Leeches got upon his legs, fixing themselves upon him with far too affectionate a tenacity; ants ran up his trousers, got into his boots; a thousand and one flying and crawling plagues assailed him. Snakes and serpents wound their tails round trees, dropped coils in his path, and lifted flat heads from their meditations, to gaze on him with malevolent eyes. He did not know which were harmless and which were deadly, so suffered the same qualms alike from all. He had a vague idea that a dark-coloured snake was more perilous than a yellow or green one, and never suffered more terror than when, sitting down to rest, and having fallen asleep, he perceived, upon waking, a long black thing reared on end, with pendant head bent over him. For one moment he felt sick with horror, then perceived that it was the stem of a flower which he had never seen before, and which he had either overlooked from his fatigue when he sat down, or which had shot up its bloom with the most marvellous celerity while he was unconscious. He had, indeed, slept for hours, having been quite worn out; and a special Providence must have guarded him during this long somnolence, or some noxious insect would certainly have attacked him the while. It was late in the day, the dews were falling thickly after the heat of the noontide; and a quantity of hares were hopping about, feeding upon the grass around him. They did not seem to be afraid of him, and he shot one without difficulty, and looked forward to making a good supper upon him, for he was hungry. He laid it at the foot of the tree beneath which he had reposed, and began to collect wood with which to make a fire. Whilst doing this, he lost sight of the hare for a few minutes; and, on returning to the spot where he had laid it, he found a couple of huge crows tugging away at it to make it their own; and the burying beetles already digging a grave beneath it. An army of ants was swarming over it, and so persistent in their attentions that they would not leave it even when Ralph tore the skin off its back, and set it down to cook by his fire, wrapped thickly up in leaves. However, he was too hungry to be very particular, although nothing had ever yet brought him to eat fried caterpillars or maggots, as a Burman will. He scraped off the ants to the best of his ability, and sought, while his meal was preparing, for some fruits, of which to make an agreeable conclusion to it. He had the good fortune to discover some, of which he immediately partook, being parched and feverish. They refreshed him; and it was perhaps partly from this cause, and partly from his long sleep, that, his senses being perfectly alert, he chanced to notice a small orchid blooming upon a tree which he was convinced was one quite new to Mr. Gilchrist's collection. It differed in several material points from all which he had yet seen, but was certainly an orchid. He carefully cut away the piece of bark upon which it grew, and looked about for more of it. He found another very small plant, which he secured, but the evening was becoming too dark for him to seek farther. He therefore returned to his fire, and made himself as comfortable beside it as circumstances permitted. He did not sleep much that night, but dozed and woke again many times,--piling green wood upon the embers every time, so that the smoke thus engendered should keep off the mosquitoes from him. At a little distance, beneath the trees, the fireflies swarmed, flashing about hither and thither, and making light in shady places. This light was caught and returned by the shining backs of a thousand beetles,--green, blue, crimson, and copper-hued. Flying foxes flitted by in search of guavas and other fruits; and bats of every size and description swarmed around, hawking on the wing for their suppers. Ralph watched all these creatures dreamily, seeing, but too drowsy to think about them actively. The heavy scent of night-perfumed flowers overpowered his faculties, and confused his powers of mind, almost as much as if he had partaken of a narcotic. Was it only a dream, or a dream-like fancy then, or did he really hear the faint ripple of flowing water? His senses became all at once preternaturally acute. He sprang up from his reclining position, and listened intently. No, it was not a mistake,--it was not a trick of the imagination; a little rill of water was running over stones hard by. In the comparative silence of the night the gentle sound made itself plainly audible. He did not dare to leave the friendly protection of his fire in the dark, the jungle was too full of danger for that, but he laid a long branch, torn from a bush, in the direction from which the sound proceeded, and anxiously awaited the dawn. It came at last,--dank and chilly even in that tropical climate; he rose, and perceived not far from him a slender thread of water slipping gaily along beneath ferns and grass and reeds; now breaking into a laugh over a few scattered stones and branches, then spreading into a tiny pool looking deep from brown shadows cast by overhanging growth. Ralph laved his brow in it, cast its refreshing coolness over head and neck, drank of it, bathed his orchids in it, and knelt down to thank God for having at last found the clue by which he might possibly escape from the horrors of death in this lonely jungle. If die he must, he might now, at anyrate, die in the open country, with the sun of heaven above him. Not even Arethusa herself, "shepherding her bright fountains," slipping down the rocks "with her golden locks, streaming among the streams," in the land of poesy, on the other side of the world, could have been so lovely in his eyes as this little unheard of, unnamed, unknown streamlet, in the heart of a Burmese forest. The wild cat lapped it, and slunk away; a magnificent, many-hued dragon-fly, just burst from the sheath of its chrysalis upon the stem of a reed, was drying its gauzy wings in the level beams of the rising sun, as they shot through the trees just above the flower-enamelled grass, that sparkled with dew as if besprinkled with gems of every colour. A thousand little birds, awakened by the recurring daylight, chirped and sang and preened their feathers in the freshness of those early hours. Ralph's spirits also arose from the depression which had overcome them, and he sang once more as he arranged his dress, and reloaded himself with his accoutrements. He now found more of the new orchid; and, still further impressed by a conviction of its rarity, he possessed himself of all that he could carry safely. This did not overburden him, for it was not plentiful; and, having packed it up, carefully swathed in damp grass, bound over that with liana stems, and protected by bark, he set himself to follow the course of the stream. The water bubbled along in a very tortuous course, marking its way everywhere by a line of brighter, more tender emerald; and doubtless fed by hidden springs, for it grew wider in process of time, spreading out into a large pool whereon water-lilies reposed. The blossoms had mostly gone to seed, which stood up from the stems like acorns, but a few late ones still floated on the bosom of the lake,--blue, pink, and white. The edges of the water were fringed with flowering reeds; passion-flowers tossed clinging tendrils from tree to tree on its margin, and long wreaths of bud and blossom hung pendant from them. Myriads of new-born butterflies flitted sportively among them, and bright birds skimmed over the quiet water. It was a most lovely sight,--one which Ralph never afterwards forgot. He rested upon the shore of this lake through the hottest part of the day; breakfasting upon some plantains which he had found, and upon the lily seeds and sprouts. When a little air sprang up towards evening, he resumed his course. The jungle closed around him again; but he now held the thread of the maze, and lost heart no more. He passed the night in a tree, and his evening orisons were heartfelt. Day by day he plodded on. The stream grew wider, but wound so much that his progress through the country was very slow. When it grew sufficiently broad to admit of the navigation of any kind of craft, Ralph made up his mind to try whether he could not proceed faster upon a raft; and pondered much upon the means of constructing one which, though rudely fashioned, might serve his purpose. His thoughts reverted at first to the coracles of ancient Britain, which he had heard were of basket-work covered with skins. Canes for basket-work abounded, but he did not see how to procure skins of a sufficiently large size, or how to cut them into shape or join them together. He then thought of the North-American Indian's birch-bark canoe. But he had no means of felling a suitable tree, or of peeling the bark off in large sheets. His mind reverted again to the wicker-work. He could cut down bamboos, and they grew plentifully everywhere. Could he tie them together by means of the cord-like lianas which bound the jungle so closely together into impenetrable masses? If not, he might weave them together with split cane or supple reeds. Another consideration puzzled him. The stream was narrow; his raft must be no wider than necessary,--but what ought its length to be? It would not be manageable if very long; but how much surface should there be to support his weight on the water. He had no data upon which to go that could enable him to decide this point; experiment alone could do so. He would try making it as long as his own height; and, if that did not suffice, he could then enlarge it. He cleared a space upon the borders of the stream, laid down upon it, and marked out his own proportions. Then he narrowed each end to a point beyond these limits, so that he might work the raft either way; drove short stakes into the ground all around the enclosure, laid stout bamboos athwart the centre of it, and bound them to the stakes. He tied together a bundle of long bamboos at each end, laid them lengthways upon those firmly affixed to the points, and spreading them out in the middle, began to weave all together with split canes, which had been steeping in water, to make them pliant, while everything else was being prepared. When this was made as firm as lay in his power, he perceived that, though it might float and bear his weight, that burden would sink it a little below the surface of the water, so that he would always be wet. The stakes with which he had begun his contrivance were about two feet long--perhaps nearer three feet; and though not very regular in height, were all driven into the ground about equally far. It was above the ground that they were uneven. He therefore began again, weaving a second floor about six inches above the first one. This had also the effect of making all steadier; and upon noticing this, he once more set to work, and wove a narrow bulwark above what he called his upper deck. He cut a couple of bundles of long bamboos, which he tied along the bulwarks, to use in case of need; fashioned rude rowlocks in the centre; cut a quantity of grass, which he spread as a carpet for his feet; bound up a sheaf of the same to serve for a pillow at night; provided a store of liana twigs and split cane for repairs, if necessary; made his packet of orchids secure to stakes; and, finally, began to lay in a small store of fruit for food. The stream was drying up so fast upon its shallow borders that fish were left flapping about in holes, or on the mud, every day; and, not sharing in the Burman's superstition as to taking life, he had made many a meal upon them,--for the construction of his raft had occupied several days. So few charges of powder and shot had he left, that he would not use his gun, thinking that he might want it for self-preservation before he could reach civilised regions. When fish was not to be got, he had eaten fruit when he could find it; he had knocked down a bird or two by throwing sticks at them, for they were very tame at first, but were now becoming more afraid of him; and once he had been fortunate enough to come across some jungle-fowl's eggs. Such a piece of luck had not befallen him again, however; and he had cleared his immediate neighbourhood of plantains, so he must go farther afield for stores. The weather was very hot, and he had worked about his boat building, all these days, in his shirt and linen drawers. His other garments, with his gun and other small possessions, were neatly laid together on the low-growing branch of a shrub, in a place where he could easily see them; and now, taking up his knife, which he carried with a lanyard about his neck, and with a coil of grass-rope in his hand, he pulled on his boots, and set off into the jungle. He was tolerably successful in his quest, but had to roam about for some time first. As the sun was preparing to set, he returned to the place that had begun to feel almost like a home to him,--that natural clearance among the trees; the clump of bushes on the little promontory jutting out into the stream; the huge _Amherstia_ crowning the many-tinted scrub, with the white _Dendrobium Formosum_ hanging down from it in such rich masses. What were those parti-coloured figures at the foot of the tree where his garments hung? Men? Burmese? _Not dacoits?_ But what else could they be? The ragged gaudy "putsoes," the white fillets around the heads, the gaunt frames, the fierce yet sly faces, all told their own tale. Ralph had heard of these robbers, and slipt stealthily back into the jungle, where, himself concealed, he could watch their proceedings. They were examining his clothes with grins of delight. One had his beloved watch hung round his neck, and dangling about with every movement. One was cutting buttons off with great glee; and one was investigating the gun. Now this gun was not a very good one; it had been purchased in the bazaar of Moulmein, in preparation for Ralph's first expedition with Mr. Gilchrist, when money was short with them both, while awaiting their better equipments from home. But it was lighter than the fine new ones sent out from England, and was a favourite one with its young owner, though Wills often told him that he would meet with some accident with it one of these days, the weapon being so worn. The Burman who held it was ramming in powder and shot most liberally; driving in more and more with the greatest delight, laughing and joking the while with more merriment than discretion. Suddenly, in the middle of the fun, the old thing exploded--burst!--with a mighty report, and all the Burmese thieves were prostrate immediately. Ralph thought at first that they were all killed, and was on the point of rushing forward to see the extent of the injuries received, when one raised himself, and then another. With the most rueful faces they wagged their heads to each other, each looking solemnly at his neighbour for a moment. The third was hurt and bleeding, but whether seriously injured Ralph could not tell. His companions rose, seized him by the feet, and drew him, on his back, by that means to some distance from the scene of the disaster; and, passing near enough to Ralph's hiding-place, he heard them jabbering together about the "beloo" which had thus revenged itself upon them. They seemed shy of approaching the place where the shattered gun lay, and Denham thought that it would do them good to hear a little more of the "beloo." Accordingly, he began to moan, upon which the fellows gave a great start, and gazed around with terrified faces. Seeing this, and being himself concealed behind a large tree, the boy increased his moan to a howl,--a yell,--the most unearthly screeches which he could raise. It was too much for the dacoits, they sprang to their feet and ran off as fast as their legs could take them, becoming quickly lost in the shadows of night. Rightly judging that their dwellings could not be very far off, and that they might return by daylight, Ralph hastened to loose his raft, and push it off from its moorings down the stream, determining to pursue his way as far as possible before morning. The raft floated well, to his joyful surprise; he punted it along successfully, and was far away before the day star rose. CHAPTER XXI THE RAPIDS Had Ralph known it, he was now not so very far from his friends. The stream, down which he was floating, was a tributary of that on the banks of which he had become separated from them, flowing down the next valley between the hills, and becoming merged in the larger one some five or six miles below the police-station. The range of hills between them was higher and more abrupt than that upon which the police-station was situated, concealing it from view; but the density of the forest and jungle made its inhabitants widely dispersed. They were wholly composed of small scattered remnants of wild Karens, constantly fighting with each other, split up into small numbers, of which half a dozen families would suffice to stock a village, and incessantly changing their abode. They would come to a jungle-covered hill, and set it on fire. When a sufficient space for their wants was burnt out, they planted rice upon the ground manured by the ashes, ran up a few hovels with bamboos and palm leaves, and awaited their harvest. This gathered, the same land would not bear a second crop; and, space being unlimited, the remedy was simple. They only moved to another hillside, and repeated the fire and farming manoeuvres. When their own rice failed them, they helped themselves to that belonging to other villages or tribes, provided these were weaker than themselves. Sometimes they made a mistake on this point, and became wiped off the face of the land. If this did not happen, they generally wiped out the others; for, if anyone escaped, he was bound to slay as many of his enemies as he had lost of friends. This species of vendetta was a religion to them all, and a curious comment upon the idea that, to take life of any description, was to shut the gates of the highest heaven upon the slayer. The Burman will not destroy the principle of life even in noxious animals, but murder is his commonest crime, and his murders are often accompanied with great atrocity. The dacoits who plundered Ralph fell into the power of an enemy's tribe, and the chief's head was carried to the police-station for sake of the reward paid for all such tribute; and while Mr. Gilchrist was sadly mourning over what he considered the certain proof of his young friend's death, in the discovery of his watch, Denham had passed the junction of the two rivulets, and was prosperously pursuing his voyage towards the Salween River. We say "prosperously," though, in good sooth, the voyage was carried on with many vicissitudes. The stream narrowed day by day, as the extreme heat dried up its margins. Now the frail barque stuck helplessly in the mud, which was yet too soft to bear walking upon. Ralph would sink up to his knees as he pulled and hauled his little craft out of the shallows, and set it once more afloat. Then he would become entangled in débris of the forest,--sticks, rotten stumps, masses of leaves, etc., all stuck together in one jumble, and caught by a little promontory, wafted into some tiny bay, or even detained by the drooping boughs of some tree or shrub dipping into the water, to coagulate and solidify into a floating island. Poor Ralph's garments were of the slightest description, for he had left all which he had possessed at first--little enough at the best--when he fled from the dacoits. It was well for him that he had retained his knife; but at least his clothes, such as they were, dried easily in the sun, which was a good thing, as they were wetted through and through every day. "I wish I were an Israelite in the desert," thought he, as his only button came off, and he cut a hole in his waistband and tied a loop of twisted grass into it. "How I am ever to get into a suit of broadcloth again passes me to imagine. But it is well for me that folks are not very particular hereabouts." On the fifth day of his voyage he saw the vista open before him, and a wide expanse of water appeared to his sight. This must be, he thought, the Salween River; and he hoped that his troubles were now approaching their end. "I shall soon come to an English settlement, or a missionary station, or at least to some Burmese village," he thought; "and some good Christian will help me on my way. What a pretty place this is!" The river upon which he had now emerged wound very much, and almost took the appearance of a succession of lakes. Hills clothed with jungle shut it in, and stretches of rocky land jutted out from either side at irregular distances. Protected from the force of the deeper current by one of these little promontories, the rapidity of the stream down which he had come shot him well out into the wider river with a velocity which surprised him; though, in his ignorance of what it meant, he considered it "very jolly" at first to be cleared of all the impedimenta which had hitherto encumbered him so sadly. But this was only a momentary joy, as his frail barque was caught in a power beyond his control, and whirled about in a manner which even he saw meant mischief. He had but one thing to save--his orchids. He had prepared for a catastrophe of some sort previously, and had them merely slung by a long cord to a cane. He caught this off, throwing the loop around his neck, and in five minutes more was battling with rapids for his life, his raft beaten into a thousand pieces. He had clutched, with the energy of despair, the stout bamboo which he had used to punt his raft; and, clinging instinctively to this, was tossed down some two or three feet; plunged overhead in a pool, floated up again; washed violently against rough stones; felt his feet, lost them again, was rolled over; dashed down another little cascade; and brought up, finally, breathless, bruised, battered and bleeding, upon a tiny ait in the centre of the stream, where his bamboo had become entangled between some small bushes. He had but strength enough to catch at a firmer support, and draw himself up upon the islet, where he lay, utterly spent, for a long time. Everything darkened before his eyes, the earth seemed to reel beneath him, all the heavens to be unsteady above him, and he became unconscious. He must have remained so for long; as, when he slowly came to himself again, the stars were jewelling the purple vault above him, and the full moon casting a long silvery highway over the rippling water around. Where was he? What had happened to him? He tried to sit up, and felt very sick, stiff, and sore, utterly confused and helpless. He did not seem to care for his condition, or even to wonder at it. Existence alone was enough for him. Enough?--too much, for hysteria overcame him; he hid his face and cried like a child. Baffled on every side, everything lost but life--even that imperilled in the most desperate manner; surely God must be against him, it was of no use to fight longer against the pricks; better to lie there and die, rather than struggle any more. Despair made of him its puppet at last. Was it any good to pray?--did God hear him? Would God answer his supplications? Was there a God of love and mercy at all, when he was beaten back at every point like this, however bravely he tried to bear up against misfortune? He was ashamed of weeping, even though there was no one to observe him; and it did but exhaust him further, yet it was a relief too. His tears were soon spent, and he sat, forlorn and dejected, gazing in a purposeless way before him, taking no heed to what he saw. But gradually the extreme beauty of the scene forced itself upon his mental vision. The hills, covered with rich masses of woods, were black against the clear opal sky, where the moon reigned in her pure loveliness. The shadows of these hills lay deep on the translucent waters, except where the broken rocks stood picturesquely above them, and changed their duskiness to pearly foam. The stars were reflected on the bosom of the river wherever it was sufficiently still; and a herd of hog-deer issued from a clearing of the jungle, and stooped their graceful heads to drink just where the moonlight fell on them. The clear whistle of some night-bird was heard and answered from a neighbouring thicket, "Did you do it? Did you do it?" they cried in turn, and the rippling water made a gentle accompaniment to their song. "I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, whence cometh my help," was borne in upon Ralph's heart, and his longdrawn sobs ceased. Up sprang the sun, and touched the tops of the hills with golden glory. Colour and warmth flashed over the landscape, and brought comfort to his chilled frame. What was that something glittering brightly between the trees? It was no natural object--the outline was too regular, too hard; it was the work of man's hand, for it was gilt,--it was, yes, it was a pagoda! Man had erected that building,--his fellow-men must be near at hand. Thank God! thank God! He rose, and sought to unstiffen his cramped limbs with exercise, and the sun warmed him. On the narrow strip of shingle where he had been cast up, a human waif and stray, lay a small bundle. Ralph looked at it, stooped over it, and lifted it from the wet stones. It was his little package of orchids, safely bound up as he had arranged it; which, slight thing as it was, had safely stood the wreck of all else, and lay stranded at his feet none the worse for its immersion. Ralph almost laughed to see it. "You foolish things," thought he, "could nothing of greater value to me have been spared for me. Can _you_ feed me, clothe me, save me, take me to my friends, do _anything_ for me?" He spurned them with his foot in irritation. Even his knife, his one precious possession, was gone; his garments hung in shreds upon him; there was nothing to eat upon the islet; and this ridiculous bundle of plants, good for nothing but to gratify the whimsical taste of a rich man, was intact. Then his mood changed, and he took it up in his hands again. Between the crevices of the bark and moss he saw one tiny delicate floweret pushing its fragile head out, and seeming to smile at him. "Good Lord," he said, "just to think of this! Come, then, if God so made the grass of the field, shall He not much more care for you, oh ye of little faith?" He readjusted the loop of string, and passed it again round his neck. Then he tried to think how he might reach the mainland, where that pagoda glimmered like a hand beckoning to him, but he could not devise any plan. He was too weary and spent to attempt swimming in that powerful current; he had no means of making a second raft, or helping himself in any way; there were neither bamboos nor lianas on this scrap of land. He sat down close to the edge of the water, and rested his chin in his hands, gazing straight before him. He must sit there till he died; what else remained for him to do? He thought of his mother, of Agnes, of his brothers and little sisters. How grieved they all would be when the news went home to them. But would it ever go home? No, not one of his friends would know how he had struggled, how he had failed, where he had died. No one would visit his grave, or weep over his remains. The crows and the vultures would fight over his carcase, and leave his bones to blanch there, unburied. For him no funeral service, no hallowed ground, no holy hymn. "Oh, my God!" he cried aloud, "have I deserved this? If this is the end of my short life, am I fit to go before Thee on Thy judgment throne, and confidently crave for mercy? What have I done so wicked as to merit this? Tell me, oh my Father, and let me repent." So he sat, until, his eyes gazing mournfully straight before him, he became aware of some objects moving through the jungle on the mainland. They came in single file, carrying some large burden. Then one ran from the rear, past the others, and gave directions, waving a long lean arm and gesticulating. No animals would conduct themselves so, they must be men! Gracious Providence grant that they be men! They moved steadily forward among the thinning trees to the very margin of the river, and were plainly to be perceived. Native Burmese! Fishermen, bearing a large net, which they were preparing to cast into the water, and draw up stream. Ralph's voice failed him from revulse of feeling, he thought that he should choke. He sprang to his feet, tore off the last rags upon him, twisted them round a stick, and waved them in the air. They were not perceived,--no notice was taken. He stooped to the water, drank from the hollow of his hand, his tongue was unloosed, he cast water precipitately over head and face, stood erect once more, clear from the undergrowth, in the plashy shallows, waved his flag with the energy of despair, and shouted with all his might--"Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!" CHAPTER XXII KIRKE AND DENHAM MEET Ralph forgot every language but his native English in the desperate excitement of the moment. "Halloa! Ahoy!" he vociferated, without knowing what he called; but, to his great astonishment, the reply was no Burmese "Ameh!" (mother) the universal exclamation among the natives of that country upon every occasion. No, one figure started violently, turned sharply round, lifted a hand to shade its eyes, with a gesture strangely familiar, and an English voice, equally strange and equally familiar, responded, "Halloa! Ahoy!" to his cry. A great bustle was apparent, immediately, among the little party of fishermen. Some ran off by the path which had brought them there, evidently under direction from the leader of the party; some busied themselves in launching a little canoe, which Ralph had not previously discerned, being hid by overhanging bushes; and two men, putting off in it, prepared to ferry it across to the island. Well was it that Ralph had not attempted to swim across that stream. These were lusty fellows, but all their strength was needed to row against it. The man who had answered Denham's call in English words, was one of the two; and Ralph stared hard at him as the canoe drew near. There was something familiar in the attitude and movements, but the head was covered with a mass of curly black hair, while a forest of dark whisker, beard, and moustache concealed the lower part of the face, and flowed over the hairy breast. The dress was made of the same material as that of the natives,--a dark blue cloth, patterned with wavy black lines; but it differed in shape, consisting of a pair of loose trousers gathered into a waistband, and confined there with a coloured handkerchief, just such as young men in England tie over their cricketing flannels. A loose cotton jacket, open at the chest, and leaving the arms bare, was worn above this,--an outlandish costume, yet manly, and not unbecoming. It was also of European fashion, clearly betraying that its wearer was no native of that country. "I never saw that fellow before," thought Ralph, "yet somehow I seem to know him." The canoe drew nearer, the rower looked back over his shoulder, uttered a loud cry, and, flinging down his oar, sprang to his feet with the exclamation-- "Good God! Denham! Is it possible?" Recognition came in the same instant. "Kirke!" cried Ralph. Nearly a year had elapsed since the two had met, but Ralph, being two or three years younger than Kirke, and of fairer complexion, had not altered so much, neither had he been living so long in the wilds out of reach of barber and other civilised influences. Overjoyed on each side to meet with an Englishman, an accustomed face, they clasped each other's hands with eager greeting at the first impulse, forgetful of all ill-will, but Kirke drew back the next minute and hung his head. "It is good of you to take my hand, Denham," said he. "Can you forgive me all I did and tried to do to you." "I do not properly know what that was," said Ralph joyously. "I have never understood why you did not like me, nor believed half the others wanted to make out; but I am ever so glad to see you now." "And you can forgive me?" "Anything, everything, if you will only help me to get out of this place." "Are you alone?" "Yes, quite alone. I missed my party, and am lost. I have been wandering in the jungle for many days, and was starving." "And in _that_ state? A literal Baresarker costume." "Even so." "Come along, I can do something to remedy _that_, at anyrate." He hurried Ralph into the canoe, spoke a few words to his companion, and began to pull back to the mainland with great energy. Arrived upon the shore, he despatched one of the Burmans for assistance, and the man scuttled off, grinning with immense goodwill; while the rest jabbered around the two strangers as they proceeded towards the village, where half the inhabitants were bustling about in eager hospitality. Rice and fish were brought, plantains, pickled tea, cocoanuts and green ginger. Kirke mounted into his dwelling, and produced a garb similar to his own; and offered cheroots, which however Ralph did not accept. He devoured the food with the appetite of a growing boy who had not tasted food for twenty-four hours; and Kirke piled up the bowl from which he ate whenever its contents shrank beneath the rim. "Hold hard!" cried Ralph at last, "even I am gorged and can eat no more." "Then tell me how you came here, and all that you have done since I saw you," said Kirke. "As to all that I have been doing, that would be a long tale to tell," replied Ralph; "but, shortly put, I have been going about the country with Mr. Gilchrist, getting plants for Mr. Herford--orchids chiefly. We have not only got the things bodily to send home, but made drawings, whenever we could, of anything rare or special. About a fortnight ago we fell in with some wild elephants in a lonely place, and, in escaping from an old bull that had been turned out of the herd, as we fancied, I got separated from the rest of them, and met with a family party of tigers--papa, mamma, and offspring. I had to cut my lucky again; and, somehow, between the two adventures, lost my way, and could not find any of the fellows I was with. After roaming about, up hill and down dale, till I found that I was really befogged in the wilderness, it seemed the best thing I could do was to follow down the first water-course I could find, in hopes of coming somewhere in time. So I managed to knock up a gimcrack sort of a kind of raft, that served my turn as well as a better, till the rapids here broke it all to smithereens, and landed me yonder; where I must have died if you had not picked me off." "I should think you had about enough of rafts by this time," said Kirke sadly. "I have not had enough of friends in need," replied Ralph. "You are a real good fellow, Denham," said the other, reaching out his hand to him. "I have wanted this long time to tell you how sorry I am for all that took place in the poor old _Pelican_, and to ask your forgiveness for my conduct to you. I was a bad messmate, a bad man in every way; but I see things differently now, and would do anything I knew of to redeem the past, if only I could see how. I did cut that rope, in a fit of mad jealousy, and repented of it as soon as it was done. I have suffered much from remorse since." "That you repented as soon as you had done it, showed that you were not wholly bad at heart," said Ralph. "Don't say any more to me about it, Kirke. If you have made your peace with God, there is no need for me to preach, you know. Let us be friends in the future." The two young men shook hands heartily, and Kirke felt happier than he had hoped ever to be again. He took Denham into the hut where he lived, and found him a mat to lie upon, the most luxurious bed upon which Ralph had stretched himself for many days. He was soon wrapped in the sweetest of slumbers thereon. Sleep lasted till far into the next day, for he was quite worn out, and his quarters were fairly comfortable. When he awoke, he found Kirke watching him with grave earnest eyes, which brightened into a smile in response to Ralph's joyous greeting. A good wash was Denham's first demand that morning; and when he had thus refreshed himself, he was indued into a suit of light garments such as Kirke wore, of European fashion, though constructed from native cloth; and then attacked the cold breakfast awaiting him. "It is ever so good of you to provide me like this, Kirke," said he. "A fellow must have been reduced as low as I was to appreciate properly the comfort of being 'clothed and in one's right mind.' But how you come to be living here like this, is a mystery to me." "You need have no scruples," replied Kirke. "My people at home are well-to-do folks, and I always had plenty of money. I had it in a belt that I always wore, and this helped me to get off from Moulmein, for it was chiefly in gold, and the Burmese understand English gold. I have some shots in the locker yet, for living is cheap in these wilds, and I have been ill, so have not wanted a great deal. I made up my mind to stay here till the rice harvest is gathered, for it might then be possible to get a passage to Rangoon, when they take it to market there. Once in Rangoon, I can always get supplies from home again; and, indeed, have a couple of English banknotes that will take me along for a time. Don't have any scruples as to having a little from me. You are safe to fall in with your people again in Rangoon, or the Herford's branch there would advance to you, even if you do not believe that I owe to you a debt that money will never replace." "You are very generous," said Ralph, "and I am thankful to meet with anyone who both can and will help me. I know that I should be able to repay you in Rangoon, if we ever reach that place; so, meantime, thank you kindly. How long do you reckon it will be before the harvest will be ready?" "Well, the rice is growing ripe. Look there, they have stuck up those beautiful erections all about lately." In effect, there were three or four stages, fixed about fifteen feet above the ground, in different places. Each of these erections was of a size to accommodate a squatting Burman, smoking happily, with a bowl of rice and a jar of water by his side. Every now and then he gave a tug at a string, which communicated with a machinery of simple nature, consisting of bamboos, feathers and twine in endless ramifications, all set fluttering by the pull. This, and an unearthly screech uttered at the same moment, aroused a cloud of little green parrots that were feeding upon the rice. They fluttered and squalled in unison with the fluttering and squalling of the native, and all creation was lively. Then the Burman sank again into meditation upon the life of Guadama, or into slumber, or whatever he pleased to call it; the parrots went back to their feast, and all proceeded quietly until the watchman's sense of duty once more impelled him to exertion. "We shall cut all that the birds condescend to leave us soon now," said Kirke. "In the meantime the fishery is going on, and the preparation of 'ngapé'! Can't you smell the stinking stuff on the breeze? Faugh!" "I hope we may get a passage in a boat which carries rice alone," said Ralph, with a face of disgust. "How can the Burmese eat that disgusting stuff!" The preparation of this favourite dainty in the Burmese commissariat, which is manufactured chiefly from rotten fish pounded up into a paste with various condiments, poisoned the air. Prawns are the favourite fish used, but there were none in this place. Such secluded valleys as that into which Kirke had strayed, are great homes of this industry, for the fish come up into them in huge swarms to spawn, and are left behind, in the lakes and pools, when the hot season dries up much of the super-abundant water. To catch them is then easy, and the trade a profitable one. "Oh," cried Kirke, "we won't go in one of those boats! Trust Jamie Kirke for that. Sooner than be stunk out of life like that, we will imitate the Welsh young lady's forefathers in the Flood, and have a boat of our own. We could sell it again in Rangoon. I don't know whether, now that you are here to help me, it would not be as well to cross these plains, and get a boat for ourselves on the Sittoung River. We could navigate it easily between us if we were careful about the bore." "That would be very jolly," said Ralph. "I and my cargo," pointing to his precious bundle of orchids. "My cargo will not overburden you, I should be loath to part with it now, having brought it through so much peril that I almost have a superstitious feeling that it consists of my 'luck.' We should be more help than hindrance to you." "You talk of superstitious feelings, Denham, but there is only a slight boundary between faith and superstition. I should not call it _superstition_ on my own part to believe that you had been sent by Providence to me, in answer to prayer for forgiveness and help." "I know what you mean," replied Ralph gravely. "God does lead us in mysterious ways, and it is among these wonderful places that one learns to believe in what He can perform. We have seen strange things, both of us, since we left the humdrum Liverpool streets." "Perhaps He was as plainly to be met with there, if we had but opened our eyes to note His footprints. Here we are shaken out of our own common jogtrot ways,--waked up,--have had our everyday husks peeled off, and are brought face to face with nature in its marvellous sublimity and simplicity." The two young men sat silently after this, watching the movements of a couple of girls, whose occupation had suggested Kirke's simile. They crouched upon their heels, one on either side of a handmill, in which they were husking "paddy," or rice in the original state, for the next family meal. The handmill consisted of two hollow wooden receptacles, the upper one furnished with two handles, by which the girls worked it half round to the right and back to the left. This threw the grain through the grooved sides into the lower vessel, grinding the chaff off on its way. From the lower bowl it escaped to the floor through a hole in the bottom. From the heap thus accumulated, a child emptied the rice into baskets, pouring it from one into another until the husk was fairly well winnowed from it; and then threw it into a mortar, sunk into the ground, and in which a heavy pestle worked by means of a long lever affixed to it, upon the end of which a graceful maiden was balancing herself, thus working it up and down to the time of a monotonous song which she chanted to herself-- "Oh! rice ka la! come! Oh! rice ka la! come! Mee Meht calls you, come, come!" The rice grain gleamed white as pearls from among the dusky chaff as she worked; and ever and anon, with some joke from one or the other, the girlish voices bubbled over into a merry laugh. "They seem happy," said Ralph. "Ay, they do," Kirke replied, "but they are like animals,--_they_ do not 'look before and after.'" CHAPTER XXIII FIGHT WITH DACOITS Neither a boat in which to descend the river, nor a bullock-cart in which to reach its banks, were to be hired until the harvest was ready, so there was nothing for it but patience. Neither Kirke nor Ralph felt themselves quite strong enough to be inclined for excessive haste. Kirke's illness, and Denham's sufferings in the jungle, made a little further rest still desirable before running the risk of more danger and new fatigues. They therefore remained quietly in the village contentedly enough, learning to know each other and like each other better every day. They had long conversations, discussions of every subject which occurred to them. Each had undergone a training so different from the other that they never saw any matter in exactly the same light, and their opposite experiences were mutually valuable. Kirke's deep and dark knowledge of life was a warning to Denham; his own boyish lightness and gaiety were encouraging to his friend. Meantime the rice ripened, was cut, and put up in stooks, ready for the threshing floor, in true scriptural fashion; for the manner of husking it by hand, as before described, was too slow and costly to be practised upon large quantities; neither was the paddy grained at all for mercantile purposes, as machinery was so much more convenient for the purpose. Much rice, indeed, is brought to England in the form of paddy; and cleaned there by steam mills, of which there are many in Liverpool and elsewhere. In the valley where Ralph and Kirke found themselves, it was a prosperous year. The people had been able to buy a sufficiency of excellent young plants, the weather had been favourable to their growth, the yield was good--the strangers had brought them luck. But was it good or bad luck that the report of their riches should have gone forth over the land, and created envy in the hearts of some among their neighbours--idler, poorer, less fortunate than they? But so it was. Down from the wild hillside came a party of four or five men from a neighbouring outlying village, armed with guns and pistols. They crept along, hidden by boulder and rock; crawling through gulley, and channels of dried-up streamlets, to reconnoitre; to judge of the wealth in the village, and the exact moment when it could be seized upon to the greatest advantage. Dacoity, as it is called, is the great curse of the hill and jungle parts of Burma. The Burman hates hard work--it is so much easier to help himself to his neighbour's rice than to grow it for himself. If his crop fails, why should another man have more than he wants? Down he comes in the night, sets the village on fire, kills the men, carries off the maidens, and appropriates the property. The English law is severe upon the dacoit, but, at the time when Ralph Denham was wandering about in these wild regions, British Burma consisted only of a long strip of seaboard, backed by a mountain-range which divided it from Siam, and of the rice-growing lands in Pegu, formed by the widespread delta of the Irriwaddy River. It was very easy for ill-doers to escape over the borders of the British possessions either to the east or north, and English law could not reach them. Law and order elsewhere was conspicuous by its absence, therefore the dacoit flourished. The English authorities set a price upon these robbers' heads, so it was short shrift for them if caught. To avoid this unpleasantness, they killed their enemies whenever they found that this procedure suited their convenience; and, in order to deter pursuit, they endeavoured to strike terror into the hearts of those who might seek to apprehend them, by a peculiar refinement of cruelty in the manner of killing them. Thus they were not nice people to meet with--far from it. The two young men were sitting together, in the cool of the evening, upon the raised platform which ran round their hut, and formed a verandah, roofed with thekkee,--a kind of dried grass,--but open on every side to the air. There had been a magnificent sunset, whose gorgeousness had yet hardly faded from the western sky. They had been talking, but the soothing influence of the hour was upon them and they were silent now. Soft curls of smoke wafted away from Kirke's cheroot; and Ralph sat on a mat, leaning against the bamboo support of the verandah, gazing dreamily over the landscape before him. Ralph's vision was very keen, and he now became aware of three or four men, dimly perceptible among the gathering shadows, creeping along the river-bank, stooping low to be thus better concealed by the reeds which grew upon it. Their movements were suspicious, and he quietly called Kirke's attention to them. Kirke could not see them, and thought that Ralph had imagined their presence. "No," said Denham, "it is not imagination; they move a short way, and then keep quite still for a full minute or more. It is that which makes me think that they are up to mischief. Fix your eye upon that clump of reeds the farthest to the left of four. Now, there, don't you see something come out from behind it?" "Ah! I do," exclaimed Kirke. "One, two, three, four, five things. They are men's heads, as sure as a gun! Ralph, it strikes me that this means dacoity." "I believe it does," replied Ralph. "There is a large sledge there laden with paddy. The beggars are after that to a certainty." "Have at them!" cried Kirke. "Don't let us allow their knavish tricks to succeed." "Halt," replied Ralph. "Those fellows have guns, and long swords or daggers. There are other things stuck into their waistbelts, which are either pistols or knives, perhaps both. Have we weapons at hand? There are five of them, we two could do little against them alone; we had better call up old Shway Poh, and some of the villagers, to help." "Moung Shway Poh won't be of much use. He will talk resignedly of those scamps being the 'five enemies,' or the 'five duties,' or the 'five great acts of sacrifice.' That rice is not his, he will be perfectly resigned to the thieves annexing it." "We must use a little gentle force then, to persuade him that one of the ten precepts is to preserve your neighbour's goods when you accept authority over him. Shway Poh did not get this village to eat just to keep his own rice safe, or his own skin either. But, Kirke, it is not only that lot of rice which the beggars want. They may be short of food, and mean to have that, but what they are _really_ after is the village wealth, the ornaments which the women wear, the money in the monastery, the valuables generally. The important thing is to beat them off there, before they creep into the village to find out what the people have." "Perhaps you are right. Some of those girls wear really magnificent jewellery at their festivals; and it seems to me that they sport more and more of late. Even that little Sunshine child came out the other day in a pair of ruby earrings that might make a duchess' mouth water. So here goes. I bought these guns only last week for our journey. They are not first-rate ones, but serviceable. And here is a good bowie-knife for you, and one for me. Now for Mr. Golden Grandfather." They found the head man of the village, who rejoiced in that lovely name, squatted with his family around a huge tray of rice and chillies, flavoured with oil and salt. He was shovelling his supper into his mouth with vast relish, and was extremely averse to exertion, having already gobbled up so much as to make movement inconvenient. "The Englishman mistakes," he said. "Dacoits never come here. They know well that I am a Friday's child, fierce and passionate as the tusked elephant which protects my soul. They dare not incur my wrath. The village is safe as long as I am its chief." "_You_ fierce and passionate?" cried his wife contemptuously. "So you may be, but your fierceness is like the flame of a chaff fire, it flares up easily and is out again in one minute. Did we slave and labour for our beautiful jewels simply to give them to the thief? No indeed. Show me, golden[1] youth, where the dacoits are to be seen. Will they be content with one sledge full if they are down upon us, Poh Pyin?[2] Answer me that." She went out into the verandah, but the house was situated behind a grove of trees which hid the rice-sledge from her sight. "We must go in the boats," said she. "Then go armed," implored Ralph, "for the robbers are armed to the teeth." "You are sure?" asked she. "Quite sure," said Ralph. She called up some of the men; and the village chief having now plucked up a little energy, a boat was prepared, and put off across the stream. So much time was lost, however, that the robbers had already linked two sledges together, and were punting them away with all speed. Upon seeing the villagers' boat, which was impelled by six men, gaining rapidly upon them, and followed by two more, they pointed their guns at the foremost. "Stand back!" they cried, "or we fire." "We had better return," whispered the fat old Shway Poh. "Coward!" hissed out Kirke, thirsting for the fray. "What! they are but five." "They are desperate men," whined Shway Poh. "If we lose our rice, there is nothing but dacoity before us, ourselves, next winter," said one of the men. The boat shot ahead, and tried to run athwart the first sledge. The dacoits fired. Had five guns really been able to kill six men? There were five rowers, and Shway Poh steering. Ralph had the sixth oar, and Kirke's gun rang out in response to the attack, but only he and Denham remained steady at their posts. All the Burmans were bowled over. Strange that the dacoits' shots should have hit them all, and missed Kirke's broad figure standing erect in the bows. Did he bear a charmed life? There was another explanation of the mystery. He who fights and runs away, may always live to fight another day. The six Burmans were all prostrate at the bottom of the boat, and the shots had passed harmlessly above them. Neither had they been taken with very true aim, for all had gone wide of the mark. A kick from Kirke aroused the man nearest to him. "Get up, you scoundrel!" thundered the young man. "What are you funking there for? Seize them before they can reload!" He threw himself out of the boat, which had now crossed the stream, and tore the pole from the hands of one dacoit. Ralph followed, and seized another by the throat, but the fellow's body was thickly besmeared with cocoanut oil, rendering him so slippery that he actually slid through his hands, and Denham's foot slipped, throwing him down. Up he sprang in an instant, and tried to grasp the fellow's garments; but, with a wriggle and a twist, he was out of the coiled cloth in one moment, leaving it in Ralph's hands, while he stood for the space of a second, free of all impedimenta, then bounded into the jungle. Ralph gave chase, but had no chance against the lithe limbs of the Burman, well used to such encounters, and almost as supple as a snake. After a short pursuit, he turned back to assist his friends, seeing the undesirability of separating their party into single units. He found himself needed. Upon the report of firearms, the natives in the other two boats held aloof, and were now returning to the village, towing, however, the rice sledges with them; and the valorous Mr. Golden Grandfather was in the act of stepping into their own, with evident purpose of following in their wake. Kirke had knocked down one of the dacoits, who was either killed or lay senseless on the ground. Using his long pole as a quarter-staff, and whirling it round his head in true old English style, he was making play against another, who, wholly unused to this style of thing, was defenceless in his hands. But the fourth was in the act of coming up behind Kirke with a knife in his muscular hands,--a long curved knife of deadly power--and actually had it raised in air, ready to plunge into the young man's back, beneath the shoulderblade. Ralph caught his own dagger from his cummerbund, and dashed upon the enemy's rear, with a cry of "'Ware, Kirke!" Kirke turned, saw his danger, and faced it. Ralph plunged his dagger at the dacoit, who raised his arm to protect his head, and received the blow in the fleshy part of it. The fifth robber crawled up through the long grass, and wounded Ralph in the leg, bringing him to the ground; but Ralph caught his first opponent by the ankle as he lay, holding him there with a grasp of iron, and brought him down over him. Kirke's guns had been left in the boat, unfortunately; but the two English lads had given the dacoits no time to reload theirs, so that the fight was pretty equal. Now, however, Mr. Grandfather, regarding himself as tolerably safe, began to blaze away from the boat to the assistance of his guests, and the tide of battle turned. The dacoits evidently thought this too long odds, and fled, leaving one of their number behind. Kirke turned him over with his foot, as the others disappeared, and found him quite dead,--an ugly sight, with his dark, evil, scowling face set in the ashy hue of death. "Pah!" cried Kirke. "What carrion!" "Poor wretch," said the gentler Denham, "I am very sorry for him." "Dacoit will revenge this upon some of us," said Mr. Golden Grandfather. "This is a bad job for us." "Nonsense, old fellow," said Kirke lightly. "The dacoits have had enough of us for one while, and we will be prepared for them before they come again. The rice is safe at anyrate, that is one good thing. You must get it down to the creek with all speed. It would be the best way to set off to-morrow with morning light." "Yes, paya, you speak truth; but this bad job," reiterated Moung Shway Poh. The party returned silently to the village, there was no exultation over their victory, all were exhausted now the excitement was over, several had been more or less knocked about, and Ralph had lost a good deal of blood from a flesh wound in his leg. One of the women dressed it with some healing leaves, binding it up, and they all retired to rest, but the women as well as the men were inclined to look darkly upon the transactions of the evening, under the belief that though their treasures were the original inducement for the dacoits' arrival, those scoundrels would now never rest until they had avenged blood by blood. CHAPTER XXIV THE DACOITS BURN THE VILLAGE Moung Shway Poh retired to his virtuous sleeping-mat, and sought peaceful oblivion among his family. The other villagers also separated, each to his place, and the two English lads went to their hut. "Do you think there is anything in what the grandfather says, Kirke?" asked Ralph anxiously. "I have no doubt but what the dear old sinner's experience of his kind is exhaustive, and the ladies seem to echo his idea," replied Kirke. "But I should think that the beggars had got enough for to-night. They will want to pull themselves a little together before they make a fresh attack. We may sleep the sleep of the just for a few hours, my boy." "It would be just as well to load the guns, and see that our other things are all to hand, though," said Ralph. "Careful and provident youth! Perhaps you are right," quoth Kirke. Accordingly they examined their weapons, prepared and laid them to hand, ate their suppers, and stretched themselves on their mats. Kirke was asleep in five minutes, but Ralph's wound began to throb and ache, and the distress from it kept him awake. He was feverish too, and twisted and turned on his bed, unable to find ease in any posture. Now he thought he heard stealthy movements around him; then he lost consciousness for a few moments, and awoke with a start, fancying that a snake was crawling over him, or that he was once again confronted by a leopard's glaring eyes. He told himself over and over again that the sounds were but the soft rustling of bats' wings, the scramble of rats along the rafters of the hut, or the whirr of mosquitoes in the damp night air. It was of no use, sleep forsook his eyes, although he was so tired that he longed for its balminess. Instead of finding its refreshment, he was haunted by all the stories of dacoits which he had heard at Moulmein and elsewhere. He thought of one young lady who was said to have been gently lifted from her bed, the mattress removed from beneath her and appropriated, while she was replaced upon the framework without being awakened. He remembered how a gentleman, fancying he heard sounds in the house, got up, and entangled his feet in garments belonging to his wife lying about on the floor. "What is that untidy ayah of yours about, to leave your things scattered on the ground like this?" scolded he. "She did not throw them down," said the lady; "I saw her lay that habit on the chest of drawers, ready for me to put on in the morning." Her husband by this time had struck a light, and found the whole chest of drawers gone. The servants were called up, a search instituted, and the piece of furniture discovered in the compound, rifled of all its contents. He laughed to himself, for the fiftieth time, over the remembrance of the doctor's wife, who awoke in the night to see a dusky figure stooping over a nice, carefully-locked mahogany box, in the act of lifting it to carry it away. Being a brave woman, she sprang up into a sitting posture, clapping her hands with a sudden sharp sound. The robber dropped his booty, leapt over the verandah, swarmed down one of the posts which supported it, and vanished in a moment. By this act of presence of mind, she saved her husband's stomach-pump. Other more gruesome anecdotes recurred to his memory in wearisome procession, and murdered sleep as effectually as Macbeth had ever done. Hour passed after hour in this manner, but yet surely it could not be daylight already? The sun was given to springing rapidly up in these regions, but not with so sudden a glow as this, nor with so brilliantly red a colour. What was it? Conviction flashed upon him at once, there was fire somewhere. "Kirke! Kirke!" he cried. "Up, man, the dacoits are firing the village!" Up sprang Kirke, and the two rushed out of their hut, to see half a dozen of the pretty slight houses around them blazing like torches, while demon figures leapt and howled around, flinging burning brands upon the inflammable roofs of palmy thekkee leaves, and in at the open doorways of the slender bamboo and matted walls. The wretched villagers, caught like rats in so many traps, must either be burnt with their houses, or be chopped down by the dahs carried by the merciless robbers. Man, woman, and child,--all alike murdered in cold blood by their unsparing hands. The assassins were but a gang of four, therefore, probably, was the same band as that which the villagers had beaten off in the evening, with the loss of one; for the dacoit generally works in parties of five. It might well be supposed that a whole village, consisting perhaps of fifty men, with women and young people, could easily have repelled an attack from so small a party as that; but it must be understood that, to preserve the people from the floods in the wet season, and the fear of wild animals at all times, the houses were raised upon high piles; each, therefore, being isolated completely from its neighbour. When the floods were out, one lady would take her boat even to borrow a cheroot from her nearest friend; the population lived in boats almost wholly; their houses were little more than shelters in which to eat and sleep. They contained no effects to induce a love for "home," in the Englishman's understanding of the word,--few appliances for occupation or pleasure. A chest or box for containing the best clothes and ornaments; a sufficiency of mats and rugs for beds; a "byat," or wooden dish, lacquered, from which they eat their rice; a few little bowls to hold small quantities of more tasty articles for flavouring the tasteless staple of their food; and half a dozen earthen pots or jars,--these form the sum total of a Burman's Lares and Penates; and there is nothing among them to create "house-pride" among the ladies, or a love for home-keeping in the gentlemen. All their amusements and pleasures are taken out of doors, in public. But the family retires, at "sky shutting-in time," for sleep; and the dacoit who means mischief can take them practically one by one, burning the edifice, and destroying, or watching, the means of descent from the little platform upon which it is erected. As Kirke and Ralph rushed out from their hut, they saw the ground at the foot of the next one strewn with the bleeding corpses of the father and three sons who dwelt there, while the aged grandmother crouched shuddering among the blazing rafters, and pretty little Miss Sunshine, the gay, merry child who had played a hundred tricks upon them, and laughed with them so often, clung to the kingpost, shrieking with terror, while the dacoits chopped and mangled the bodies of her nearest and dearest friends, and leapt up howling to reach her, and sweep her into the same holocaust. "Oh, paya, paya, save me!" she implored, stretching her little hands towards them, the tears coursing down her painted cheeks. "My God!" cried Kirke; "the bloodthirsty scoundrels!" He caught up his gun and fired, but the dacoits were never still; they danced from place to place; they seemed to be ubiquitous, there was no taking aim at any one of them. Well was it for the English lads that Ralph had loaded the guns, and laid their pistols to hand. The steady fire maintained by Kirke kept the dacoits at bay, they retired to a little distance; and Ralph descended from their verandah on the dark side, and put up a rough ladder for the girl and old woman to come down. Sunshine sprang quickly to it, but the old woman was paralysed by fear and could not move. "Escape, my pretty, into the jungle," whispered the boy hurriedly to his little playmate, who needed no second bidding to disappear into the darkness; while he ascended the ladder, protected by Kirke's gun, took the aged crone on his back, and essayed to return by the same means. The charred bamboos crashed down as he seized the woman; the burning thekkee on the roof set her clothes on fire; she was a burden too heavy for his strength, he could not carry her. The dacoits came running and howling up once more,--once more did Kirke's gun roar out its protecting voice, and a robber fell. His companions rushed forward, and drew him back,--he was hit in the thigh, and could not stand; the others raged at a safe distance. All this took but a few minutes of time, and some of the villagers now hurried up, and formed a circle around the supports of Kirke's house; while one, another son of the old woman, rushed up the ladder, and helped Ralph to bring his mother down and seat her on the damp ground beneath the verandah. Several other women were brought in there also, the ring of men encircling the place, prepared to fire or strike at the dacoits if they ventured within reach. The long dahs,--sharp-edged swords,--worn by the dacoits down their backs, and drawn by both hands over the right shoulders, proved to be deadly weapons, and the battle raged long, with horrid outcry, and many a gaping wound; but the enemy was beaten off at last, bleeding, baffled and exhausted, scorched, maimed, and yet howling with rage and pain. A second man of their party had been killed. Ralph had forgotten his wounded leg in the recent excitement; it was but a flesh wound, though a deep one. With care and rest it would have been quite healed in a few days, but the exertion which he had taken inflamed it much. It might be that the weapon with which he received the hurt had rust, or some deleterious matter upon its blade; but, however that might be, the place assumed a very ugly appearance, and suppurated. Kirke washed it well with warm water, applied fresh leaves and bandages--what else to do he did not know, but felt very uneasy, for in spite of the large quantity of blood which his friend had lost, he grew so feverish at night. The villagers who had been burnt out were dispersed among the huts left standing. Kirke set a watch, and went round from time to time to see that the watchmen did not sleep at their posts. He had taken the command of the hamlet, all appearing willing to submit to the leader who had shown so much daring and courage; but his own heart was heavy within him. Except Denham, he had no trust in any one of his followers. The Burmese can be fierce by spasmodic fits, but their natural temper is easy, pleasure-loving, inert. There is in them none of the elements which constitute a good soldier. They would rather fly than fight at any time. If Denham were going to be seriously ill, he had no reliance upon anyone, no friend to back him up. He believed that the dacoits would certainly return for vengeance, if not for the treasures. What would be the end of it all? He went his rounds, having to awaken one or two of his watchers every time; he returned, to bathe Ralph's brow, change the healing leaves, give him drink, and observe him anxiously; then he went his rounds again. What a weary, weary day it was, he could not keep up the strain long; and, oh horror! suppose that Denham had been wounded by a _poisoned_ sword. It was dark again; every hour full of danger. How could he meet it? how overcome it? However, about dawn Ralph's fever lessened, his skin became cool and moist, and he fell asleep. That fear was off his mind for the time, but the peril in which they stood had by no means lessened. CHAPTER XXV DESPERATION No, the peril was none the less to any of the villagers, and greatly increased to the Englishmen, for the natives began to look darkly at them. Kirke had made them all leave their inflammable houses, perched like dovecots high upon poles, and had encamped in a little clearance at the edge of the jungle. This he insisted upon enlarging to the best of their ability, cutting down all cover beneath which the dacoits could steal upon them unperceived. So dense was the scrub that this was hard work, and the Burman hates hard work. Kirke, with British energy, set the example himself, hacking, hewing, and felling, with promptitude which was far from being seconded. He caused the débris to be built up around a circle, within which he entrenched the women and children, with all the household effects that could be gathered together, and would fain have thrown up earthworks to the best of his ability, but the Burmans would not dig them out. He insisted upon the houses which remained being cut down from their elevations, lest the dacoits should succeed in mounting to them, and firing down upon the camp; and this annoyed the short-sighted owners more than anything else. "Why should we destroy our houses?" they said. "The dacoits are gone now. We have given them the fire to eat, and they have had enough of it. We wear the charm against fire and sword, the blessed nats will protect us, ours are stronger than theirs; and the houses must be put up again before the next flood-time comes." "True," argued Kirke, "but meantime you may be all killed. The dacoits are certain to return, perhaps in much greater force. They will come determined to avenge the deaths of their friends, and they also wear charms. You must take measures for your own safety. Cannot you get help from any neighbours strong enough to protect you? Is there no English station within reach? Could no scout be sent to any British police-station, to tell them of our need and beg assistance? There must be some such place. Cannot we send word to Rangoon?" The Burmans looked at each other. They knew well enough that there was a police-station within twenty miles of them, but they had concealed the fact from Kirke because they wanted his money. He had brought prosperity to them, and they did not want to lose him. He had proved to be a perfect godsend to them hitherto; but it was plain to them that the reputation of this very prosperity had partly caused the dacoits to assail them. Would it be best for them now to keep the Englishmen with them longer, and fight the robbers themselves, or to make capital out of helping them to return to their friends, who, out of gratitude, would come and kill the dacoits for them? The question was hotly debated in the village conclave. Moung Shway Poh was jealous of Kirke's ascendency. He felt his authority tottering on its throne. Kirke spoke to him in a dictatorial tone, and ordered him about just as if he had been the veriest child, still untattooed; and the old man hated him. "We have the strangers with us," said he, "just as much as if we sent to the station and had the officers, who would bring good guns, big guns, kill the thieves, and save our houses. They would give us rewards for helping their countrymen; pay for the dacoits' heads--be a revenue to us for all next year. We should have plenty of rice, plenty of smoke, plenty of everything from them. This man has spent all he has now, he cannot have much left; and the boy has nothing at all, though he must eat and be clothed." But the other side was represented by the sons of the man who was cut down and mutilated by the cruel dahs of the dacoits,--by the children of the poor woman who, with her infant, had shared in her husband's fate, and whose grandmother and little sister had been saved by Ralph. Other victims had also fallen, and their relations thirsted to avenge blood by blood. They were eager to kill the dacoits themselves. To them, in that case, would belong the glory; to them would the butterfly spirits of the victims be grateful; to them would the price of the dacoits' heads be paid, which would be lost to them if the police shot them instead. Kirke, having superintended all the defences which he could prevail upon the Burmans to make, sat by the side of Ralph, who was sleeping profoundly on his mat, and watched the council--debating at a little distance--with great anxiety. He knew well what issues were under discussion; he had gauged the characters of these men accurately during his residence with them, and was convinced that they would treat him like an orange which had been sucked dry, and of which the rind was only flung away. He could have escaped by himself, and his resources, though nearly exhausted, were not yet quite at an end. He had enough left to hire or purchase a tat,[3] or pay for a passage in the big rice boat, and so make his way to an English settlement, where he could take his chance of punishment for his conduct on board the _Pelican_, and await remittances from home. Since meeting with Denham, his apprehensions of the consequences of his crime had dwindled down. No lives had been lost, much time had elapsed, and he had been of material service to Ralph. He was assured by Ralph that Mr. Gilchrist wished him no harm, and would prove placable. But it would be better for him to give himself up, rather than to be taken prisoner by English police; he would much prefer making his own way to Rangoon to being sent there as a captive. Yet he could not abandon Ralph, who was in no state for a hurried journey taken under the difficulties which must attend an escape. Even now the boy was muttering and rambling in his sleep, the fever was rising higher with the approach of nightfall, and the wound in his leg was terribly inflamed. Kirke changed the dressing, bathed it and Ralph's head and face with cool water, and changed his hot pillow. Ralph looked gratefully up at him as he woke up completely. "You are very good to me, old fellow," said he. "I am sorry to be such a nuisance; but, somehow, I feel very stiff and queer, and my head rages." "All right," said Kirke, a lump rising in his throat as he gazed upon his friend, so dear to him now. "All right, we will win through this worry soon. You are better." "Yes, I'm better," said Ralph, with a mighty effort at cheerfulness. "Drink this," said Kirke, offering some water to him; "go to sleep again, there is nothing else to be done, and I'm watching." Ralph drank the water, and soon fell into a calmer, more refreshing, slumber. Kirke went to examine his store of ammunition, and became graver than ever, for he found that it was running extremely short. There was no method by which he might replenish his powder; but the dacoits, with the whole country behind them, could get practically inexhaustible supplies. Kirke heaved a sigh, and sat down once more by the sleeping boy. It was growing dark, but the council still argued and disputed at a little distance from the circle entrenched, and words were running high among its members. All at once a shot was heard, and a bullet tore its way from the gloom of the trees, crashed through Kirke's stockade, and buried itself in the ground. "Ameh!" shrieked the women, springing to the farthest corners. The men leapt from their haunches, upon which they were crouching, and jumped over into the circle, glad enough now of the protection afforded them by Kirke's foresight, and once more willing to accept his gallant leadership. Whiz!--ping!--went a second shot; followed by a third--a fourth. Kirke caught up his gun, and blazed back a return fire, aimed in the direction from which the assault came. "But," thought he, "this is of little avail, for we cannot take aim at the wretches, whereas the blaze of our lamps makes us so many marks to them." But the firm resistance offered had an effect; the dacoits' shots lessened, then ceased. What did this mean? They must have some new scheme on foot. The besieged stood in line, facing the jungle, with the women and children behind. Suddenly, wild shrieks from them announced danger. Two of the dacoits had crept around, under cover of the long grass, crawling like snakes close to the ground, and were prepared to leap into the fence, dahs in hand. With one bound, Kirke sprang to that side with clubbed gun, and struck one man down from a swinging blow on the head. Ralph was at his side in the same instant, with a native spear in his hand, the first weapon which he could catch up. One of the women, who was engaged in cooking the supper, flung the pot of boiling rice at the intruders in the same moment of time. It hit another fellow right in his face, and the scalding contents ran down all his naked body, at which he uttered a demoniacal howl of pain. "Bravo, Miss Pretty!" called out Kirke. "Have at them! There's a plucky girl." Were it not for the women, who came gallantly to the aid of the men, the fight would have been a short and hopeless one, for the dacoits evidently had been reinforced in numbers. They assailed the little camp on all sides,--there was no spot from which a terrible face did not gleam and disappear. They tore at the defences with their hands,--they tugged at the stakes with feet and teeth,--they hurled darts, they fired shots,--now from this side, now from that. The villagers fought like wild animals,--both they and the dacoits uttering fierce yells and shrieks; only the two young Englishmen set their teeth, and silently struggled, side by side, with their doom. One--two dacoits more fell dead, but the rest were fiercer than ever. The ammunition was exhausted, their strength failing them, it was but desperation which enabled them to maintain the combat, but they fought on and on. Daylight broke at last; the short night was over, and the assailants retreated once more beneath the cover of the jungle. Kirke reckoned up his men. Two of them were wounded seriously, one by a cut on the head from a dah, the other by a gun-shot in the chest. One of the girls was thrust through the shoulder by a spear, and a child had been killed. All the powder was gone, but there were spears, dahs, and clubs in sufficient quantity,--also food,--and there were a good many musket balls still left. Moung Shway Poh had found a shelter beneath the thickest part of the stockade, where he was found, squatted on his heels, under the shade of the strongest umbrella that had been saved. "You old coward!" cried Kirke. "I missed you in the night, and wasted compassion upon you, fearing you were wounded or killed. Have you been hiding there all this time, while we others have been fighting for you?" "Don't be rude, Englishman," said the old sinner, with all the dignity which he could assume; "what would have become of my people if their grandfather were hurt. It was for their sake that I took care of myself; the royal self's lord should think what would become of all without the experience of my years to guide them." "Bosh!" cried the irreverent Kirke. But perhaps the ancient Burman did not understand English vernacular language. There was one missing whose disappearance caused both the young men much concern. Little Miss Sunshine, the pretty little village belle, the merry child of whom both had made such a pet, was nowhere to be found. They searched up and down, they called, they questioned everyone, but all fruitlessly. No one had seen her since Ralph had helped her to escape from the blazing hut. So imminent had been the peril, so hot the fighting, so much had there been to do in the intervals, so anxious was Kirke about Ralph, that it was not until he put the people into a sort of review, and counted them over, that the little girl was missed. It was Ralph who thought of her then. "Where is Miss Sunshine?" asked he. No one knew, no one had seen her, no one had thought about her. That she had fallen a victim to the dacoits in their ambush among the jungle was the most likely fate to have befallen her. She was gone, and had left no sign. With heavy hearts Kirke and Ralph set themselves to prepare for the inevitable renewal of the enemy's attack when darkness once more covered their approach. Kirke sharpened the spears and knives, and Ralph caused the women to tie up musket balls at either end of long pieces of cloth, such as they wore girded around their loins for clothing. These made excellent weapons, and the Burmese quickly mastered the knack of using them. Rice was prepared, water-pots refilled, fuel brought in, stones piled in heaps,--some of the people slept while others watched. All was put into the best order possible. A sorrowful event occurred in the course of the day, which fired the English breasts with indignation. One of the children in the village owned a pretty cat, which was the beloved of her heart, and responded to the petting which it received with all the love a cat can feel and show. The house in which this child lived was one of those destroyed by fire, and, though the inhabitants had escaped the intended massacre, no one had thought of the household pet. Little Golden-leaf had sobbed herself to sleep, fretting for its loss the night before; and her mother consoled her by saying that pussie had gone mousing into the jungle, and would come home when she had caught enough. About the middle of the day, a prolonged feline wail was heard, and the little one called out, "My puss, my puss, I hear her crying for me!" In another moment the poor cat was seen limping painfully along, leaving a track of blood along its path. Each of her four paws was cut off, and the wretched creature was trying to crawl back to its friends upon its stumps of legs, with the fillet from a dacoit's head tied to its neck, to which a sharp stone was attached. It made its tortured way through a tiny gap in the stockade, and tried to rub itself against its little mistress's legs in the old affectionate manner, in joy at having found her again. Little Golden-leaf burst into pitiful grief. "Your father will put it out of its pain," said her mother. "No, no, no!" sobbed the child, "he shall not put his soul in danger for me or my puss. The good Englishman will cure my puss, and its little paws shall grow again. Won't they?" cried she, turning to Ralph. "No, my pretty; it would be kinder to kill poor pussie at once," said he. "No, no!" reiterated the tender-hearted little girl,--"No, no! I cannot bear it. Make pussie well, good kind man." Ralph had not the heart to distress her further. He felt very sick as he looked at the maimed animal, and thought what the message with which it had been sent might mean. What had been the fate of pretty Little Miss Sunshine, when the wretches could have exercised such cruelty upon a helpless dumb animal! He tied up the mangled legs of the poor cat, and it tried to purr as it lay in its little friend's arms while the operation went on. The child then carried it to the fire, and sat down to nurse and cuddle it, while Kirke built up a sort of rampart over and around her, to serve as a shelter as well as possible. "They meant that as a hint of what they will do to any of us if they catch us alive," said he to Ralph. "They _must_ catch none of us alive," replied Denham. "May God help us all," sighed Kirke. "In Him do I put my trust," replied Ralph firmly. "If anything goes wrong with me," resumed Kirke, after a few moments, "you will send word to my father, won't you, Denham? and tell him I wish I had been a better son to him, and a better man, which I would have tried to be had I been spared." "I will," said Ralph, "if I am spared myself, but there is little chance for either of us." "I fear not," said Kirke; and neither of them spoke more for a long time. CHAPTER XXVI SUNSHINE'S HEROISM Kirke insisted upon Ralph's wound being redressed at intervals all through that dreadful day, whatever else was being done. "What's the use?" said Ralph, with a quaint smile. "I don't mean to leave a stone unturned," replied Kirke. "Somehow, I feel as if _you_ had a future before you whatever comes to the rest of us. You have nine lives, like that poor cat, which really seems content in the little one's lap after all its suffering." Ralph gave a short laugh, with a ring of bitterness in it. "While there is life there is hope, you think," said he. "Just so," replied Kirke. Again the day wore on, and the sun sank in the west. "It must soon be decided now," said Kirke. "Shake hands, old fellow, I am glad we met here, whatever befalls." "God for the right!" exclaimed Ralph, as their hands met. They then separated, for they had agreed each to command at one edge of the circle, and it was time to assume their places. None too soon, either, for, directly that the dusk made all things obscure, the attack once more began. It was probable that the dacoits themselves had run short of powder on the previous evening, and had utilised the day by going to their homes to fetch more, for again they commenced by blazing away at long range. But Kirke made the people crouch low, and had, through the day, considerably strengthened his defences, so that the firing caused few casualties for a long time. The besieged could only have returned the attack by stone throwing, which would have been of little use as long as the enemy remained under cover, and at a distance, while it would have betrayed the exhaustion of their ammunition. He therefore counselled a passive endurance of the firing, hoping by this means to lure the dacoits out of their cover into closer quarters; and this subterfuge took effect. The dusky figures crept out from behind the trees, and advanced stealthily. Kirke waited until they were within a couple of yards of the stockade, then sprang suddenly to his feet, and shouted-- "Now, my friends!" A pelting shower of stones seconded his cry; the enemy's advance was checked, the line wavered, broke, and began to retreat, when a shot rang out from the jungle,--a fatal, too well-directed shot, aimed at Kirke's tall commanding figure, and he fell. With a cry of dismay, Ralph sprang to the side of his friend, but the dacoits took fresh courage, and dashed at the defences in a body, like a dark wave pouring over a rocky shore. The flimsy barriers rocked and gave way before them, and all were inextricably mixed up at once in a deadly hand-to-hand warfare. Ralph, standing astride the body of his friend, fought like a madman. The ground beneath his feet grew slippery with blood; one--two dacoits fell beneath the desperate blows of his clubbed gun, over which he found that his hands took a better purchase than over the shaft of a spear; but his strength was deserting him, his adherents were falling around him, his head reeled, his sight began to fail him, and the sickness of a fainting fit nearly overpowered him. He believed his last moment was come, when--what sound met his ear? He must be delirious, mad--it could not be an English cheer! It could never be the gallop of horses' feet--many horses, tearing madly along the forest path? But again it came, nearer and nearer. "Hallo! hallo! Hurrah! There they are!" and a party of horsemen in white uniform dashed upon the scene. The tide of battle was turned, the dacoits tried to fly; the English police officers rode them down, shot them down, struck them down;--no mercy was shown. The robbers fought like demons, desperate in their turn, but all were killed or taken prisoners in half an hour, bound, cowed, conquered, and the fray was over. The English officer came up to shake his rescued countrymen by the hand, with frank, hearty greeting on his lip, but Ralph had thrown himself down on the ground, his face buried on the breast of his dead friend, choking with sobs. Mr. Brudenel, for it was he, felt a moisture arise to his own eyes at the sight. He turned aside, and brushed his hand across them, then knelt by Ralph's side, and laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder. "I am very sorry," said he; "would to God that I had been here but one hour sooner." "But one hour, but one little hour," moaned the boy. "Oh, my friend! my dear, true friend!" "It was the fortune of war, sir," said the officer. "It was the will of God. Be a man, sir; your friend did not suffer." "No," said Ralph, rising, "it was all in one minute. Oh, Kirke, Kirke! I cannot yet believe it that you are gone." He sank down again, for he could really not stand. The excitement which had given him fictitious strength was over, and all his powers were exhausted. Brudenel signed to his men to lift and carry him to a short distance, where they laid him down upon a mat, cast water on his face, and poured some drops of stimulant into his mouth. Some of the Burmese women drew round and fanned him, others brought all they had which they fancied might be of service. Leaving him to the best among these, Mr. Brudenel turned to his other duties. The wounded must be attended to, the dead buried, the surviving dacoits marched off to prison. Moung Shway Poh, who seemed to bear a charmed life, for he had come out of the affray unharmed, was clamouring a farrago of boastful explanations, servile gratitude, and accounts of his own great bravery in defending the countrymen of his royal lord's self. Fatigued by the clamour, of which he believed nothing, Mr. Brudenel swore at him for a noisy nuisance, and Mr. Grandfather turned to bestow his eloquence upon one of the native policemen, whose politeness was greater. All was done at last, some sort of order restored, the dead were buried, and Brudenel engaged to send assistance to the villagers in rebuilding their houses. Two or three of his men were left as a guard, with plenty of powder and shot, and the little encampment made as comfortable as circumstances permitted for the present. A hasty litter was prepared for Ralph, and carried by four of the villagers, hired for the purpose; and the horsemen mounted for their return journey. "By the bye," said Mr. Brudenel, turning back in the saddle as he prepared to start,--"By the bye, my wife has taken good care of that brave child, and she shall return in the bullock-bandy which will bring you the things I have promised to send you, along with your friends here who are carrying this gentleman." "Child,--brave child? Who do you mean, paya?" "Why, the brave little maid who came alone through the jungle to send us to your assistance. You must make much of her, for it was the deed of a heroine. You would not find many, much older than she, who would have done so brave a thing." Ralph raised himself upon his elbow. "Oh!" cried he, "was it Sunshine, the little maid whom we missed?" "I did not ask her name," replied Brudenel. "She said that the white boy had saved her life, and that of her grandmother; and she had walked twenty miles, over mountains and through jungle paths, to fetch us. She was quite exhausted on her arrival, and Mrs. Brudenel kept her to rest and recruit. You all owe your lives to her." "God bless her!" murmured Ralph. Yes, it was little Miss Sunshine to whom they had all owed their rescue. She knew of what the dacoits were capable; she was very fond of both Kirke and Ralph, who had petted her, taught her many things, given her many little treasures, ingeniously contrived after English fashion. They had played with her, and been always courteous to her--as gentlemen should ever be. No sooner had Ralph fetched her down from the blazing hut, than she hid herself in the jungle to watch the course of events. She saw the repulse of the dacoits, and tracked them to their lair in the jungle afterwards. There, understanding their speech so thoroughly, she discovered that the leader was the terrible Moung Nay Nya, the tiger, the terrible robber who was tattooed by the "Bandee-tha," and carried a ghastly "beloo" upon his chest, inoculated with a preparation compounded of dead men's flesh, which he had also chewed during the whole time that the operation had lasted. The "beloo" nature had thus entered into him, and given him the strength and ferocity of a wild beast itself. Sunshine had often heard of him, and shuddered, from the place of her concealment, to observe the marks which she had so often heard described. There was the horrible demon face on the man's broad muscular chest, with tail wound in voluminous folds around it, and claws extended beneath. There were the square-shaped charmed indentations which prevented bullet or sword-thrust from injuring the tiger-man, tattooed in both red and blue; there was a row of charmed stones let in beneath the skin of his neck, each of which endowed him with some wizard power or ensured him safety in combats. She noticed the long lean arms, the powerful hands, the muscular body, the sunken cheeks and cruel determined mouth, and trembled in every limb to think of his seizing her. She softly slipped farther and farther back under the shadow of the trees, and thought. Did this terrible tiger-man succeed in capturing her dear English boy, what tortures might he not inflict upon him were the ransom which he would certainly demand not paid! She could not bear to think of it. The tales which she had been told might have been exaggerated, but many of them were too true, nor did the appearance of the man belie them. Sunshine believed them all. While she hesitated, uncertain what to do, little Golden-leaf's pet cat came crying up to her, telling, in its own fashion, its story of fright and trouble, and glad to meet with a well-known friend. But, fearful lest the little creature should betray her whereabouts to the dacoits, she turned and fled, followed for a little way by the cat, but soon beyond the boundaries familiar to it, and it turned back to meet with the cruelty which the girl escaped. She ran and ran till she was tired, then sat down to rest, and cry. All at once, a resolution entered her mind. She would make her way to the police-station, where she would be safe, and whence aid for her friends would certainly be sent to them. She wished that she had thought of it before. The day was bright now, she knew in which direction the station lay, but she did not know how far off it was. Bravely did she set out, walking on, on, on; climbing steep hills, wading through marshy places, cutting her bare feet with stones,--hungry, tired, and disheartened, but persistent. She had to rest many times, and the day wore away and night fell. She struggled on to a pagoda which she saw on the side of a hill, and where she thought that she would pass the dark hours safely. She did not expect to find shelter there, for she knew that these erections were solid blocks of bricks, not buildings with chambers and apartments in which people lived. This one was deserted and ruinous. It had been a pious work to build it, but, the original founder having long been dead, it was not the business of anyone else to repair it as it became dilapidated under the influence of wind and weather. The piety which might have induced such a proceeding would not be counted to the score of the man who repaired, but to that of the first builder, in the other world. "Let everyone take care of himself," the Burman says, and leaves his father's good deeds to fall into decay, while he ensures his own salvation by putting up another showy building. Sunshine made her way to this place, holy in her simple eyes; and there, climbing up a pile of fallen bricks, found a fairly comfortable and sheltered seat, where she crouched all night long. At first she clasped her arms around her knees, and looked out upon the dim landscape, the winding stream shining in the valley beneath her, the brilliant stars in the deep blue sky above,--seeing nothing of the beauty of nature, but deeply impressed by its mystery, gazing straight before her with wide-open eyes of awe and distrust. But gradually fatigue overpowered her, and, leaning her head back against the stones, she fell asleep. Her sleep lasted long, and she woke when the sun was already high; arising stiff, hungry, and thirsty, to another toiling journey. First she would go down to the stream and drink. As she stooped, she saw a troop of horsemen cantering along the farther bank, taking their morning exercise. She knew the British dress--these were the people whom she was seeking; she stumbled through the stream, limped up to Mr. Brudenel, and implored him to ride fast to the rescue of her friends. "Oh, paya! paya!" she cried, "the dacoits burn our village, they murder all,--ride quickly and save my father. There are Englishmen there, they will murder them too,--ride fast, fast to save them!" Mr. Brudenel put quick questions to her; eliminated the chief features of the case; ordered one of the men to take the poor weary girl up to the station, and ask Mrs. Brudenel to look after her; galloped back for arms and reinforcements; and, on fresh horses, headed his troop for the rapid ride to the scene of action; arriving, as we have seen, when the besieged had come to their last gasp, and not in time to save all. CHAPTER XXVII CONCLUSION Mr. Brudenel, as has been said, met Sunshine while on his morning ride, and returned in desperate haste to gather up his men, and the ammunition, etc., necessary for the skirmish which he knew was in store for them. He met his wife, who, perceiving that some unusual event had happened, came anxiously to meet him. "What is it, my dear?" asked she. "Don't delay me, wifey," said he in violent hurry. "A girl has brought in an account of a daring outbreak of dacoity. From her story I hope to catch the fellow I have been looking out for this long time. Don't be frightened if I don't come home to-night, the place is some way off, and there will be a scrimmage; but all will go well, I hope." "A scrimmage!" exclaimed Mrs. Brudenel in terror. "Oh, Harry!" "Don't be a little goose, my dear; such things must come sometimes. There, kiss me,--don't worry yourself, good-bye. Take care of the girl till I come back," shouted he at the last moment, mounting his pony, and calling back over his shoulder, preparing to follow his men out of the compound. He was gone, and his wife's eyes were so full of tears that she could not see him to the very last. The clatter of the ponies' feet faded away, and she re-entered the house. Mr. Gilchrist, who had been taking an early ramble, met her. "What is all the excitement about?" asked he. "I hardly know," replied she; "some Burmese girl has brought news of dacoits, and Harry has gone to see about it. He expects to fight, and I am so frightened." The tears gathered again, and rolled down her white cheeks. "Don't alarm yourself, my dear young lady," said Mr. Gilchrist kindly. "Your husband has gone through such things a dozen times before safely, and we will hope that all will be right again. Where is the girl? Shall I talk to her and find out all about it?" "Oh, I would be _so_ much obliged if you would! I cannot understand half that the people say yet." Sunshine was in the cook's house, being fed and comforted by the servants. Mr. Gilchrist began to talk to her, and had not exchanged many sentences before his interest deepened into great excitement. "Osborn!--Wills!" he cried, "come here and listen. This girl says that there are young Englishmen in the village, is it possible that one could be our dear Ralph? What did you say they are called, my dear?" But the soft nature of the Burmese language utterly refused to accommodate itself to the harsh sounds of our friends' names. "Ralph" had always been pronounced "Yabé," and "Kirke" had been quite unmanageable, so he had proposed being called "Jamie," which was rendered "Yamie." "Yabé" and "Yamie" puzzled Mr. Gilchrist, who did not know that Kirke was christened James. "What are the Englishmen like, girl?" "Yamie is big, oh, so big!" said she. "He is good, but his eyes do not laugh like those of Yabé. They have dark fire in them, and he has hair all round," passing her hand about the lower part of her face. "It is like the jungle bushes." "What colour?" asked Wills. "Like yours," said she. Wills was black-haired and grizzled. His face fell. "He is old, then?" asked he. "No, young," replied Sunshine. "Young as a father." "It cannot be Ralph," said he. "That is what he calls the other," said Sunshine; "Yabé, that is what he calls him. Moung Yabé, Moung Shway Yabé, I say, for he is good, oh, so good! He came for me when the _thok'kee_ blazed, and all was on fire; he saved me, and took Me Poh on his back, and saved her from those beloos of thieves, and from the hot fire. Oh, Moung Yabé is strong and good, as gold--fine gold. My dear Moung Shway Paya Yabé." "Is he like me, too?" asked old Wills. Sunshine laughed out all over her face, her eyes danced with merriment. "Oh, no, no, no!" she cried. "Moung Yabé young, Moung Yabé beautiful! He laugh like Sunshine; he gay, he play with little Sunshine, throw roses at her, run after her--dance, sing. All the girls love Moung Yabé, my Moung Shway Yabé! Oh," she resumed, breaking down all at once into sorrow, "if the good soldiers are only in time to save my Moung Yabé from those beloos!" The men looked at each other. "Can it be Ralph?" they asked, hope dawning upon each in turn. "Is _his_ hair like the jungle bushes?" inquired Gilchrist. "No, no!" said Sunshine, cheering up again. "Moung Yabé is Shway Yabé, golden boy, white as the lady, no hair here," again passing her hand over her face. Sudden inspiration seized upon Osborn, "Does he sing like this?" asked he, beginning Ralph's well-known "I'll bang my harp on a willow tree." Sunshine laughed outright. "That is my Moung Yabé's music," said she; and, making it into a literal song without words, she finished the air with great glee. "My God!--my God is merciful!" ejaculated Mr. Gilchrist. "Osborn, my pony; quick, quick!" "Oh! are you going to help Mr. Brudenel?" asked his wife. "How good of you! You will keep him safe, won't you, and bring him back unhurt?" "Tell her, Wills!" shouted Mr. Gilchrist, forgetting his manners utterly as he rushed out to the stable. Osborn was as excited as he; they snatched down their saddles, had them upon their ponies in three minutes, and were tearing out of the compound before Mrs. Brudenel comprehended anything of the matter. Wills, indeed, forgot her interest, and the danger to her husband, in his wistful longing to accompany them. "I wish, I do wish I could ha' gone too," sighed he; but there was not a beast left in the stable now, all had gone, and only the servants of the house remained. By degrees the lady's questions recalled him to the present, and he told her all. There was much mystery about Sunshine's story even now. Who the Englishman was who had so much gold, and who had arrived in the village alone, and been so ill there, was a great puzzle. Sunshine said that he knew Moung Yabé, they were brothers,--"Dohs,"--whether "thway-thouks" or blood-drinkers she did not know. She here alluded to a peculiar custom among the Burmans, of two friends swearing to be brothers to each other, and in some cases cementing the alliance by drinking water mixed with drops of blood taken from each others' arms. Yabé, Sunshine said, had come across the river, naked, and had nothing with him but a little packet of plants which must have been charmed, and protected him from wild beasts in the jungle. He could not have come naked through the wild jungle unless the "nats" had taken care of him. Where he came from Sunshine did not know. Yamie had paid her mother for making clothes for him such as he wore himself; made from native cloth, but not "putsoes." The plants seemed to point yet more directly to the stranger being identical with Denham, but who could "Yamie" be? And how did Denham arrive there, and in such a condition? But Mrs. Brudenel was sure that it must be Ralph. She set herself to make every possible preparation, and the occupation helped her to pass that anxious day. Sunshine, as soon as she had told all she knew, being well fed and made comfortable, fell sound asleep on a mat in the verandah, and rested from her fatigues. Hour passed after hour, and none of the men returned. Mrs. Brudenel became sick with apprehension, nor was old Wills much better. Neither of them retired to rest that night, for they hoped that some of the party would return every moment. They sat together, each trying to keep up a brave face before the other, but neither of them much deceived. Mrs. Brudenel went to her room, ever and anon, and sank on her knees to pray for the beloved of her heart. Then she brought her Bible, and read aloud to the old seaman soothing words of promise. It helped them both more than anything else could have done. With the earliest dawn breakfast was prepared, but no one came to partake of it. The butler cleared it away, and laid tiffin, but no one could touch it. Mrs. Brudenel's ayah, who was much attached to her kind young mistress, brought a glass of claret and a biscuit to her, and begged her to take it so earnestly that she would not refuse, and she persuaded Wills to have the same. Then the long waiting recommenced, and then a restless pacing of the verandah, the walks in the compound, the house itself. They could settle to nothing. At last a servant ran up to the drawing-room window, when Mrs. Brudenel's eyes were bent down upon her Bible, and, for the twentieth time, she was trying to calm her beating pulses with the words, "Let not your heart be troubled." "They come, lady! They come, missie! Master is come!" She sprang to her feet. Yes, there was Mr. Brudenel at the head of his men, crossing the ford in the valley beneath her feet. There was Mr. Gilchrist, waving his hat frantically. There was Osborn, hand to mouth, evidently yelling out "Hooray!" at the top of his voice, though still too far off to be heard. And who else? Behind Mr. Gilchrist appeared a slim, fair-haired lad, in a loose dress of dark native cloth and a wide palm-leaf hat. He lifted his head at Osborn's wild gestures, and waved his hat to Wills. "Oh, my God, I thank Thee, I humbly thank Thee!" ejaculated the old man fervently. The servants almost tumbled over each other in their excited haste to see, to prepare, to welcome. Mrs. Brudenel and old Wills shook hands, with streaming eyes, under the relief from the intense strain upon their spirits through so many hours. The troop entered the compound, and was surrounded by the eager household. "We have him, Wills," was heard in Mr. Gilchrist's glad voice. "My Yabé! My Moung Shway boy!" cried Sunshine. "Oh, Harry! Harry!" sobbed Mrs. Brudenel, clinging to him. "My boy, my boy! My dear young master!" exclaimed old Wills. "Where are the dacoits' heads?" asked the men-servants. "Was anyone hurt?" asked the ayah, mother to one of the men. All spoke at once, no one answered anybody else. Ralph nearly wrung Wills' hands off; Osborn thumped him on the back, and slapped his own thighs with triumphant joy; while Mr. Gilchrist's face, as he presented Ralph to Mrs. Brudenel, with his hand upon the lad's shoulder, was good to see. There were fervent thanksgivings in that house before the inmates retired, but there was little explanation of all which had occurred until, after a quiet night's rest, they all reassembled in the early morning. Then Ralph, in a simple, straightforward manner, recounted his adventures,--told of Kirke's repentance, his goodness to himself, his bravery, and his gallant defence of the village. "Oh, how well he redeemed the past!" mourned he. "What a fine fellow he was after all, and he has gone without anyone knowing of what he did! I loved him,--he earned the love of all, and the respect too." The dacoits had been sent to Rangoon for trial, and were all hanged eventually, many crimes being traced to their score. Ralph's adventures were now at an end; Mr. Gilchrist gave up his wanderings, and went down to Rangoon with him, under the escort of Mr. Brudenel, when that gentleman went to give evidence against the tiger dacoit. He went the more willingly inasmuch as Ralph's little orchids proved to be of a hitherto unknown species, and very valuable. Sunshine, plentifully rewarded, was restored safely to her friends, and all the houses were rebuilt better and stronger than before. Great treasures of English manufacture reached the place from time to time; for Ralph never forgot the children with whom he had played, the women who had tended him, the men who had fought by his side, or the grave of him who had been his worst enemy and his greatest friend. To that man's father he wrote, making light of his failings, but detailing his gallantry at every point. In course of time he received an answer, which ran as follows:-- "SIR,--I thank you for the comfort which you have given me regarding my dear son. Your letter, with his confession, and attempt to redeem his past, are an old man's greatest treasures, and shall lie on his breast when life shall be no more." Ralph rose to wealth and repute in Rangoon, and was always a comfort to his mother, the joy of her heart. Mr. Gilchrist became a great scientific botanist, and published many a volume upon the jungles of Burma. JULES VERNE The romantic old French town of Nantes, near the estuary of the Loire, and only thirty-five miles away from the sea, has the honour of having been the birthplace of Jules Verne, the author of bewitching stories that have now fascinated three generations of girls and boys. Jules Verne was many years before he found where his strength lay. He was educated at Nantes, and then he went to Paris to study law. Next he began to write plays and comedies, some of which reached the stage; and it was not until the year 1863, when he was thirty-five years of age, that he went to a publisher in Paris, with a story entitled, _Five Weeks in a Balloon_, and so began that very long list of books by which he has become famous. Jules Verne delighted to live in _Le Saint Michel_, a small yacht of eight or ten tons, in which was a large chest that contained the boat's library. On board this yacht Jules Verne thought out some of his wonderful romances. Usually his trips were from Crotoy to Harve; but at times he took in more provisions and fared forth to the coasts of Normandy, Brittany, and even of England. Each reader will decide for himself which of Jules Verne's captivating stories he likes best; but the critics mention _Dropped from the Clouds_ and _Around the World in Eighty Days_ as the books which stand apart from the others. Some of our most attractive stories are about islands: _Robinson Crusoe_ and Robert Louis Stevenson's _Treasure Island_, and Verne's _The Mysterious Island_ is fit to rank with these. Under this one title we have a group of three separate volumes. First comes _Dropped from the Clouds_, then _Abandoned_, and the whole narrative is completed by _The Secret of the Island_. The boy who embarks upon the reading of these three books has a long period of excitement and delight stretching in front of him. The very numerous pictures, too, in these three memorable volumes are very arresting. Jules Verne died on March 24, 1905, at Amiens when he was seventy-seven years of age, and he left a long list of books. FOOTNOTES: [1] Golden is a term of approval or endearment. [2] Pyin=lazy [3] Native pony. 
53345	----	[Illustration: DAN, THE NEWSBOY.] DAN, THE NEWSBOY. By HORATIO ALGER, JR., _Author of "The Train Boy," "The Errand Boy," "Tony the Hero," "Tom Temple's Career," etc., etc._ [Illustration: Logo] NEW YORK: A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. Copyright, 1893, by A. L. BURT. CONTENTS. CHAPTER. PAGE. I.--Introducing Dan 9 II.--Dan at Home 16 III.--Gripp's Clothing Store 24 IV.--An Odd Couple 31 V.--Effecting a Loan 39 VI.--More than a Match 46 VII.--Mr. Gripp is Worsted 54 VIII.--Mike Rafferty's Trick 63 IX.--Mike's Theft is Discovered 69 X.--Dan as a Detective 77 XI.--Dan Has Another Adventure 85 XII.--A Mysterious Lady 93 XIII.--Althea 101 XIV.--A New Home 109 XV.--Dan Becomes a Detective 117 XVI.--Dan Makes a Discovery 125 XVII.--Talbot's Secret 133 XVIII.--Two Knights of the Highway 141 XIX.--Dan as a Good Samaritan 150 XX.--Laying the Train 154 XXI.--Twelve Thousand Dollars 158 XXII.--Talbot's Scheme Fails 166 XXIII.--The Calm Before the Storm 175 XXIV.--Old Jack, the Janitor 179 XXV.--The Burglary 183 XXVI.--Dan Learns to Dance 191 XXVII.--In the Dressing-room 195 XXVIII.--Dan at the Party 199 XXIX.--A Ne'er do Well 207 XXX.--How Hartley Got a Clew 215 XXXI.--Althea's Abduction 222 XXXII.--Donovan's 229 XXXIII.--Althea Becomes Katy Donovan 237 XXXIV.--Another Little Game 245 XXXV.--Dan Disguises Himself 252 XXXVI.--Dan Makes a Discovery 260 XXXVII.--Dan is Discovered 264 XXXVIII.--Unpleasant Quarters 268 XXXIX.--Dan Discomfits the Donovans 272 XL.--Hartley Surprised 279 XLI.--Dan is Adopted 286 XLII.--Conclusion 292 DAN, THE NEWSBOY. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCING DAN. "_Evening Telegram!_ Only one left. Going for two cents, and worth double the money. Buy one, sir?" Attracted by the business-like tone of the newsboy, a gentleman paused as he was ascending the steps of the Astor House, and said, with a smile: "You seem to appreciate the _Telegram_, my boy. Any important news this afternoon?" "Buy the paper, and you'll see," said the boy, shrewdly. "I see--you don't care to part with the news for nothing. Well, here are your two cents." "Thank you, sir." Still the gentleman lingered, his eyes fixed upon the keen, pleasant face of the boy. "How many papers have you sold to-day, my boy?" he asked. "Thirty-six, sir." "Were they all _Telegrams_?" "No; I sell all the papers. I ain't partial. I'm just as willing to make money on the _Mail_, or _Commercial_, or _Evening Post_, as the _Telegram_." "I see you have an eye to business. How long have you dealt in papers?" "Three years, sir." "How old are you?" "Fifteen." "What did you do before you sold papers?" A shadow rested on the boy's bright face. "I didn't have to work then, sir," he said. "My father was alive, and he was well off. We lived in a nice house up town, and I went to a private school. But all at once father failed, and soon afterward he died, and then everything was changed. I don't like to think about it, sir." The gentleman's interest was strongly excited. "It is a sad story," he said. "Is your mother living?" "Yes, sir. The worst of it is, that I don't make enough to support us both, and she has to work, too." "What does she do?" "She makes vests for a man on Chatham street." "I hope she is well paid." "That she is not. He only allows her twenty cents apiece." "That is a mere pittance. She can't earn much at that rate." "No, sir; she has to work hard to make one vest a day." "The man can't have a conscience," said the gentleman, indignantly. "It is starvation wages." "So it is, sir, but he pretends that he pays more than the work is worth. Oh, he's a mean fellow," pursued the boy, his face expressive of the scorn and disgust which he felt. "What is your name, my boy?" "Dan, sir--Dan Mordaunt." "I hope, Dan, you make more money than your mother does." "Oh, yes, sir. Sometimes I make a dollar a day, but I don't average that. I wish I could make enough so that mother wouldn't have to work." "I see you are a good son. I like to hear you speak in such terms of your mother." "If I didn't," said Dan, impetuously, "I should deserve to be kicked. She's a good mother, sir." "I have no doubt of it. It must be hard for her to be so reduced after once living liberally. How happened it that your father failed?" The boy's pleasant face assumed a stern expression. "On account of a rascal, sir. His book-keeper ran off, carrying with him thirty thousand dollars. Father couldn't meet his bills, and so he failed. It broke his heart, and he didn't live six months after it." "Have you ever heard of this book-keeper since?" "No, sir, not a word. I wish I could. I should like to see him dragged to prison, for he killed my father, and made my mother work for a living." "I can't blame you, Dan, for feeling as you do. Besides, it has altered your prospects." "I don't care for myself, sir. I can forget that. But I can't forgive the injury he has done my poor father and mother." "Have you any idea what became of the defaulter?" "We think that he went to Europe, just at first, but probably he returned when he thought all was safe." "He may have gone out West." "I shouldn't wonder, sir." "I live in the West myself--in Chicago." "That's a lively city, isn't it, sir?" "We think so out there. Well, my lad, I must go into the hotel now." "Excuse me for detaining you, sir," said Dan, politely. "You haven't detained me; you have interested me. I hope to see you again." "Thank you, sir." "Where do you generally stand?" "Just here, sir. A good many people pass here, and I find it a good stand." "Then I shall see you again, as I propose to remain in New York for a day or two. Shall you have the morning papers?" "Yes, sir; all of them." "Then I will patronize you to-morrow morning. Good-day." "Good-day, sir." "He's a gentleman," said Dan to himself, emphatically. "It isn't every one that feels an interest in a poor newsboy. Well, I may as well be going home. It's lonely for mother staying by herself all day. Let me see; what shall I take her? Oh, here are some pears. She's very fond of pears." Dan inquired the price of pears at a street stand, and finally selected one for three cents. "Better take two for five cents," said the fruit merchant. "I can't afford it," said Dan. "Times are hard, and I have to look after the pennies. I wouldn't buy any at all if it wasn't for my mother." "Better take another for yourself," urged the huckster. Dan shook his head. "Can't afford it," he said. "I must get along without the luxuries. Bread and butter is good enough for me." Looking up, Dan met the glance of a boy who was passing--a tall, slender, supercilious-looking boy, who turned his head away scornfully as he met Dan's glance. "I know him," said Dan to himself. "I ought to know Tom Carver. We used to sit together at school. But that was when father was rich. He won't notice me now. Well, I don't want him to," proceeded Dan, coloring indignantly. "He thinks himself above me, but he needn't. His father failed, too, but he went on living just the same. People say he cheated his creditors. My poor father gave up all he had, and sank into poverty." This was what passed through Dan's mind. The other boy--Tom Carver--had recognized Dan, but did not choose to show it. "I wonder whether Dan Mordaunt expected me to notice him," he said to himself. "I used to go to school with him, but now that he is a low newsboy I can't stoop to speak to him. What would my fashionable friends say?" Tom Carver twirled his delicate cane and walked on complacently, feeling no pity for the schoolfellow with whom he used to be so intimate. He was intensely selfish--a more exceptional thing with boys than men. It sometimes happens that a boy who passes for good-hearted changes into a selfish man; but Tom required no change to become that. His heart was a very small one, and beat only for himself. Dan walked on, and finally paused before a large tenement-house. He went in at the main entrance, and ascended two flights of stairs. He opened a door, and found himself in the presence of the mother whom he so dearly loved. CHAPTER II. DAN AT HOME. While Dan was strong, sturdy, and the picture of health, his mother was evidently an invalid. She was pale, thin, and of delicate appearance. She was sitting in a cane-seated rocking-chair, which Dan had bought second-hand on one of his flush days at a small place on the Bowery. She looked up with a glad smile when Dan entered. "I am so glad to see you, my dear boy," she said. "Have you been lonely, mother?" asked Dan, kissing her affectionately. "Yes, Dan, it is lonely sitting here hour after hour without you, but I have my work to think of." "I wish you didn't have to work, mother," said Dan. "You are not strong enough. I ought to earn enough to support us both." "Don't trouble yourself about that, my dear boy. I should feel more lonely if I had nothing to do." "But you work all the time. I don't like to have you do that." In truth the mother was very tired, and her feeble fingers were cramped with the stitch, stitch, stitch in endless repetition, but she put on a cheerful countenance. "Well, Dan, I'll stop now that you are at home. You want some supper." "Let me get it, mother." "No, Dan, it will be a relief to me to stir around a little, as I have been sitting so long." "Oh, I nearly forgot, mother--here's a nice pear I bought for you." "It does look nice," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "I don't feel hungry, but I can eat that. But where is yours, Dan?" "Oh, I've eaten mine," answered Dan, hastily. It was not true, but God will forgive such falsehoods. "You'd better eat half of this." "No; I'll be----flummuxed if I do," said Dan, pausing a little for an unobjectionable word. Mrs. Mordaunt set the little table for two. On it she spread a neat cloth, and laid the plain supper--a plate of bread, ditto of butter, and a few slices of cold meat. Soon the tea was steeped, and mother and son sat down for the evening meal. "I say, mother, this is a jolly supper," said Dan. "I get awfully hungry by supper-time." "You are a growing boy, Dan. I am glad you have an appetite." "But you eat next to nothing, mother," said Dan, uneasily. "I am _not_ a growing boy," said Mrs. Mordaunt, smiling. "I shall relish my supper to-night on account of the pear you brought me." "Well, I'm glad I thought of it," said Dan, heartily. "Pears ain't solid enough for me; I want something hearty to give me strength." "Of course you do, Dan. You have to work hard." "I work hard, mother! Why, I have the easiest time going. All I do is to walk about the streets, or stand in front of the Astor House and ask people to buy my papers. Oh, by the way, who do you think I saw to-day?" "Any of our old friends?" asked Mrs. Mordaunt. "Any of our old friends! I should say not," answered Dan, disdainfully. "It was Tom Carver." "Was it he? He used to sit next you in school, didn't he?" "Yes, for six months. Tom and I were chums." "Did he say whether his family was well?" "What are you thinking of, mother? Do you suppose Tom Carver would notice me, now that I am a poor newsboy?" "Why shouldn't he?" demanded the mother, her pale face flushing. "Why shouldn't he notice my boy?" "Because he doesn't choose to," answered Dan, with a short laugh. "Didn't you know it was disgraceful to be poor?" "Thank Heaven, it isn't that!" ejaculated Mrs. Mordaunt. "Well, it might as well be. Tom thinks me beneath his notice now. You should have seen him turn his head to the other side as he walked by, twirling his light cane." "Did you speak to him, Dan?" "What do you take me for, mother? Do you think I'd speak to a fellow that doesn't want to know me?" "I think you are proud, my boy." "Well, mother, I guess you're right. I'm too proud to force myself upon the notice of Tom Carver, or any other purse-proud sneak." Dan spoke with a tinge of bitterness, and it was evident that he felt Tom's slight more than he was willing to acknowledge. "It's the way of the world, Dan," said his mother, sighing. "Not one of all my friends, or those whom I accounted such, in my prosperous days, has come to see us, or shown any interest in our fate." "They can stay away. We can do without them," said Dan, sturdily. "We must; but it would be pleasant to see some of the old faces," said his mother, plaintively. "There is no one in this house that is company for me." "No, mother; you are an educated and refined lady, and they are poor and ignorant." "They are very good people, some of them. There is Mrs. Burke on the next floor. She was in this afternoon, and asked if she couldn't do something for me. She thought I looked poorly, she said." "She's a brick, mother!" "My dear Dan, you do use such extraordinary language sometimes. You didn't talk so when we lived on Madison avenue." "No, mother, but I associate with a different class now. I can't help catching the phrases I hear all the time. But don't mind, mother; I mean no harm. I never swear--that is, almost never. I did catch myself at it the other day, when another newsboy stole half a dozen of my papers." "Don't forget that you are a gentleman, Dan." "I won't if I can help it, mother, though I don't believe anybody else would suspect it. I must take good care not to look into the looking-glass, or I might be under the impression that I was a street-boy instead of a gentleman." "Clothes don't make the gentleman, Dan. I want you to behave and feel like a gentleman, even if your clothes are poor and patched." "I understand you, mother, and I shall try to follow your advice. I have never done any mean thing yet that I can remember, and I don't intend to." "I am sure of that, my dear boy." "Don't be too sure of anything, mother. I have plenty of bad examples before me." "But you won't be guided by them?" "I'll try not." "Did you succeed well in your sales to-day, Dan?" "Pretty well. I made ninety-six cents." "I wish I could earn as much," said Mrs. Mordaunt, sighing. "I can only earn twenty cents a day." "You _earn_ as much as I do, mother, but you don't get it. You see, there's a difference in earning and being paid. Old Gripp is a mean skinflint. I should like to force one of his twenty-cent vests down his miserly throat." "Don't use such violent language, Dan. Perhaps he pays me all he can afford." "Perhaps he does, but I wouldn't bet high on it. He is making a fortune out of those who sew for him. There are some men that have no conscience. I hope some time you will be free from him." "I hope so, too, Dan, but I am thankful to earn something. I don't want all the burden of our maintenance to fall on you." "Don't call it a burden, mother. There's nothing I enjoy so much as working for you. Why, it's fun!" "It can't be fun on rainy, disagreeable days, Dan." "It wouldn't be fun for you, mother, but you're not a boy." "I am so sorry that you can't keep on with your education, Dan. You were getting on so well at school." It was a thought that had often come to Dan, but he wouldn't own it, for he did not wish to add to his mother's sadness. "Oh, well, mother," he said, "something may turn up for us, so we won't look down in the mouth." "I have got my bundled work ready, Dan, if you can carry it round to Mr. Gripp's to-night." "Yes, mother, I'll carry it. How many vests are there?" "There are six. That amounts to a dollar and twenty cents. I hope he'll pay you to-night, for our rent comes due to-morrow." "So it does!" ejaculated Dan, seriously. "I never thought of it. Shall we have enough to pay it? You've got my money, you know." "We shall be a dollar short." "Even if old Gripp pays for the vests?" "Yes." Dan whistled--a whistle of dismay and anxiety, for he well knew that the landlord was a hard man. CHAPTER III. GRIPP'S CLOTHING STORE. Nathan Gripp's clothing store was located about a quarter of a mile from the City Hall, on Chatham street. Not many customers from Fifth avenue owned him as their tailor, and he had no reputation up town. His prices were undeniably low, though his clothes were dear enough in the end. His patrons were in general from the rural districts, or city residents of easy tastes and limited means. The interior of the store was ill-lighted, and looked like a dark cavern. But nearly half the stock was displayed at the door, or on the sidewalk, Mr. Gripp himself, or his leading salesman, standing in the door-way with keen, black eyes, trying to select from the moving crowds possible customers. On the whole Gripp was making money. He sold his clothes cheap, but they cost him little. He paid the lowest prices for work, and whenever told that his wages would not keep body and soul together, he simply remarked: "That's nothing to me, my good woman. If you don't like the pay, leave the work for somebody else." But unfortunately those who worked for Mr. Gripp could not afford to leave the work for somebody else. Half wages were better than none, and they patiently kept on wearing out their strength that Nathan might wax rich, and live in good style up town. Mr. Gripp himself was standing in the door-way when Dan, with the bundle of vests under his arm, stopped in front of the store. Mr. Gripp was a little doubtful whether our hero wished to become a customer, but a glance at the bundle dispelled his uncertainty, and revealed the nature of his errand. "I've brought home half a dozen vests," said Dan. "Who from?" asked Gripp, abruptly, for he never lavished any of the suavity, which was a valuable part of his stock in trade, on his work people. "Mrs. Mordaunt." "Take them into the store. Here, Samuel, take the boy's bundle, and see if the work is well done." It was on the tip of Dan's tongue to resent the doubt which these words implied, but he prudently remained silent. The clerk, a callow youth, with long tow-colored locks, made sleek with bear's grease, stopped picking his teeth, and motioned to Dan to come forward. "Here, young feller," he said, "hand over your bundle." "There it is, young feller!" retorted Dan. The clerk surveyed the boy with a look of disapproval in his fishy eyes. "No impudence, young feller!" he said. "Where's the impudence?" demanded Dan. "I don't see it." "Didn't you call me a young feller?" "You've called me one twice, but I ain't at all particular. I'd just as lief call you an old feller," said Dan, affably. "Look here, young chap, I don't like your manners," said the clerk, with an irritating consciousness that he was getting the worst of the verbal encounter. "I'm sorry for that," answered Dan, "because they're the best I've got." "Did you make these vests yourself?" asked the salesman, with a feeble attempt at humor. "Yes," was Dan's unexpected rejoinder. "That's the way I amuse my leisure hours." "Humph!" muttered the tallow-faced young man, "I'll take a look at them." He opened the bundle, and examined the vests with an evident desire to find something wrong. He couldn't find any defect, but that didn't prevent his saying: "They ain't over-well made." "Well, they won't be over-well paid," retorted Dan. "So we're even." "I don't know if we ought to pay for them at all." "Honesty is the best policy, young feller," said Dan. "No more of your impudence!" said the clerk, sharply. "Wait here a minute till I speak to Mr. Gripp." He kept Dan before the counter, and approached the proprietor. "Well, what is it, Samuel?" asked Mr. Gripp, stroking his jet-black whiskers. "Are the vests all right?" "Pretty well, sir, but the boy is impudent." "Ha! how is that?" "He keeps calling me 'young feller.'" "Anything more?" "He don't seem to have any respect for me--or you," he added, shrewdly. Nathan Gripp frowned. He cared very little about his clerk, but he resented any want of respect to himself. He felt that the balance at his bankers was large enough to insure him a high degree of consideration from his work-people at least. "How many vests are there?" he asked. "Half a dozen." "And the boy wants his pay, I suppose." "He hasn't asked for it, but he will. They always do." "Tell him we only pay when a full dozen are finished and brought in. We'll credit him, or his mother, with these." "That'll pay them off," thought the astute clothing merchant. Samuel received this order with inward satisfaction, and went back smiling. "Well, young feller," said he, "it's all right. The vests ain't over-well done, but we'll keep 'em. Now you can go." But Dan did not move. "It seems to me you've forgotten something," he said. "What's that?" "You haven't paid me for the work." "It's all right. We'll pay when the next half dozen are brought in. Will you take 'em now?" Dan was disagreeably surprised. This was entirely out of the usual course, and he knew very well that the delay would be a great inconvenience. "We've always been paid when we brought in work," he said. "We've changed our rule," said the clerk, nonchalantly. "We only pay when a full dozen are brought in." "What difference does it make to you? We need the money, and can't wait." "It's my orders, young feller. It's what Mr. Gripp just told me." "Then I'll speak to him," said Dan, promptly. "Just as you like." Dan approached the proprietor of the establishment. "Mr. Gripp," said he, "I've just brought in half a dozen vests, but your clerk here won't pay me for them." "You will get your pay, young man, when you bring in another half dozen." "But, Mr. Gripp, we need the money. We haven't got a big bank account. Our rent is due to-morrow." "Is it, indeed? I don't see how that concerns me." "Will you pay me to-night as a favor?" pleaded Dan, humbling himself for his mother's sake. "I can't break over my rule," said Nathan Gripp. "Besides, Samuel says the work isn't very well done." "Then he lies!" exclaimed Dan, provoked. "Do you hear that, Mr. Gripp?" ejaculated the angry Samuel, his tallowy complexion putting on a faint flush. "Didn't I tell you he was impudent?" Nathan Gripp's small black eyes snapped viciously. "Boy," said he, "leave my store directly. How dare you address me in such a way, you young tramp?" "I'm no more a tramp than yourself," retorted Dan, now thoroughly angry. "Samuel, come here, and put out this boy!" exclaimed Nathan, too dignified to attempt the task himself. Samuel advanced, nothing loth, his fishy eyes gleaming with pleasure. "Get out, you vagabond!" he exclaimed, in the tone of authority. "You're a couple of swindlers!" exclaimed Dan. "You won't pay for honest work." "Out with him, Samuel!" ordered Gripp. Samuel seized Dan by the shoulder, and attempted to obey orders, but our hero doubled him up with a blow from his fist, and the luckless clerk, faint and gasping, staggered and nearly fell. Dan stepped out on the sidewalk, and raising his hat, said, with mock politeness, "Good-morning, gentlemen!" and walked away, leaving Gripp and his assistant speechless with anger. [Illustration: "You're a couple of swindlers!" exclaimed Dan. "You won't pay for honest work." Page 30.] CHAPTER IV. AN ODD COUPLE. When Dan's excitement was over, he felt that he had won a barren victory. He had certainly been badly treated, and was justified in yielding to his natural indignation; but for all that he had acted unwisely. Nathan Gripp had not refused payment, he had only postponed it, and as he had the decided advantage, which money always has when pitted against labor, it would have been well to have been conciliatory. Now Gripp would undoubtedly annoy him with further delay, and refuse to give Mrs. Mordaunt any further work. "I suppose I've acted like a fool," said Dan to himself, with compunction. "My spunk is always getting the better of me, and I am afraid poor mother will have to suffer. Well, there's no use crying for spilt milk; I must see what I can do to mend matters." While these thoughts were passing through Dan's mind he found himself passing the clothing establishment of Jackson & Co., who were special rivals of Mr. Gripp. "Perhaps I can get some work for mother here," thought Dan. "I'll try, at any rate." He entered, and looking about him, attracted the attention of a clerk. "Do you want something in our line to-day?" asked the clerk, pleasantly. "Yes, I do," said Dan, "if you're giving things away; but as I've got a note of ten thousand dollars to meet to-morrow, I can't pay anything out." "Your credit ought to be good," said the salesman, smiling, "but we don't trust." "All right," said Dan; "I may as well proceed to business. My mother makes vests for amusement. Can you give her any work?" "I will speak to Mr. Jackson. One of our hands is sick, and if your mother understands how to do the work, we may be able to give her some." The young man went to the rear of the store, and returned with the proprietor. "Has your mother any experience?" asked the proprietor, a big man, with sandy whiskers. He was an Englishman, as any one might see, and a decided improvement on Nathan Gripp, whom he cordially hated. "Yes, sir; she has been making vests for the last two years." "For whom has she been working?" "For Nathan Gripp." "Humph! Has Gripp discharged her?" "No, sir; she has discharged him." Mr. Jackson laughed, and nodded to his salesman. He rather enjoyed this allusion to his rival. "Then she didn't like Gripp?" "No, sir. He paid her starvation wages and made her wait for the money. He's a mean fellow." "I don't admire him much myself," said the Englishman. "How much now did he pay for vest-making?" "Twenty cents apiece." "We don't pay much more ourselves. There is so much competition that we have to sell low." "Mother would rather make for you at eighteen cents than for Gripp for twenty," said Dan. Mr. Jackson was pleased, but he said, by way of drawing out Dan: "How do you know but I am a mean skinflint, too?" "You don't look like one," said the boy. Mr. Jackson smiled graciously. "Joseph," said he, "have we any vests ready for making?" "Yes, sir. We have some bundles of half a dozen each." "Take this boy's name and address and give him one. My boy, we will pay your mother twenty-five cents each, but we expect good work." "You will be satisfied, sir," said Dan, confidently, and he left the store in excellent spirits. "It's turned out right, after all," thought he; "but I am afraid we shall miss the money old Gripp owed mother. I don't know how we are going to pay the rent to-morrow. We shall be over two dollars short unless something turns up." Dan carried the bundle of work home, and told his mother what had happened. She was pleased with the increase of pay, but that was in the future. It would be a week before she could collect any pay from Jackson & Co., and the landlord would not wait. "I wish I could think of some way of raising money," said Dan, putting his face between his hands and looking thoughtful. "If you only had some jewels, mother, that we could raise money on now, we would be all right." "I have nothing but my wedding-ring," said Mrs. Mordaunt, sadly. "You must keep that, mother. Don't part with that unless you are obliged to." "I would rather not, Dan, but if there is no other way----" "There must be another way. I will find another way. Just don't think of it any more, mother. When does the landlord come?" "Generally between twelve and one." "Then we shall have all the forenoon to forage round in. It's only two dollars and a half we want. I ought to be able to raise two dollars and a half." "That is a great deal of money to us now, Dan." "I wonder whether Shorty wouldn't lend it to me?" said Dan, reflectively. "Who is Shorty, my son?" "He is a little hump-backed dwarf that keeps a cigar stand down on Broadway, not far from Trinity Church. He has a good trade, and doesn't waste his money. Yes, I will ask Shorty." "I hope he will be willing to grant your request, Dan." "I hope so, too. He's a good-natured fellow, Shorty is, and he'll do it, if he can. I'll see him the first thing to-morrow morning." Somewhat cheered by Dan's confident tone, Mrs. Mordaunt went to sleep as early as usual, forgetting the trouble possibly in store. The next morning, before selling his papers, Dan went round to Shorty's stand. "Good-morning, Dan," said the dwarf, in a singularly melodious voice. "Good-morning, Shorty. I thought I'd find you here." "Yes, I begin business early." "I am going to ask a favor of you," said Dan, abruptly. "What is it, Dan?" "Our rent's due to-day, and we are two dollars and a half short. I can make the fifty cents before noon. Can you lend me two dollars till I am able to pay it?" To Dan's dismay Shorty shook his head. "I wish I could, Dan, but there's something in the way." "If you're afraid I won't pay you back, you needn't think of that. I never went back on a fellow that lent me money yet." "I am not afraid of trusting you, Dan, but I haven't got the money." "I understand," said Dan, coldly, for he suspected this to be a subterfuge. "No, you don't understand," said Shorty, eagerly. "You think what I say is a sham, but you wouldn't if you knew all." "If I knew all," repeated Dan, surprised. "Yes, I shall have to tell you. I didn't mean to, but I don't want you to misunderstand me. The fact is, Dan," Shorty added, sheepishly, "I've got more than myself to provide for now." "What? You don't mean to say?" ejaculated Dan. "I was married yesterday, Dan," said the cigar dealer, almost apologetically, "and I've been buying furniture, and the fact is, I haven't got a cent to spare." "Of course you haven't," said Dan. "I never dreamed of this. Is your wife--about your size?" "No, Dan, she's rather tall. There she is, crossing the street. Do you see her?" Dan looked, and saw a tall woman, of twenty-five or thereabouts, approaching the cigar stand. She was very plain, with a large mouth and a long, aquiline nose. "That's my wife," said the cigar dealer, regarding his tall partner with evident pride. "Julia, my dear, this is my friend, Dan Mordaunt." "Glad to see any friend of my husband," said the lady, in a deep, hoarse voice, which might have been mistaken for a man's. "He must come and see us." "So I will, thank you," answered Dan, surveying the female grenadier with a wondering glance. "We live at No. -- Varick street, Dan, and I shall be very glad to see you any evening." "By gracious!" said Dan to himself, "that's the queerest match I ever heard of. She might take Shorty up in her arms and carry him off. I don't think he'll beat her very often," and Dan smiled at the thought. The morning wore away, and at eleven o'clock Dan had earned forty cents. He began to get discouraged. There didn't seem to be much prospect of raising the rent before twelve o'clock. CHAPTER V. EFFECTING A LOAN. As Dan stood on the sidewalk with his bundle of papers, and only forty cents toward the two dollars and a half required for the rent, he felt like many a business man who has a note to meet and not enough money on hand to pay it. Indeed, he was worse off, for generally business men have friends who can help them with a temporary loan, but Dan's friends were quite as poor as himself. One, however, Dick Stanton, a mere boy, had the reputation of being more saving than his companions. It was known that he had an account in the Bowery Savings Bank, and among the street boys he was considered wealthy. "Perhaps I can borrow two dollars of him," thought Dan, as Dick passed him on his way to Canal street. "I say, Dick," said Dan, "stop a minute. I want to speak to you." "Go ahead, Dan." "I want you to lend me two dollars. Our rent is due, and I can raise it all but that." Dick shook his head, and was about to speak, when Dan said hurriedly, for he felt that it was his last chance: "You needn't be afraid of me, Dick; I'll pay you sure, and give you more interest, too, than you get in the bank." "I haven't got any money in the bank, Dan." "You had last week," said Dan, suspiciously. "So I had, but I haven't now." "You don't want to lend--that's what's the matter." "You are mistaken, Dan. I'm not a bit afraid of lending to you, but I have lent my money already." "Who to?" asked Dan, ungrammatically, falling into a mistake made by plenty of greater age and better experience than himself. "Of course it isn't any of my business," he added, "if you don't want to tell." "I don't mind telling you, Dan. I've lent it to my aunt. She's got two children, and a hard time to get along. Perhaps I shall never see it again, but I couldn't refuse her." "Of course you couldn't," said Dan, heartily. "You've done right, and you won't be sorry for it. I wish I knew some way of making two dollars before twelve o'clock." "Are you in urgent need of two dollars, my boy?" asked a pleasant voice. Dan turned, and met the face of the stranger introduced in the first chapter. "Yes, sir," he answered. "I want it the worst way." "Have you been extravagant and run up bills, Dan?" "No, sir; the only bill we have is the rent, and that comes due this noon." "How much is it?" "Six dollars, sir." "I thought you said you wanted to borrow _two_ dollars." "I've got four dollars toward it, sir." "Do you often fall behind when rent day comes, Dan?" "No, sir; this is the first time in two years." "How do you account for it? Has business been duller than usual during the last month?" "Yes, sir, I think it has. There hasn't been as much news in the papers, and my sales have fallen off. There's another thing, too." "What is that?" "Mother has a dollar and twenty cents due her, and she can't collect it." "Is it for making vests?" "Yes, sir. Mr. Gripp won't pay till she has made a full dozen." "That seems inconsiderate." "Oh, he's a mean fellow." "I've a great mind to buy the debt of you." "I wish you would, sir," said Dan, eagerly. "That would leave only sixty cents short, for I shall make ten cents more before twelve o'clock, it's likely." "It is only half-past eleven. To put you quite at ease, I mean to lend you five dollars, and help you collect your mother's bill." "You are very kind, sir," said Dan, surprised and grateful; "but I don't need so much." "You may get short again when I am not here to assist you." "Are you not afraid I shall never pay you, sir?" "That thought won't keep me awake nights," said the gentleman, laughing. "You sha'n't lose anything by me, sir; I promise you that," said Dan, earnestly. "Then come into the hotel with me, and we will arrange the matter in a business-like way." "All right, sir." Dan followed his new friend into the Astor House, and up stairs into a pleasant bedroom, which in its comfortable apartments reminded Dan of the days before his father's failure. "I wish I could live so again," he thought. "I don't like a tenement-house." Mr. Grant--for this was his name--took writing materials from his valise, and seated himself at a table. "I am going to draw up a note for you to sign," he said. "I probably understand better than you the necessary form." "Thank you, sir." His pen ran rapidly over the paper, and in a minute or two he handed Dan the following form of acknowledgment: "NEW YORK, Sept. 15, 18--. "For value received I promise to pay to Alexander Grant five dollars on demand with interest." "Now," said Mr. Grant, "put your name at the bottom." Dan did so. "I added 'with interest,' but only as a form; I shall require none." "I would rather pay it, sir." "That may be as you please. How much will six per cent. interest make it amount to in a year?" "Five dollars and thirty cents," answered Dan, promptly. "Good! I see you have not forgotten what you learned in school." "I have ciphered through cube root," said Dan, with some pride. "I am not sure whether I remember that now, but I could do any sum in square root." "It is a pity you could not have remained in school." "I should like to; but it's no use crying for spilt milk." "As long as you didn't spill it yourself," added Mr. Grant. "No, sir; it was not my fault that I had to leave school." Mr. Grant folded up the note and carefully deposited it in his wallet. "The next thing is to hand you the money," he said. "Shall I give you a five-dollar bill, or small bills?" "Small bills, sir, if it is just as convenient." Mr. Grant placed in Dan's hands two two-dollar bills and a one. "One thing more," he said. "Give me an order on Mr. Gripp for the money due your mother. It is as well to have it in your own handwriting. I won't tell you how to write it. See if you can find a way." Dan wrote an order, which Mr. Grant pronounced satisfactory. "On the whole," said he, "I believe I will take you with me when I call upon Mr. Gripp. Can you call here at three o'clock this afternoon?" "Yes, sir." "That is settled, then. We will see whether Mr. Gripp will be any more polite to me than he was to you." "He will be surprised to see me in your company," said Dan, laughing. "It is a good thing to surprise the enemy, Dan. A surprise often leads to victory. When does your landlord call for his rent?" "Between twelve and one." "Then I won't detain you longer. Remember your appointment at three." "I won't forget it, sir." "Well, I'm in luck!" said Dan to himself, as he emerged into the street. "Who would have thought that a stranger would lend me so large a sum? He's a trump, and no mistake. Now, if I could only sell the four papers I have left before twelve o'clock. I don't want to get stuck on them." Fortune was not tired of favoring Dan. In ten minutes he had sold his papers, and turned his steps toward the humble home where his mother was awaiting, not without anxiety, the visit of an unamiable landlord. CHAPTER VI. MORE THAN A MATCH. Mrs. Mordaunt looked up anxiously as Dan entered the room. She had little expectation that he had been able in one morning to make up the large deficiency in the sum reserved for the rent, but there was a possibility, and she clung to that. Dan thought of postponing the relation of his good news, but when he saw his mother's anxious face, he felt that it would be cruel. So when she said, "Well, Dan?" he nodded his head cheerfully. "I've got it, mother," he said. "Thank God for all His goodness!" ejaculated Mrs. Mordaunt, fervently. "You see He hasn't forgotten us," said Dan, gleefully. "No, my boy, it is a rebuke to my momentary want of faith. How could you raise so large a sum? Surely you did not earn it in one forenoon?" "You're right there, mother. I'm not smart enough to earn two dollars before twelve o'clock." "But you've got the money, Dan?" "Look at this, mother," and Dan displayed the bills. "Where did you get them, Dan?" asked his mother, astonished. "I borrowed them." "I didn't know we had a friend left, able or willing to lend us that sum." "I borrowed them of Alexander Grant, of St. Louis, and gave my note for them," answered Dan, in a tone of some importance. "Alexander Grant, of St. Louis! I don't remember that name." "He's a new friend of mine, mother. I haven't known him over twenty-four hours. As the old friends have treated us so badly, I'm goin' in for new ones." "You quite mystify me, Dan. Tell me all about it." Dan did so. "He's very kind to a stranger, Dan. Heaven will reward him, I am sure." "I hope it will, mother. I wish I was a rich man. I should enjoy helping those who needed it. If I ever get rich--though it doesn't look much like it now--I will do all the good I can. I wonder rich men don't do it oftener." "It springs from thoughtlessness sometimes, Dan." "And from selfishness pretty often," added Dan, whose views of human nature were considerably less favorable than they had been in his more prosperous days. "A good many men are like Tom Carver, as he is now and will be when he is grown up." "Perhaps there are more good and generous men than we suppose, Dan," urged his mother, who liked to think well of her fellow-beings. "Like Mr. Gripp and our landlord, for instance. By the way, I hear Mr. Grab's steps on the stairs. I want to deal with him. Just you step into the bedroom, mother." Mrs. Mordaunt had no desire to meet Mr. Grab, but she was a little afraid of Dan's impetuous temper. "You will treat him respectfully, won't you, Dan?" she urged, as she turned to go into the adjoining room. Dan's eyes danced with fun. "I'll treat him with all the respect he deserves, mother," he answered. Mrs. Mordaunt looked a little doubtful, for she understood Dan, but did not say more, for Mr. Grab was already knocking at the door. "Don't come out, whatever you hear, mother," said Dan, in a low voice. "I'll come out all right, though I shall tantalize him a little at first." The knock was repeated. "Come in!" Dan called out, in a loud, clear tone. The door opened, and a thin, undersized man, with bushy red hair and the look of a cross mastiff, entered the room. Before his entrance Dan had seated himself in the plain wooden rocking-chair with his feet on a cricket. He looked quite easy and unconcerned. "How are you, Grab?" he said, in a friendly manner. "You might call me _Mr._ Grab," returned the landlord, angrily. "I've no objection, I'm sure, Mr. Grab," said Dan. "How is your health? You're looking very yellow. Got the jaundice?" "I am perfectly well, and I am not yellow at all. Do you mean to insult me?" demanded Grab, irritated. "I wouldn't do that for a cent, Mr. Grab. I am glad you feel well, though you ain't looking so. It's very friendly of you to come round to see me and mother." "Where is your mother?" snapped Mr. Grab. "She is engaged just now, and won't have the pleasure of seeing you." "But I _must_ see her." "Must! You are quite mistaken. You can't see her. You can see me." "I've seen more of you than I want to already," said Grab. "That isn't talking like a friend, Mr. Grab," said Dan, "when I'm so glad to see you. Perhaps you have come on business." "Of course I have come on business, and you know very well what that business is, you young monkey." "Thank you, Mr. Grab, you are very complimentary. It isn't about the rent, is it?" "Of course it is!" snapped the landlord. "Oh, dear, how could I have forgotten that it was rent-day," said Dan, with well-feigned confusion. Mr. Grab's brow grew dark. He concluded that he wasn't going to collect the rent, and that always chafed him. "It's your business to know when rent-day comes," he said, bringing down his fist with such emphasis on the table that he hurt his knuckles, to Dan's secret delight. "Please don't break the table, Grab," said Dan. "Oh, blast the table!" said Grab, surveying his red knuckles. "We haven't got any blasting powder, and I don't think it would be a very interesting experiment. It might blow you up, for you are nearest to it." "Have done with this trifling, boy," said the landlord. "I am afraid you got out of the wrong end of the bed this morning, Mr. Grab. You should control yourself." "Look here, boy," said the landlord, savagely, "do you know what I am tempted to do?" "No, what is it?" asked Dan, indifferently. "I am strongly tempted to chastise you for your impudence." Dan looked critically at the small, thin form, and secretly decided that Mr. Grab would find it difficult to carry out his threat. "Oh, how you frighten me!" he said. "I don't believe I shall sleep any to-night." Mr. Grab made a motion to pound on the table again, but he looked at his red knuckles and wisely forbore. "I can't waste any more time," he said. "You must pay your rent, or turn out. I want six dollars." "Won't it do, Mr. Grab, if we pay you next week?" "No, it won't. The rent must be paid to-day, or out you go." "Why doesn't Dan pay him?" thought Mrs. Mordaunt, uneasily. "Really, he ought not to tease the poor man so. He has such a bad temper, he might hurt Dan." "Mr. Gripp is owing mother for work. As soon as he pays her, I will call round at your office and pay you." "It won't do," said Grab. "I won't let you stay here another night, and I mean to have security for my money, too." So saying, the landlord seized the bundle of vests which lay on the table beside him. This aroused Dan to action. He sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing with anger. "Put down that bundle, Mr. Grab!" he exclaimed. "Then pay me my rent," said the landlord, recoiling a little. "Put down that bundle before you say another word about rent. It isn't my mother's or mine. You have no business with it." "What do you mean, boy, by your impudence?" demanded the landlord, a little uneasily. "I mean that if you take that bundle from the room, I shall put you in charge of the nearest policeman on a charge of stealing." "That is nonsense," said Grab; but he looked nervous, and laid down the bundle. "All right, Grab," said Dan. "Now, as I don't want any more of your company, I'll pay the rent, if you'll give me a receipt." "Have you got the money?" asked Grab, astonished. "Of course I have. I never told you I hadn't." "You made me think so." "It isn't my business what you think. There, that is settled, and now, Mr. Grab, I have the honor of wishing you good-evening. I hope you won't hurt your knuckles again." Mr. Grab left the room, inwardly wishing that he could wring Dan's neck. "Oh, Dan, how could you?" asked his mother, reproachfully, as she re-entered the room. "He deserves it all," said Dan. "Didn't he turn out the poor Donovans on a cold day last winter? I have no pity for him." "He may turn us out." "Not as long as we pay the rent." CHAPTER VII. MR. GRIPP IS WORSTED. Punctually at three o'clock Dan knocked at the door of Mr. Grant's room in the Astor House. That gentleman looked at his watch as he admitted our hero. "You are punctual to the minute," he said. "Your watch keeps excellent time." "I'll tell you why," answered Dan, smiling. "I always keep it at Tiffany's. I don't dare to carry it for fear it will get out of order." "You ought to have a watch," said Mr. Grant. "That will come in time." "I hope so," said Dan. "Then I could be sure to keep my business appointments. Now I have to depend on the City Hall clock. I'd rather look at it than carry it round." "Well, Dan, do you think Mr. Gripp is prepared to receive us?" "He'll be glad to see you. He'll think you are going to buy some clothes. I don't think he'll be very happy to see me." "He must see us both, or neither. Has he any good clothes?" "Yes, sir--good enough for me. I don't think you would like to patronize his establishment." "By the way, Dan, you have given me an order for money, and I have not handed you the equivalent." "You may not get the money, sir." "I will make the effort at any rate. By the way, Dan, that coat of yours is getting shabby." "It is the best I have, sir. Boys in my business don't have to dress much." "That gives me an idea. Please hand me my hat, and we will start." The two left the Astor House together. One or two of Dan's associates whom they encountered on the way, were surprised to see him walking on terms of apparent friendly companionship with a well-to-do stranger, but decided that Dan was probably acting as his guide. They found Mr. Gripp standing as usual in the door-way of his shop watching for customers. He did not at first observe Dan, but his attention was drawn to Mr. Grant. "Walk in, sir," he said, obsequiously. "You will find what you want here. Styles fashionable, and as for prices--we defy competition." Alexander Grant paused, and looked critically about him. He understood very well the sort of establishment he was about to enter, and would not have thought of doing so but in Dan's interests. He stepped over the threshold, and Dan was about to follow, when the eagle eye of Mr. Gripp recognized our hero. "Clear out, you young rascal!" he exclaimed. "Don't you come round here any more." Dan did not answer, for he knew Mr. Grant would do so for him. Mr. Grant turned back, and said, quietly: "To whom are you speaking, sir?" "I beg your pardon, sir--it's that boy." "Then, sir, you will oblige me by stopping at once. That boy is in my company and under my protection." Nathan Gripp stared as if transfixed. "Do you know him, sir?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "You are mistaken in him, sir. He's an artful young rascal. He was here yesterday, and acted outrageously. He assaulted my clerk and insulted me." "I have nothing to do with that. He is in my company, and if I enter the store he will." "Oh, of course, if he's with you he can come in. Samuel, show the gentleman what he wants." Dan smiled, and nothing but a sense of his own interest prevented Mr. Gripp from objecting to his entrance. "What will I show you, sir?" asked the callow young man named Samuel, glaring at Dan in vivid remembrance of the blow which had doubled him up. "Have you any coats and vests that will fit this young gentleman?" "Young gentleman!" repeated Samuel, mechanically, glancing at Dan in silent hatred. "That means me, Samuel," said Dan, mischievously. "Samuel is an old friend of mine, Mr. Grant." "I think we can fit him," said Samuel, by no means relishing the task of waiting upon his young opponent. "Take off your coat, young feller." "Don't be too familiar, Samuel. You may call me Mr. Mordaunt," said Dan. "I'll be ---- if I do," muttered the young man. Dan took off his coat, and tried on the one submitted to his inspection. He afterward tried on the vest, and they proved to be a good fit. "Do they suit you, Dan?" asked Mr. Grant. "Yes, sir, they fit as well as if they had been made for me." "What is the price of these articles, young man?" asked Mr. Grant. "Twelve dollars," answered Samuel. "He'll take eight," suggested Dan, in a low voice. Mr. Grant knew well enough the ways of Chatham street merchants to appreciate the suggestion. "That is too high," he said, quietly. Samuel, who was trained to read customers, after a glance at Mr. Grant's face, prepared to reduce the price. "We might say eleven," he said, meditatively. "Shall I put them up?" "Not at that price." "You don't want us to give 'em away?" said Samuel, in the tone of one whose reasonable demands had been objected to. "There is no fear of that, I apprehend," returned Mr. Grant, dryly. "I've no objection, I'm sure," remarked Dan, on his own account. "I'd make a few remarks to you, young feller, if you were alone," he read in the eyes of the indignant salesman, and Dan enjoyed the restraint which he knew Samuel was putting upon himself. "You are still asking too much," said the customer. "What'll you give, sir?" asked Samuel, diplomatically. "Eight dollars." "Eight dollars! Why the cloth cost more than that!" protested Samuel. "The work didn't cost you much, I presume." "We pay the highest prices for work in this establishment, sir," said Samuel, hastily. He forgot that Dan knew better. "So they do, Mr. Grant," said Dan. "They pay twenty cents apiece for making vests." "We pay more than that to our best hands," said Samuel. "You told me you never paid more," retorted Dan. Mr. Grant interrupted this discussion. "Young man," said he, "I will give you eight dollars for the clothes." "Say nine, sir." "Not a cent more." As the regular price was eight dollars--when they couldn't get any more--Samuel felt authorized to conclude the bargain without consulting Mr. Gripp. "Shall I do up the clothes?" he asked. "No," said Dan, "I'll wear 'em. You may put up my old ones." Samuel felt it derogatory to his dignity to obey the orders of our hero, but there was no alternative. The bundle was placed in Dan's hands. "Now write me a receipt for the price," said Mr. Grant. This was done. Mr. Grant counted out six dollars and eighty cents. "I have an order upon you for the balance," he said. "I don't understand," ejaculated Samuel. "Your principal owes my young friend, or his mother, one dollar and twenty cents for work. This you will receive as part of the price." "I must see Mr. Gripp," said Samuel. Mr. Gripp came forward frowning. "We can't take the order, sir," he said. "The boy's money is not yet due." "Isn't the work done and delivered?" "Yes, sir; but it is our rule not to pay till a whole dozen is delivered." "Then it is a rule which you must break," said Mr. Grant, firmly. "We can't." "Then I refuse to take the suit." Nathan Gripp did not like to lose the sale on the one hand, or abdicate his position on the other. "Tell your mother," he said to Dan, "that when she has finished another half-dozen vests I will pay her the whole." He reflected that the stranger would be gone, and Dan would be in his power. "Thank you," said Dan, "but mother's agreed to work for Jackson. He pays better." "Then you'll have to wait for your pay," said Mr. Gripp, sharply. "Don't you care to sell this suit?" asked Mr. Grant, quickly. "Yes, sir, but under the circumstances we must ask all cash." "You won't get it, sir." "Then I don't think we care to sell," said Gripp, allowing his anger to overcome his interest. "Very good. I think, Dan, we can find quite as good a bargain at Jackson's. Mr. Gripp, do I understand that you decline to pay this bill?" "I will pay when the other half-dozen vests are made," said Gripp, stubbornly. "I have nothing to do with that. The bill is mine, and it is with me you have to deal. The boy has nothing to do with it." "Is that so?" asked Gripp, in surprise. "It is. You may take your choice. Settle the bill now, or I shall immediately put it in a lawyer's hands, who will know how to compel you to pay it." A determined will carries the day. "Take this gentleman's money, Samuel," said Gripp, in a tone of annoyance. There was no further trouble. Dan walked out of the store better dressed than he had been since the days of his prosperity. "How can I thank you, Mr. Grant?" he said, gratefully. "By continuing to care for your mother, my lad. You are lucky to have a mother living. Mine is dead, God bless her! Now, my lad, what do you think of my success in collecting bills?" "You were too many for old Gripp, sir. He won't sleep to-night." "He doesn't deserve to, for he grows rich by defrauding the poor who work for him." Opposite the City Hall Park Dan and his friend separated. "I shall not see you again, my boy," said Mr. Grant, "for I take the evening train. If you ever come to St. Louis, find me out." "I will, sir." "That's a good man," said Dan, as he wended his way homeward. "If there were more such, it would be good for poor people like mother and me. If I ever get rich, I mean to help along those that need it." CHAPTER VIII. MIKE RAFFERTY'S TRICK. Dan carefully husbanded the money which Mr. Grant had lent him, and the result was that for two months he was comparatively easy in his circumstances. His mother earned five cents more daily, on account of the higher price she received for work, and though this was a trifle, it was by no means to be despised where the family income was so small as in the case of the Mordaunts. Still Dan was not satisfied. "Mother," said he, "I suppose I ought to be contented with earning enough to pay our expenses, but I should like to be saving something." "Yes, Dan, it would be pleasant. But we ought to be thankful for what we are now receiving." "But, mother, suppose I should fall sick? What should we do then?" Mrs. Mordaunt shuddered. "Don't mention such a thing, Dan," she said. "The very idea terrifies me." "But it might happen, for all that." "Don't you feel well, Dan? Is anything the matter with you?" asked Mrs. Mordaunt, anxiously. "Don't be frightened, mother," answered Dan, laughing. "I'm as strong as a horse, and can eat almost as much. Still, you know, we would feel safer to have a little money in the savings-bank." "There isn't much chance of that, Dan, unless we earn more than we do now." "You are right there. Well, I suppose there is no use thinking of it. By the way, mother, you've got enough money on hand to pay the rent to-morrow, haven't you?" "Yes, Dan, and a dollar over." "That's good." The door of the room was partly open, and the last part of the conversation was heard by Mike Rafferty, the son of the tenant who occupied the room just over the Mordaunts. He was a ne'er-do-well, who had passed more than one term of imprisonment at Blackwell's Island. His mother was an honest, hard-working washerwoman, who toiled early and late to support herself and her three children. Mike might have given her such assistance that she could have lived quite comfortably, for her own earnings were by no means inconsiderable. Her wash-tub paid her much more than Mrs. Mordaunts needle could possibly win, and she averaged a dollar a day where her more refined neighbor made but twenty-five cents. But Mike, instead of helping, was an additional burden. He got his meals regularly at home, but contributed scarcely a dollar a month to the common expenses. He was a selfish rowdy, who was likely to belong permanently to the shiftless and dangerous classes of society. Mike had from time to time made approaches to intimacy with Dan, who was nearly two years younger, but Dan despised him for his selfishly burdening his mother with his support, and didn't encourage him. Naturally, Mike hated Dan, and pronounced him "stuck up" and proud, though our hero associated familiarly with more than one boy ranking no higher in the social scale than Mike Rafferty. Only the day before, Mike, finding himself out of funds, encountering Dan on the stairs, asked for the loan of a quarter. "I have no money to spare," answered Dan. "You've got money, Dan; I saw you take out some a minute ago." "Yes, I've got the money, but I won't lend it." "You're a mane skinflint," said Mike, provoked. "Why am I?" "Because you've got the money, and you won't lend it." "What do you want to do with it?" "I want to go to the Old Bowery to-night, if you must know." "If you wanted it for your mother I might have lent it to you, though I need all I can earn for my own mother." "It's for my mother I want it, thin," said Mike. "I guess I won't go to the theater to-night." "That's too thin. Your mother would never see the color of it." "Won't you lend me, thin?" "No, I can't. If you want money, why don't you earn it, as I do?" "I ain't lucky." "It isn't luck. If you go to work and sell papers or black boots, you will be able to help your mother and pay your way to the theater yourself." "Kape your advice to yourself," said Mike, sullenly. "I don't want it." "You'd rather have my money," said Dan, good-humoredly. "I'll never see that. You're too mane." "All right. I'll be _mane_, then." "I'd like to put a head on you," muttered Mike. "I've got one already. I don't need another," said Dan. "Oh, you think you're mighty smart wid your jokes," said Mike. Dan smiled and walked off, leaving Mike more his enemy than ever. This was the boy who overheard Mrs. Mordaunt say that she had more than the rent already saved up. Mike's cupidity was excited. He knew that it must amount to several dollars, and this he felt would keep him in cigarettes and pay for evenings at the theater for several days. "I wish I had it," he said to himself. "I wonder where the ould woman kapes it." The more Mike thought of it the more he coveted this money, and he set to work contriving means to get possession of it. Finally he arranged upon a plan. About three o'clock in the afternoon he knocked at Mrs. Mordaunt's door. She answered the knock in person. "Mike Rafferty!" she said, in surprise. "Won't you come in?" "Oh, no; I can't. It's bad news I bring you about Dan." "What is it? Tell me quick, in Heaven's name!" she exclaimed, her heart giving a great bound. "He's been run over, ma'am, by a hoss, in front of the Astor House, and they took him into the drug store at the corner. He wants you to go right over." "Is he--badly hurt?" asked the agonized mother. "I guess he's broke his leg," said Mike. In two minutes Mrs. Mordaunt, trembling with apprehension, her faltering limbs almost refusing to bear her weight, was on her way to the Astor House. As Mike had calculated, she did not stop to lock the door. The young scape-grace entered the deserted room, rummaged about till he found the scanty hoard reserved for the landlord, and then went off whistling. "Now I'll have a bully time," he said to himself. "Didn't I fool the ould woman good?" CHAPTER IX. MIKE'S THEFT IS DISCOVERED. Dan was standing in front of the Astor House, talking to a boy acquaintance, when his mother tottered up to him in a state of great nervous agitation. "Why, mother, what's the matter?" asked Dan, in surprise. "What brings you out this afternoon?" "Oh, Dan!" she gasped, "are you hurt?" Dan opened his eyes in wonder. It occurred to him that his mother must have lost her mind. "Hurt!" he repeated. "Yes; they told me you were run over, and had your leg broken." "My leg broken! Who told you so?" "Mike Rafferty." "Then I wish I had him here," said Dan, indignantly; "I'd let him know whether my leg is broken or not. You bet I would!" "Haven't you been run over, then?" "Not that I know of, and I guess it couldn't be done without my knowing it." "I am so glad, so relieved!" sighed Mrs. Mordaunt. "I don't know how I got here, I was so agitated." "When did Mike Rafferty tell you this cock-and-bull story, mother?" asked Dan. "Only a few minutes ago. He said you had been taken into a drug store, and wanted me to come right over." "It's a mean trick he played on you, mother," said Dan, indignantly. "I don't see what made him do it." "Nor I," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "He must have meant it as a joke." "A pretty poor joke. I'll get even with him for that." "I don't mind it now, Dan, since I have you safe. I am ready to forgive him. He didn't know how much he was distressing me." "Then he ought to have known. You may forgive him if you want to; I sha'n't." "I will go home now, Dan. I feel a good deal happier than I did when I was hurrying over here." "I will go with you, mother. I have sold my papers, and sha'n't work any more this afternoon. Where did you leave Mike? I hope I can come across him soon." "I left him at the door of our room." "Did you lock the door when you came away, mother?" asked Dan. "No; I believe not." "Then let us go home at once. Some one might get in." "There isn't much to take, Dan," said Mrs. Mordaunt, with a faint smile. "There is our rent money, mother." "I didn't think of that." "We shall be in a pretty pickle if that is lost." "You don't think Mike would take it do you, Dan?" "I think he would if he knew where to find it." "I wish I had brought it with me," said Mrs. Mordaunt, in a tone of anxiety. "Don't fret, mother; I guess it's all right." "Perhaps you had better go home at once without waiting for me, Dan. You can go quicker." "All right; I'll do it. Where is the money?" "In my pocket-book, in the drawer of the work-table." "Are the drawers locked?" "No." "Then hereafter you'd better lock them. Well, I'll be off, and will meet you at the room." Dan was not long in reaching his humble home. The more he thought of it, the more he distrusted Mike, and feared that he might have had a sinister design in the deception he had practiced upon his mother. To lose the rent money would be a serious matter. Mr. Grab hated him, he knew full well, and would show no mercy, while in the short time remaining it would be quite impossible to make up the necessary sum. Dan sprang up the stairs, several at a bound, and made his way at once to the little work-table. He pulled the drawer open without ceremony, and in feverish haste rummaged about until, to his great joy, he found the pocket-book. His heart gave a joyous bound. "It's all right, after all," he said. "Mike isn't so bad as I thought him." He opened the pocket-book, and his countenance fell. There was a twenty-five cent scrip in one of the compartments, and that was all. "He's stolen the money, after all," he said, his heart sinking. "What are we going to do now?" He waited till his mother reached home. She looked inquiringly at him. One glance told her what had happened. "Is it gone, Dan?" she gasped. "That is all that is left," answered Dan, holding up the scrip. "Mike could not be wicked enough to take it." "Couldn't he, though? You don't know him as I do, mother. He's a mean thief, and he sent you off to have a clear field. I wish you had locked the door." "I couldn't think of that, or anything else, Dan, when I thought you were hurt." "That's why he told you." "What can we do, Dan? Mr. Grab will be angry when he finds we can't pay him." "I will try to find Mike; and if I do, I will get the money if I can. That's the first thing." Dan went up stairs at once, and knocked at Mrs. Rafferty's door. She came to the door, her arms dripping with suds, for she had been washing. "Is it you, Dan?" she said. "And how is your mother to-day?" "Is Mike in?" asked Dan, abruptly, too impatient to answer the question. "No; he went out quarter of an hour ago." "Did he tell you where he was going, Mrs. Rafferty?" "Yes, he did. He said he was going over to Brooklyn to see if he could get a job, shure. Did you want him?" "Yes, I did, Mrs. Rafferty. I'm sorry to tell you that Mike has played a bad trick on my mother." "Oh, whirra, whirra, what a bye he is!" wailed Mrs. Rafferty. "He's always up to something bad. Sorra bit of worruk he does, and I at the wash-tub all day long." "He's a bad son to you, Mrs. Rafferty." "So he is, Dan, dear. I wish he was like you. And what kind of trick has he played on your good mother?" "He told her that I had been run over and broken my leg. Of course she went out to find me, thinking it was all true, and while she was away he took the money from her pocket-book." Some mothers would have questioned this statement, but Mrs. Rafferty knew to her cost that Mike was capable of stealing, having been implicated in thefts on several occasions. "Was it much, Dan?" she asked. "Six or seven dollars. I can't say just how much." "Oh, what a bad bye! I don't know what to do wid him, shure." "It was the money we were to pay our rent with to-morrow," continued Dan. "It is a very serious matter." "I wish I could make it up to you, Dan, dear. It's a shame it is." "You are an honest woman, Mrs. Rafferty, but you ought not to make it up. I wish I could find Mike. Do you think he has really gone to Brooklyn." "Shure, I don't know. He said so." "He might have done it as a blind, just to put me on the wrong scent." "So he might, shure." "Well, Mrs. Rafferty, I can't stop any longer. I'll try to find him." He went down stairs and told his mother what he had discovered or failed to discover. "Don't wait supper for me, mother," he said. "I'm going in search of Mike." "You won't fight with him, Dan?" said Mrs. Mordaunt, anxiously. "I can't promise, mother. I will only agree to be prudent. I am not going to submit to the loss without trying to get the money back, you may be sure of that." So Dan went down stairs, considerably perplexed in mind. Mike was sure to keep out of the way for a time at least, anticipating that Dan would be upon his track. While our hero was searching for him, he would have plenty of opportunities of spending the money of which he had obtained unlawful possession. To punish him without regaining the contents of the lost pocket-book would be an empty triumph. In the street below Dan espied Terence Quinn, an acquaintance of Mike. "How are you, Terence?" he said. "Have you seen anything of Mike?" "I saw him only a few minutes ago." "Where did he go?" "I don't know." "I want to see him on business." "I'll tell you where he'll be this evening." "Where?" "He's going to the Old Bowery, and I'm goin' wid him." "Does he treat?" "Yes." "Where did he get the money?" "He didn't tell me," said Terence. "He's taken the rent money. I'm sure of it now," said Dan to himself. "I wish I knew where to find him." CHAPTER X. DAN AS A DETECTIVE. Dan quickly decided that if Mike had been going to Brooklyn, he would not have announced it under the circumstances. "He meant to send me there on a wild-goose chase," he reflected. "I am not quite so green as he takes me to be." Dan could not decide as easily where Mike had gone. Hood says in his poem of "The Lost Heir," "A boy as is lost in London streets is like a needle in a bundle of hay." A hunt for a boy in the streets of New York is about equally hopeless. But Dan did not despair. "I'll just stroll round a little," he said to himself. "Maybe I'll find him." Dan bent his steps toward the Courtlandt-street Ferry. "Perhaps Mike has gone to Jersey City," he said to himself. "Anyway, I'll go over there." It was not an expensive journey. Six cents would defray Dan's expenses both ways, and he was willing to incur this expense. He meant to look about him, as something might turn up by which he could turn an honest penny. Something did turn up. Near him in the cabin of the ferry-boat sat a gentleman of middle age, who seemed overloaded with baggage. He had two heavy carpet-bags, a satchel, and a bundle, at which he looked from time to time with a nervous and uncomfortable glance. When the boat touched shore he tried to gather his various pieces of luggage, but with indifferent success. Noticing his look of perplexity, Dan approached him, and said, respectfully: "Can't I assist you, sir?" "I wish you would, my boy," said the gentleman, relieved. "All right, sir. I'll take one of the carpet-bags and the satchel, if you like." "Thank you; that will do nicely." So the two left the boat together. "Where are you going, sir?" asked Dan. "Do you know the wharf of the Cunard steamers?" asked the gentleman. "Yes, sir." "Is it far off?" "Not more than five or six minutes' walk," answered Dan. "Can you help me as far as that with my luggage?" "Yes, sir." "I will make it worth your while, and you will be doing me a great favor besides. I was brought down to the ferry, but the rascally hackman demanded five dollars more to carry me across and land me at the Cunard pier. He thought I would have to submit to this imposition, but I was so indignant that I tried to handle all my luggage myself. I don't know how I should have managed without you." "I won't charge you so much, sir," said Dan, smiling. "It isn't for the money I cared so much as for the imposition. I would rather pay you ten dollars than the hackman five." "Be careful, sir," said Dan, smiling, "or I may take advantage of your liberal offer." The gentleman smiled in turn. "You don't look like a boy that would take advantage of a traveler." "You can't judge from appearances, sir. I have been robbed of six dollars to-day, and I might try to make it up that way." "You have been robbed! How?" Dan briefly related the circumstances. "Was it all the money your mother had?" "Yes, sir." "How did you happen to be coming across the ferry?" "I thought Mike might be here somewhere." By this time they were in sight of the Cunard wharf. "Were you ever on a Cunard steamer?" asked the gentleman. "No, sir." "Help me on board with my luggage, and I will show you about." "I thought the steamers generally left in the morning," said Dan. "So they do; but to-day the tide did not serve till later." Dan helped Mr. Stevens down below with his luggage, and assisted him in storing them in his stateroom. He surveyed with interest the cabin, the deck, the dining-saloon, and the various arrangements. "Well," said the gentleman, smiling, "how do you like it?" "First-rate, sir." "Do you think you would like to be going with me?" "Yes, sir, but for my mother." "Of course, it won't do to desert her; otherwise I might be tempted to make you an offer. I am sure you would be very useful to me." "I should like it very much, if mother did not need me." Dan went up stairs with Mr. Stevens, and remained till visitors were warned that it was time to go ashore. "I must go, sir," he said. Mr. Stevens drew a five-dollar bill from his vest pocket and handed it to Dan. "I haven't any change, sir," said Dan. "None is required," said the gentleman, smiling. "Do you really mean to give me five dollars, sir?" "That is what the hackman wanted to charge me." "But it was too much." "It was too much for him; it is not too much for you, if I am willing to give it to you." "You are very kind, sir," said Dan, almost doubting the reality of his good fortune. "It will prove that I spoke truly when I said I didn't care for the amount of money, only for the imposition. I am really very glad to give it to you. Good-by, my boy." He offered his hand. Dan shook it heartily, and, wishing him a pleasant voyage, descended the gangplank. "That is almost as much as Mike robbed me of," he said to himself. "How lucky I came over to Jersey City! Now, if I could only get back part of the money Mike robbed me of, I should be the better off for his mean trick." Dan did not immediately return to New York. He had been so fortunate that he decided to spend the rest of the afternoon as he liked. He walked on for ten minutes, Mike being temporarily out of his mind, when his attention was suddenly drawn to him. Just in front of him he saw Mike himself swaggering along, with a ten-cent cigar in his mouth, and both hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. He was strolling along in fancied security, not dreaming of the near presence of the boy whom he had so meanly robbed. Dan's eyes sparkled when he recognized his enemy, and hastening his pace, he put his hand on Mike's shoulder. Mike turned quickly, and his countenance changed when he saw Dan. "Has he found it out?" suggested his guilty conscience. "Anyway, he can't prove anything. I'll bluff him off." "Hallo, Dan!" he said, in affected cordiality. "What brings you over here?" "What brings _you_ over here, Mike?" asked Dan, significantly. "I'm looking for a job," said Mike. "You look like it," retorted Dan, "with both hands in your pockets and a cigar in your mouth! Times seem to be good with you. How much did that cigar cost?" "I don't know," answered Mike, with unblushing falsehood. "A man gave it to me for holdin' his hoss." Mike was never at a loss for a plausible lie. "I thought you bought it." "I haven't got any money." "Did they let you over the ferry free, then?" "Oh, I had money enough for that." "I guess you have got more." "No, I haven't. Ten cents was all I had." "Then how are you going to take Terence Quinn to the theater to-night?" asked Dan. Even Mike's brazen effrontery was hardly prepared to meet this unexpected question. "What do you mane?" he stammered. "Terence told me you had invited him." "Then he lies!" said Mike, his self-assurance returning. "He invited me." "Look here, Mike Rafferty," said Dan, out of patience; "that won't go down! Terence told the truth. I know where you got the money you were going to treat him with." "Where, then?" "From my mother's pocket-book." "It's a lie!" blustered Mike. "It's the truth, and if you don't hand over what's left without making any more trouble, I'll have you arrested." "You can't. We're in Jersey----" "I shall have you arrested as soon as you get home." "I didn't take the money," said Mike, sullenly. "You did, and you know it," said Dan, firmly. "Give me what you have left, and I'll make no trouble about it. If you don't, you're booked for another term at the island." Mike tried to save his ill-gotten gains, but Dan was persistent, and finally extracted from him four dollars and a half. The rest Mike pretended he had spent. He was sly enough, however, to have saved enough to take him to the Old Bowery. On the whole, Dan was satisfied, considering the five dollars he had received on the Cunard steamer, but he could not forbear giving Mike a farewell shot. "How did it happen, Mike, that you took the Jersey Ferry to Brooklyn?" Mike did not deign a reply. "That is my first appearance as a detective," thought Dan. "It seems to pay." CHAPTER XI. DAN HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE. It was only five o'clock when Dan, returning from Jersey City, found himself again in front of the Astor House. "Shall I buy any evening papers?" Dan asked himself. "No, I won't. I've made enough to satisfy me for one day." Dan stood at the corner of Vesey street, glancing at the hurrying crowds. He rather enjoyed his temporary freedom from business cares. He had made a good day's work, the morrow's rent was provided for, and he felt like a gentleman of leisure. All at once his attention was drawn to a low sob. It proceeded from a little flower-girl of ten years, who usually stood near the hotel. "What's the matter, Fanny?" asked Dan, calling her by her name, for the little flower-girl was one of his acquaintances. "Haven't you sold as many bouquets as usual?" "Yes," said Fanny, pausing in her sobs, "I've sold more." "Then what's the matter? Has any one been teasing you?" "No, but a young man passed a bad half-dollar on me." "Let me see it." Dan inspected the piece. He did not need to ring it, for it was dull in appearance and unmistakably bad. "When did you take it?" "Just now. A young man came up and bought a five-cent bouquet, and gave me this to change." "Didn't you see that it was bad?" "I didn't look at it till afterward. Then it was too late." "So you gave him forty-five cents in good money, Fanny?" "Yes," said the little girl, again beginning to sob. "How many bouquets had you sold?" "Seven." "Then you have less money than when you began?" "Yes, Dan." "Do you think the fellow knew the piece was bad?" "Yes, for he hurried away." "Which way did he go?" "Down Broadway." "Maybe he was going to Jersey City." "No, I saw him turn down Fulton street." "Then he was going to Brooklyn. How did he look?" "He was short and had red hair." "How was he dressed?" "He had on a gray suit." "How long ago did this happen?" "About five minutes." "Give me the bad piece, and I'll go after him. Stay here till I come back." Dan seized the money, and proceeded toward Fulton Ferry at a half run. "I hope he won't have taken the boat," he said to himself. "If he has I shall lose him." Dan nearly overthrew an apple woman's stand not far from the ferry, but did not stop to apologize. He ran into a fat gentleman who looked daggers at him, but kept on. Breathless he paid his ferriage, and just succeeded in catching a boat as it was leaving the New York pier. Thus far he had not seen the young man of whom he was in search. "He may be on board the boat. I'll go forward," said Dan to himself. He walked through the ladies' cabin, and stepped out on the forward deck. The boat was crowded, for it was at the time when men who live in Brooklyn, but are employed in New York, are returning to their homes. Dan looked about him for a time without success, but all at once his eyes lighted up. Just across the deck, near the door of the gentlemen's cabin, stood a young man with red hair, holding a small bouquet in his hand. His face was freckled, his eyes small, and he looked capable of meanness. Of course appearances are often deceptive, but not unfrequently a man's character can be read upon his face. "That's the fellow that cheated poor Fanny, I'll bet a hat," Dan decided within himself. "He looks like it." He immediately crossed to the other side of the deck. The red-headed young man was talking to another young man of about the same age. "Where did you get that bouquet, Sanderson?" asked the latter. "Bought it of a little girl in front of the Astor House," answered Sanderson. "That settles it," thought Dan. He waited to hear what would come next. "I suppose it is meant for some young lady," suggested the other. "Maybe it is," answered Sanderson, with a grin. Dan thought it was about time to come to business. He touched the red-haired young man on the arm. Sanderson looked round. "Well, boy, what is it?" he asked. "You bought that bouquet of a girl near the Astor House," said Dan. "What if I did?" asked Sanderson, uneasily, for he had a suspicion of what was coming. "You gave her a bogus half-dollar in payment," continued Dan. "Do you mean to insult me?" blustered Sanderson. "Be off with you." "I am sorry I cannot accommodate you," said Dan, "but I want you to give me a good piece for this first." "I never saw that half-dollar before," said Sanderson. "I gave her good money." "Perhaps you can prove that before the court," said Dan. "What do you mean?" demanded Sanderson, uneasily. "I mean that you have passed counterfeit money, and unless you give me a good piece for it I will give you in charge as soon as we reach the pier," said Dan, firmly. Sanderson looked about him, and saw that the boy's charge was believed. Soon his friend looked disgusted. Dan followed up his attack. "Fanny is a poor girl," he said. "I found her crying over her loss, for it was more than all the money she had taken to-day." "Are you her friend?" asked Sanderson, sneering. "Yes, I am," said Dan, stoutly. "This is a put-up job between you two," said Sanderson. "Gentlemen," said Dan, turning and appealing to the passengers near him, "this young man has passed a bad fifty-cent piece on a poor flower-girl. Shall he make it good?" "Yes, yes!" exclaimed half a dozen, and several cried "shame!" with looks of scorn and disgust directed toward the young man with red hair. "I don't believe a word of it," he ejaculated, in a rage. "I gave the girl a quarter." "Too thin!" said several. "But I'll give you the money to get rid of you," and he threw a half-dollar at Dan with a look very far from amiable. "Thank you, sir; here's your money," said Dan. Though Sanderson had disclaimed all knowledge of the bogus half-dollar, he took it and put it carefully in his pocket. "Keep it to pay your washerwoman with," said a jeering voice. It was a young fellow in the garb of a workman who spoke. The boat touched the pier, and Sanderson was only too glad to hurry away from the unfriendly crowd. "You're a smart boy!" cried a keen-looking businessman, addressing Dan. "How did you discover that this fellow was the one that passed the coin." "Fanny described him to me." "Then you hadn't seen him before?" "No, sir." "What are you doing for a living?" "Selling papers, sir." "You are fit for something better. Come and see me to-morrow." He placed in Dan's hands a card bearing the firm's name BARTON & ROGERS, Commission Merchants, No. -- Pearl street. "My name is Rogers," he continued. "Inquire for me." "Thank you, sir." Dan was so pleased at having recovered Fanny's money that he gave little thought to this last incident, though it was destined to exert an important influence on his fortunes. He took the same boat back to New York, and hurried to the Astor House. Little Fanny, the flower-girl, with a sad look upon her face, was still standing in her wonted place. "I've got your money back, Fanny," said Dan. "Oh, have you?" exclaimed Fanny, joyfully. "Yes; I made the fellow give it up." "Oh, how kind you are, Dan!" There was a listener to what passed between the two children. A tall lady, standing at the corner of the street, regarded them attentively. She was evidently revolving some plan in her head. As Dan was about turning away, she placed her hand on his arm. "Young man," she said, "I want to speak to you." "All right, ma'am," said Dan, surprised. CHAPTER XII. A MYSTERIOUS LADY. Dan thought it probable that the lady who accosted him might wish to send him on an errand, and his surprise vanished. She was tall, slender, and grave in appearance. She was probably not over thirty-five. Her first words renewed Dan's surprise. "Have you a mother living?" "Yes, ma'am." "A father?" "No, ma'am." "Are you an only child, or have you brothers and sisters?" "There is only one of me," answered Dan, humorously. "I suppose you are poor?" "If I were not, I would not sell papers for a living." "Probably you live in a poor place?" "Yes," answered Dan, beginning to be tired of satisfying what might be only curiosity on the part of the lady. She noticed at once the change in his manner. "I am not making these inquiries out of curiosity," she said, quickly. "I have an object in what I ask." This naturally surprised Dan the more. "All right, ma'am," he said; "I am ready to answer." "Are you at leisure for an hour or two?" asked the lady. Dan hesitated. "I suppose mother will be worried if I don't come home to supper," he said, hesitating. "Can't you send her a message not to expect you? Does this little girl know where you live?" "Yes," answered Fanny, readily. To her the lady turned. "Little girl," she said, "go at once and tell this boy's mother that he will not be home till nine o'clock. Say he is called away by business." "Yes, ma'am." "This will pay you for your trouble." The little girl's eyes sparkled with joy as the lady placed fifty cents in her hand. "Thank you. How glad mother will be!" she said. As for Dan, he was puzzled to conjecture what the lady could want of him. What would justify such a handsome compensation to Fanny merely to explain his absence to his mother? "Now," said the lady, "if you will hail the next stage we will go up town." They had not long to wait. Soon they were rattling over the pavements through thronged Broadway. It was two years since Dan had been in a Broadway stage. He could not afford to pay ten cents for a ride, but when it was absolutely necessary rode in a horse-car for half price. Dan looked about him to see if he knew any one in the stage. Nearly opposite sat his former schoolmate, Tom Carver, with a young lady at his side. Their glances met, and Dan saw Tom's lip curl with scorn. Of course he did not betray any mark of recognition. "I like riding in a Broadway stage," he heard the young lady say. "There is more to see as you go along. Besides, the company is more select." "Not always," said Tom, with a significant glance at Dan. Dan felt indignant, but was too proud to show it. "The price excludes the lower classes from using the stage," said the young lady. "It ought to, but I have seen a newsboy in a stage." "How can they afford to pay ten cents for riding?" "I give it up," said Tom, shrugging his shoulders. The lady who was with Dan noticed the direction of Tom Carver's look. "Do you know that boy?" she asked. "Yes," answered Dan, "I used to know him." "Why don't you know him now?" "Because my father lost his property." "I see," said the lady. "It is the way of the world. Don't mind it." "I don't," said Dan, promptly, returning Tom Carver's stare. Tom could not help hearing this conversation, and learned for the first time that Dan and the handsomely dressed lady beside him were in company. "What can they have to do with each other?" he asked himself, curiously. "She can't be a relation--she is too handsomely dressed." At this moment the young lady beside him dropped her handkerchief. Before Tom could stoop to pick it up Dan had handed it to her with a polite bow. "Thank you," said the young lady, with a pleasant smile. "You needn't have troubled yourself," said Tom Carver, irritated. "This young lady is under _my_ charge." "It is no trouble, I assure you," answered Dan. "He is very polite," said the young lady, in a low voice, "and very good-looking, too," she added, with a second look at Dan. "He is only a common newsboy," said Tom, not relishing Julia Grey's tribute to a boy he disliked. "I can't help what he is," said the young lady, independently; "he looks like a gentleman." Dan could not help catching the drift of their conversation, and his face flushed with pleasure, for Julia was a very pretty girl, but not being addressed to him, he could not take notice of it otherwise. "He lives at the Five Points somewhere," muttered Tom. The young lady seemed rather amused at Tom's discomposure, and only smiled in reply. The stage kept on till it reached Madison square. "Will you pull the strap opposite the Fifth Avenue Hotel?" said the lady, addressing Dan. Dan did so. He got out first, and helped his companion out. "Follow me into the hotel," she said. Dan did so. "What is your name?" asked the lady, as they ascended the stairs. "Dan Mordaunt." "I needn't ask if you have a good mother?" she proceeded. "One of the best," said Dan, promptly. "You look like a well-bred boy, and I infer that your mother is a lady. Come into the parlor. I wish to speak to you on business." Dan followed her, wondering, and she signed to him to take a seat on the sofa beside her. "You have already told me that you have no sister," she began. "No, ma'am." "Do you think your mother would enjoy the society of a little girl?" "I think she would." "I have a little girl under my charge--my niece--from whom, for reasons unnecessary to state, I am obliged to part for a time. Do you think your mother would be willing to take charge of her? Of course I would make it worth her while." "I am sure she would like it," said Dan, for he saw at a glance that this would be a very desirable arrangement for them. "Then you feel authorized to accept the charge in your mother's name?" "I do." "The little girl is five years old. Your mother would be willing to teach her until such time as she may be old enough to go to school?" "Oh, yes, ma'am." "I think little girls are best off at home until the age of seven or eight." "There is one objection," said Dan. "What is that?" asked the lady, quickly. "We live in a poor room and a poor neighborhood." "That objection can be obviated. I shall pay you enough to enable you to take better rooms." Dan heard this with satisfaction. "I may as well be explicit," said the lady. "I propose to pay fifty dollars a month for my ward's board, including, of course, your mothers care." "Fifty dollars a month!" repeated Dan, astonished. "If you consider that sufficient." "I am afraid it won't be worth it," said Dan, frankly. "If Althea is well cared for, as I am sure she will be, I shall have no fear of that. Let me add that I shall allow your mother ten dollars per month extra for the child's clothing--say sixty dollars in all. For the present that will probably be enough." "Oh, yes, I should think so," said Dan. "When do you want her to come to us?" "Now. You will take her back with you." "To-night?" asked Dan, startled. "Yes, to-night. I must leave New York early to-morrow. In fact, I leave the city by an early train." "She would have to come to our poor lodgings," said Dan, hesitatingly. "One night there won't matter. To-morrow you can secure rooms up town." "Yes, ma'am, I will. Our month expires to-morrow." "Now," said the lady, rising, "since the matter is settled, come up stairs with me, and I will show you the child." Dan followed the lady up stairs, feeling as if he were in a dream, but a very pleasant one. CHAPTER XIII. ALTHEA. As the lady entered the room a little girl, with an expression of joy, ran from the window from which she had been looking, and took her hand. "I'm so glad you've got home, auntie," she said. "I got tired of being alone." "I staid away longer than I intended, Althea," said the lady. "I was afraid you would feel lonely." "I was _very_ lonely. I wanted to go out into the hall and play with a little girl that lives in the next room, but I thought you wouldn't find me." "I am glad you did not. I have brought you a playfellow, Althea." This drew the little girl's attention to Dan. Unlike most girls of her age, she was not bashful. "What is his name?" she asked. "Dan." "What a funny name! Are you going to live with us, Dan?" "You are coming to live with me," said Dan, smiling. "Will you be my brother?" "Yes." "And will you play with me?" "Sometimes." "I think I shall like you. You are nice-looking," said Althea, in a matter-of-fact tone. Dan blushed. He found the compliment agreeable, though it came from a little girl. "So are you, Althea," he said. "I don't think I am," said Althea. "I've black hair, and my skin is dark. You have nice brown hair, and are whiter than I am." "Some like dark people best," suggested Dan. "I don't. I asked auntie to buy me a big cake of soap to wash the brown off, but it wouldn't come." Dan smiled. He thought the bright, vivacious little face, with the brilliant dark eyes, pretty, though Althea did not. "You will like to live with Dan, my dear?" said her aunt, inquiringly. "Yes, if you come, too." "But I can't." "Why, not, auntie?" "I have got to go away--on business." Althea looked disappointed. "I don't want you to go away, auntie," she said. "Dan and I can't live alone." "Dan has a mother, who will be very good to you." "Will she take care of me?" asked Althea, brightening up. "Yes, Althea." "Is she nice?" "Yes." "Then she will be my mother?" "Yes; you can call her mother." "And you will come to see me some time, auntie?" "Yes, my dear." "Then I will go with Dan;" and the little girl placed her hand confidingly in that of our hero. Dan thought it would be pleasant for him to have a little sister, and he knew that it would brighten his mother's existence. "Shall we go now, madam?" asked Dan, turning to the lady. "Not just yet. Come here, Dan." Dan followed her to the window. She drew from her pocket a wallet containing a considerable sum of money. "I will hand you two months' payment in advance," she said, "and afterward I will remit you monthly, or direct you where to call for money. Two months at fifty dollars will amount to one hundred, and twenty more for Althea's dress will make it up to a hundred and twenty. Have you a pocket-book?" "Yes, ma'am." "Are you careful of money?" "Whenever I have any to be careful about," answered Dan. "I hope you will be comfortably provided from this time. There is a little trunk of Althea's clothes in the trunk-room below. I will write you an order for it, but you may as well wait till you have moved before carrying it away. It will save you trouble." "Yes, ma'am." "Have you had any supper?" "No, ma'am." "Then you shall go into supper with Althea and myself." "What! here, at the Fifth Avenue Hotel?" asked Dan. "Certainly." "I'm afraid I don't look fit." "You look well enough. At any rate, it's nobody's business. We may as well go down now." There was nothing to say, so Dan followed the mysterious lady into the supper-room, Althea clinging to his hand. He felt awkward as he took his seat. Suppose some one should recognize him as the newsboy who usually stood in front of the Astor House! Some one did recognize him. The young lady whom Tom Carver was escorting boarded at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and had alighted at the same time with our hero, though he did not observe it. Tom had been invited to supper, and, with Julia and her father, was seated at a neighboring table when Dan entered. Tom could hardly credit his eyes when he saw Dan entering the supper-room, with the little girl clinging to his hand. "Well, I'll be blowed!" he ejaculated, forgetting his manners in his surprise. "What did you remark?" asked Julia, rather amused. "I beg your pardon, but I was so astonished. There is that newsboy coming into supper!" "Where?" "There." "What a pretty little girl is with him!" "That's so. Who can she be?" "You must be mistaken about your friend being a newsboy." "He is no friend of mine." "Your acquaintance, then; though he is nice enough looking to be a friend. Are you sure he is a newsboy?" "Certain. I saw him selling papers yesterday in front of the Astor House." "His business must be good, or he would not board at the Fifth Avenue Hotel." "Of whom are you speaking, Julia?" asked her father. "Of that boy at the next table, pa." "That boy! Why, that's my young friend of the ferry-boat. Tom, have the kindness to ask him to come here a moment and speak to me." Much surprised, and considerably against his will, Tom rose and walked over to where Dan was sitting. "Look here," said he; "come over to the next table, will you?" "What for?" asked Dan. "There's a gentleman wants to speak to you." Dan looked over and he recognized Mr. Rogers, of the firm of Barton & Rogers, who had asked him to call at his place of business on Pearl street. "Good-evening, Mr. Rogers," he said, politely. "Good-evening, my boy. Do you board here?" "Not as a rule," answered Dan, smiling. "My business don't allow it. I am dining here with some friends." "What's your name?" "Daniel Mordaunt. Everybody calls me Dan." "Then, Dan, let me make you acquainted with my daughter, Julia." Dan bowed and smiled. "I think you were sitting opposite me in the stage, Mr. Mordaunt," said Julia. "Yes, Miss Rogers." "You were polite enough to hand me my handkerchief when I awkwardly dropped it." "Oh, don't mention it." "I hope to meet you again." "Thank you." "What a pretty girl she is!" thought Dan. "Dan, this young gentleman is Thomas Carver. You must be nearly of an age. You ought to know each other." "I have known Mr. Carver a long time," said Dan, smiling. "Indeed!" said Mr. Rogers, surprised. "We used to sit together at school." "You didn't tell me that, Tom," said Julia Rogers, turning to Tom. "No," said Tom, embarrassed; "it is a good while ago." "I won't detain you any longer from your friends," said Mr. Rogers, politely. "I shall see you at the office in the morning." Dan bowed and withdrew. "Where did you meet him, papa?" asked Julia. Her father told the story of Dan's exploit on the ferry-boat. "He is a very smart boy," he said. "I shall probably take him into my employ." "I hope you will, papa. He is a very gentlemanly boy." All this was very disagreeable to Tom Carver, but he did not venture to say all that he felt, being somewhat in awe of Mr. Rogers. "They are making a great fuss over a common newsboy," he muttered to himself. After supper, Dan prepared to take Althea home with him. She felt so well acquainted already that she made no objection, but, hand-in-hand, left the hotel with Dan. He halted a Broadway stage, and they got in. "Are you carrying me to where you live, Dan?" asked the little girl. "Yes, Althea." "Will your mother be glad to see me?" "Yes, she will be very glad. She wants a little girl to keep her company." "Then I'm glad I'm going." CHAPTER XIV. A NEW HOME. Mrs. Mordaunt was apprised by Fanny that Dan had gone up town with a lady, and therefore was not alarmed when he did not return home at the usual time. She hoped he would clear fifty cents, but had no idea to what extent their fortunes would be advanced by Dan's evening's work. "I will save Dan some supper," she said to herself. "He will be hungry." So, mother-like, she supped economically herself, on a cup of tea and some dry bread, and bought a bit of steak for Dan's supper, for she thought he would be very hungry at so late an hour. It was nearly half-past eight when she heard Dan's well known step on the stairs. She opened the door to welcome him, but the cheerful welcome upon her lips died away in surprise when she saw his companion. "Who is this, Dan?" she asked. "She is going to be my little sister, mother," said Dan, gayly. "Will you be my mother?" said Althea, releasing Dan's hand, and putting her own confidingly in that of Mrs. Mordaunt. "Yes, my dear," said the widow, her heart quite won by the little girl's innocent confidence, and she bent over and kissed her. "What does it all mean, Dan?" she asked, in bewilderment. "It means that Althea is to board with us, and be company for you. I have agreed with her aunt that you will take her." "But does her aunt know that we live in such a poor place?" asked his mother in a tone of hesitation. "Yes, mother, but that makes no difference, as we shall move up town to-morrow." "I am sure you have acted for the best, Dan, but it seems so strange." "Will it seem strange to receive fifty dollars a month for Althea's board?" asked Dan. "Fifty dollars a month!" repeated the widow, incredulously. "That's the figure, mother. I didn't suppose we ought to charge more." "More, Dan! Why, it is a fortune!" "I don't know. That depends on Althea's appetite. Are you a great eater, Althea?" "Sometimes I am," said the little girl, naively. "Never mind, I guess there will be enough." "I nearly forgot, Dan. You will want some supper. I didn't know there would be two, but I will go cut and buy some more meat, if you can wait." "I have had supper, mother, or dinner rather. I dined with Althea and her aunt at the Fifth Avenue Hotel." Here was another surprise. "Has Althea been stopping there, Dan?" "Yes, mother." "Then how can she stay even one night in this poor place?" "I will ask her. Althea, do you mind stopping here just one night? We will go to a better place to-morrow." "No, Dan, I don't care." "There, mother, I told you so, Althea is a brick." "What a funny boy you are, Dan! How can I be a brick? A brick is red and ugly, and I am not." "No, Althea, you are not ugly, but your cheeks are red." "They don't look like a brick, Dan." "No, they don't. I take it all back." "I had got your supper all ready, Dan," said his mother, regretfully. "Then eat it yourself, mother." "I have had my supper." "You didn't have any meat, I'll warrant. Now, like a good mother, sit down and eat the steak." Assured that Dan had supped well, Mrs. Mordaunt didn't resist his advice. Dan looked on, and saw with pleasure that his mother relished the meat. "We will be able to live better hereafter, mother," he said. "There won't be any stinting. Fifty dollars will go a good ways, and then, besides, there will be my earnings. I forgot to tell you, mother, that I have probably got a place." "Our good fortune is coming all at once, Dan," said Mrs. Mordaunt, cheerfully. "So it seems, mother. I think it has come to stay, too." "I feel so tired," said Althea, at this point. "Can I go to bed?" "Certainly, my dear child. You can go at once." In twenty minutes the little girl was in a sound sleep. Dan was not sorry, for he wanted to tell his mother about the days adventures, and he could do so more freely without any one to listen. "So, mother," he concluded, "we are going to turn over a new leaf. We can't go back to our old style of living just yet, but we can get out of this tenement-house, and live in a respectable neighborhood." "God has been good to us, Dan. We ought to feel grateful to Him." "I know it, mother, but somehow I don't think of that as quick as you. Who do you think I saw in the supper-room at the Fifth Avenue? Who but Tom Carver. He was wonderfully puzzled to know how I happened to be there. He told the party he was with that I was a common newsboy." "He is a very mean boy," said Mrs. Mordaunt, indignantly. "After being so intimate with you too." "Never mind, mother. He can't do me any harm, and I don't care for his friendship. The time may come when I can meet him on even terms." "You can now, Dan." "I mean in a worldly way. I shall work along, and if I get rich I sha'n't be the first rich man that has risen from the ranks." "God grant you success, my son!" Early the next morning Dan started out in search of a new home. He and his mother decided that they would like to live somewhere near Union Square, as that would be a pleasant afternoon resort for their young boarder. "Will you go with me, mother?" he asked. "No, Dan, I have not time this morning. Besides you know what will suit us." "Very well, mother; I will do my best." Dan crossed Broadway, and took a horse-car up town. In West Sixteenth street his attention was drawn to the notice, "Furnished Rooms to Let," upon a good-looking brick house. He rang the bell, and asked to see the lady of the house. A stout, matronly looking woman, with a pleasant face, answered the servant's call. "I called to inquire for rooms," said Dan. "For yourself?" asked Mrs. Brown. "For my mother, and sister, and myself." "I have a large back room on the third floor, and a small room on the fourth floor." "May I see them?" "Come up stairs, sir." First Dan went into the large room. It was neatly carpeted and furnished, and had a cheerful outlook. "This will do for mother and Althea," he said. "Will you look at the little room?" "Yes, ma'am, but I am sure that will suit. It is for me, and I am not particular. But there's one thing that may trouble us." "What is that?" "Where can mother prepare our meals? She can't cook in the bedroom." "I will give her the privilege of using my kitchen. I don't care to take boarders, as it would be too much care, but your mother is welcome to use my kitchen stove." "Won't it interfere with you?" "Leave that to your mother and myself," said Mrs. Brown, with a pleasant smile. "We can make some satisfactory arrangement." "How much do you want for your rooms?" asked Dan. "Will you be permanent?" "We will be permanent, if suited." "Of course; that is all I ask. Will four dollars a week suit you?" "We will pay it," said Dan, quite relieved, for he feared he should have to pay more. "Can we move in to-day?" "Any time, sir." "Thank you." "I generally ask a week's rent in advance," said Mrs. Brown, "but in your case I won't insist upon it." "Oh, it is perfectly convenient," said Dan, and he drew out his pocket-book containing the money--over a hundred dollars--which Althea's aunt had given him. Mrs. Brown's respect for Dan was considerably increased by this display of wealth, and she congratulated herself on securing such substantial lodgers. This business accomplished Dan went down town, and informed his mother of the arrangement he had made. Before night Mrs. Mordaunt, Althea, and he were installed in their new home, much to the regret of Mrs. Rafferty, who regretted losing so good a neighbor. Before this, however, Dan sought the counting-room of Barton & Rogers. CHAPTER XV. DAN BECOMES A DETECTIVE. Barton & Rogers evidently did business in a large way. They occupied an imposing-looking building of five stories, the greater part being used to store goods. Dan entered and looked around him. A spare, dark-complexioned man of about thirty-five, with a pen behind his ear, was issuing orders to a couple of workmen. Dan approached him. "Is Mr. Rogers in?" he asked. "No, he is not," said the dark man, curtly. "Will he be in soon?" "I don't know." "You might be more civil," thought our hero. He stood his ground, feeling authorized to do so because he had come by appointment. Observing this, the book-keeper turned and said, sharply: "Didn't you hear? I said Mr. Rogers was out." "I heard you," said Dan, quietly. "Then why do you remain? Do you doubt my word?" "Not at all, sir; but Mr. Rogers asked me to call this morning. I can wait." "You can tell me your business." "Thank you, but I don't think that would do." The book-keeper eyed him sharply, and his face lighted up with a sudden discovery. "I know you now," he said. "You sell papers in front of the Astor House, don't you?" "That has been my business." "I thought so; I have bought papers of you." "Thank you for your patronage." "What can you want of Mr. Rogers?" "Mr. Rogers wants me, I suppose, or he would not have asked me to call," returned Dan. "You are a cool hand." "Not always," said Dan, with a smile. "Some hot days I am far from cool." "I suppose Mr. Rogers wishes you to supply him with an evening paper?" "Perhaps he does," returned Dan, with a smile. "Confound the fellow! I can't make anything of him. When did you see Mr. Rogers last?" "In the supper-room of the Fifth Avenue Hotel." "How happened you to be there?" demanded Talbot, the book-keeper, in surprise. "I was taking supper," said Dan, rather enjoying the others surprise, "and Mr. Rogers saw me from another table." "Humph! Do you often take supper at the Fifth Avenue Hotel?" "Not often." "Selling papers must be very profitable." "I'm willing to change places with you." Just then Mr. Rogers entered the warehouse. "Ah! you are here before me, Dan," he remarked, pleasantly. "Have you been here long?" "No, sir; only about five minutes." "I must keep you waiting a few minutes longer while I look at my letters. The letters have arrived, have they not, Mr. Talbot?" "Yes, sir." "Amuse yourself as you like while you are waiting, Dan," said the merchant. Mr. Talbot, the book-keeper, followed the merchant into the counting-room, and Dan was left alone. He looked about him with interest, thinking it probable that this was to be his future business home. It would certainly be a piece of good fortune to become attached to so large and important a house, and he felt in very good spirits, though he foresaw that Mr. Talbot would not make it very pleasant for him. But with his employer on his side he need not be alarmed. Fifteen minutes passed, and Mr. Rogers emerged from the counting-room. "I have to go out a few minutes," he said to Dan. "Come with me, and we can talk on the way." "Certainly, sir." Mr. Talbot followed the two with a frown upon his brow. "How on earth has that boy managed to get round Mr. Rogers?" he asked himself. "I hope he won't be foolish enough to take him in here." Talbot had a nephew whom he was anxious to get into the business, and Dan's engagement would interfere with his little plan. This partly accounts for his brusque reception of Dan on his first arrival. "Well, how do you like our place of business, Dan?" asked Mr. Rogers. "Very much, sir." "Would you rather sell papers or take employment with me?" "I should like very much to be in your employ, sir." "How much did you earn as a newsboy?" "When I was lucky I made a dollar a day." "Then I ought to give you six dollars a week." "I will come for less, sir." "I will pay you what I said. It is more than boys generally get at the start, but I am willing to pay a good sum to a boy who suits me." "I will try to suit you, sir." "Do you know why I take you into my employ?" "Out of kindness, sir." "I feel kindly disposed to you, Dan, but that is not my chief reason." Dan was puzzled, and waited to hear more. "My attention was drawn to you on the ferry-boat. I observed your detection of the mean scamp who cheated a poor flower-girl by offering her bad money, and I inferred that you were sharp and keen." "I hope I am, sir." "That is the sort of boy I want just now. Did you observe Mr. Talbot, my book-keeper?" "Yes, sir." "What did you think of him?" Dan smiled. "I don't think he admires me much," he answered. "He wanted to clear me out before you came in." "Did he?" "Yes; he recognized me as a newsboy." "I understand his reception of you. He has a nephew whom he wishes me to engage. He is jealous of all possible rivals." "Perhaps his nephew would suit you better, sir," said Dan, modestly. "Are you willing to resign in his favor?" "I prefer to leave that to you, sir." "You can do so safely. The nephew is a disagreeable boy, who would not suit me at all. He thinks more of dress than of duty, and, if I read him aright, is lazy and incompetent. Nevertheless, Mr. Talbot has spoken to me about taking him." "Perhaps he doesn't know his nephew's faults." "He knows them well enough, but is desirous of promoting his interests. He won't look upon you very favorably when he learns that I have engaged you." "If you are satisfied, I won't care for that." "Well spoken, my lad. And now for a few words in confidence," and Mr. Rogers lowered his voice. "Our business is a large one, and the sums of money handled are necessarily large. Three months since I ascertained that somewhere in my establishment there was a leak. We are losing money in some unexplained way. I believe that some one in whom I repose confidence is betraying me." Dan listened in earnest attention. "Do you suspect any one, sir?" he asked. "I suspect Mr. Talbot," he said, in the same low voice. Dan started in surprise. "It seems strange, perhaps, that I should speak so confidentially to you--a mere boy--but I am impressed with the idea that you can help me." "If I can, sir, I will," said Dan, earnestly. "I don't doubt it. My first injunction is to say no word, even to your nearest relations, of what I have told you." "I won't, sir." "Next, keep a watch over Mr. Talbot. I want to know what are his habits, whether he uses money freely, with whom he associates. Can you, without betraying to him that he is watched, find out some information for me on these points?" "I will try, sir." "If you secure any information, never communicate it to me in the office. Either come to my house, or write me there." "Yes, sir." "You understand that I am employing you in a detective capacity, and that your time will partly be taken up out of business hours. I intend to pay you extra, according to results. Is that satisfactory?" "Perfectly so, Mr. Rogers, but I am afraid you will be disappointed in me." "I will take my risk of that." "Have you any directions to give me, sir, as to how to go to work?" "No; I am nothing of a detective myself. I leave that to you. I might, of course, employ a professional detective, but Talbot is sharp, and he would suspect. You he will not suspect. He won't dream of my employing a boy. That is all I have to say for the present. When can you come to work?" "I can come to-morrow morning. To-day we are going to move." "To-morrow let it be, then. Good-morning, Dan." Mr. Rogers shook hands with our hero, and walked away. "I am afraid I have a hard job on my hands," thought Dan, "but I will do my best." CHAPTER XVI. DAN MAKES A DISCOVERY. Dan's mother was much pleased with her new quarters. The large room, occupied by Althea and herself, was bright and cheerful, and well furnished. Besides the ordinary chamber furniture, there was a comfortable arm-chair and a lounge. Mrs. Mordaunt felt that she would not be ashamed now to receive a visit from some of her former friends. She had anticipated some trouble about the preparation of meals, but Mrs. Brown made a proposition which wonderfully removed all difficulties. "Mrs. Mordaunt," she said, "your family is about the same as mine. I have a son who is employed in a newspaper office down town, and you have two young children. Now, suppose we club together, and each pay half of the table supplies. Then one day you can superintend the cooking--you will only have to direct my servant Maggie--and the next day I will do it. Then, every other day, each of us will be a lady of leisure, and not have to go into the kitchen at all. What do you say?" "The arrangement will be so much to my advantage that I can say only one thing--I accept with thanks. But won't you be doing more than your share? You will be furnishing the fuel, and pay Maggie's wages." "I should have to do that at any rate. The plan is perfectly satisfactory to me, if it suits you." Mrs. Mordaunt found that the expense was not beyond her means. Her income for the care of Althea was fifty dollars a month, and Dan paid her four dollars a week out of his wages, reserving the balance as a fund to purchase clothes. She went herself to market and selected articles for the table, and, for the first time since her husband's failure, found herself in easy circumstances. There was no need now to make vests at starvation prices. She had thought of continuing, but Dan insisted upon her giving it up entirely. "If you want to sew, mother," he said, "you can make some of Althea's clothes, and pay yourself out of the ten dollars a month allowed for her clothes." This was sensible and proper, and Mrs. Mordaunt decided to follow Dan's advice. She lost no time in obtaining books for the little girl, and commencing her education. Althea knew her letters, but nothing more. She was bright and eager to learn, and gained rapidly under her new teacher. Naturally, Dan and his mother were curious as to Althea's early history, but from the little girl they obtained little information. "Do you remember your mother, Althea?" asked Dan, one evening. "Yes," said the little girl. "When did you see her last?" "Not long ago. Only a little while before you brought me here." "Your mother isn't dead, is she?" "No; but she's gone away." "Why did she go away?" "She is sick. That's what auntie told me. Poor mamma cried very much when she went away. She kissed me, and called me her darling." "Do you know where she went?" "No; I don't know." "Perhaps her lungs are affected, and she has gone to a warmer climate," suggested Mrs. Mordaunt. "She may have gone to Florida, or even to Italy." "Where is your father?" asked Dan, turning to Althea. "Father is a bad man," said the child, positively. "He made mamma cry. He went away a good while ago." "And didn't he come back?" "He came back once, and then mamma cried again. I think he wanted mamma to give him some money." Dan and his mother talked over the little girl's revelations, and thought they had obtained a clew to the mystery in which the child's history was involved. Althea's mother might have married a man of bad habits, who wanted to get possession of her fortune, and rendered a separation necessary. Ill health might have required her to leave home and shift the care of the little girl upon strangers. It seemed rather odd that she should have been handed over to utter strangers, but there might have been reasons of which they knew nothing. "We won't trouble ourselves about it," said Dan. "It's good luck for us, even if it was bad luck for Althea's mother. I like the idea of having a little sister." Althea's last name was not known to her new protector. When Dan inquired, he was told that she could pass by his name, so Althea Mordaunt she became. Both Dan and his mother had feared that she might become homesick, but the fear seemed groundless. She was of a happy disposition, and almost immediately began to call Mrs. Mordaunt mother. "I call you mother," she said, "but I have a mamma besides; but she has gone away." "You must not forget your mamma, my dear," said the widow. "No, I won't. She will come back some day; she said she would." "And I will take care of you till she does, Althea." "Yes," said the child, nodding. "I am glad I came to you, for now I have a brother Dan." "And I have a little sister," said Dan. While Dan was away, and now he was away after supper regularly, Althea was a great deal of company for Mrs. Mordaunt. In the pleasant afternoons she took the little girl out to walk, frequently to Union Square Park, where she made acquaintance with other little girls, and had a merry time, while her new mother sat on one of the benches. One day a dark-complexioned gentleman, who had been looking earnestly at Althea, addressed Mrs. Mordaunt. "That is a fine little girl of yours, madam," he said. "Thank you," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "She does not resemble you much," he said, inquiringly. "No; there is very little resemblance," answered Mrs. Mordaunt, quietly, feeling that she must be on her guard. "Probably she resembles her father?" again essayed the stranger. Mrs. Mordaunt did not reply, and the stranger thought she was offended. "I beg your pardon," he said, "but she resembles a friend of mine, and that called my attention to her." Mrs. Mordaunt bowed, but thought it wisest not to protract the conversation. She feared that the inquirer might be a friend of the father, and hostile to the true interests of the child. For a week to come she did not again bring Althea to the park, but walked with her in a different direction. When, after a week, she returned to the square, the stranger had disappeared. At all events, he was not to be seen. We pass now to Dan and his interests. Mr. Talbot heard of his engagement with anything but satisfaction. He even ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Rogers. "Do you know that this boy whom you have engaged is a common newsboy?" he asked. "I have bought a paper more than once of him, in front of the Astor House." "So have I," answered Mr. Rogers, quietly. "Then you know all about him?" "Yes." "It is none of my business, but I think you could easily get a better boy. There is my nephew----" "Your nephew would not suit me, Mr. Talbot." The book-keeper bit his lip. "Won't you give him a trial?" he asked. "I have engaged Dan." "If Dan should prove unsatisfactory, would you try my nephew?" "Perhaps so." It was an incautious concession, for it was an inducement to the book-keeper to get Dan into trouble. It was Dan's duty to go to the post-office, sometimes to go on errands, and to make himself generally useful about the warehouses. As we know, however, he had other duties of a more important character, of which Mr. Talbot knew nothing. The first discovery Dan made was made through the book-keeper's carelessness. Mr. Rogers was absent in Philadelphia, when Talbot received a note which evidently disturbed him. Dan saw him knitting his brows, and looking moody. Finally he hastily wrote a note, and called Dan. "Take that to -- Wall street," he said, "and don't loiter on the way." The note was directed to Jones & Robinson. On reaching the address, Dan found that Jones & Robinson were stock brokers. Jones read the note. "You come from Mr. Talbot?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "Tell him we will carry the stocks for him a week longer, but can't exceed that time." "Perhaps you had better write him a note," suggested Dan, "as he may not like to have me know his business." "Very well." So Dan carried back the note. "I believe I have made a discovery," he said to himself. "Mr. Talbot is speculating in Wall street. I wonder if he speculates with his own money or the firm's?" His face, however, betrayed nothing as he handed the note to the book-keeper, and the latter, after a searching glance, decided that there was nothing to fear in that quarter. CHAPTER XVII. TALBOT'S SECRET. Some light may be thrown upon Mr. Talbot's operations, if the reader will accompany him to a brownstone house on Lexington avenue, on the evening of the day when Dan was sent to the office of the Wall street brokers. Mr. Talbot ascended the steps, not with the elastic step of a man with whom the world is prospering, but with the slow step of a man who is burdened with care. "Is Miss Conway at home?" he inquired of the servant who answered the bell. "Yes, sir." "Will you tell her I should like to speak with her?" "Yes, sir." Talbot walked in with the air of one who was familiar with the house, and entering a small front room, took a seat. The furniture was plain, and the general appearance was that of a boarding-house. Talbot seemed immersed in thought, and only raised his eyes from the carpet when he heard the entrance of a young lady. His face lighted up, and he rose eagerly. "My dear Virginia," he said, "it seems a long time since I saw you." "It is only four days," returned the young lady, coolly. "Four days without seeing you is an eternity." The young lady smiled. It was easy to see that Talbot was in love, and she was not. "A very pretty compliment," she said. "Well, have you any news?" "Not good news," said he, soberly. She shrugged her shoulders, and looked disappointed. Before going further, it may be as well to describe briefly the young lady who had so enthralled the book-keeper. She had the advantage of youth, a complexion clear red and white, and decidedly pretty features. If there was a defect, it was the expression of her eyes. There was nothing soft or winning in her glance. She seemed, and was, of a cold, calculating, unsympathetic nature. She was intensely selfish, and was resolved only to marry a man who could gratify her taste for finery and luxurious living. She was the niece of Mrs. Sinclair, who kept the boarding-house, and though living in dependence upon her aunt, did nothing to relieve her from the care and drudgery incidental to her business. "It's too provoking," she said, pouting. "So it is, Virginia;" and Talbot tried to take her hand, but she quietly withdrew it. "You told me that you would have plenty of money by this time, Mr. Talbot." "I expected it, but a man can't foresee the fluctuations of Wall street. I am afraid I shall meet with a loss." "I don't believe you are as smart as Sam Eustis--he's engaged to my cousin. He made ten thousand dollars last month on Lake Shore." "It's the fools that blunder into luck," said Talbot, irritated. "Then you'd better turn fool; it seems to pay," said Virginia, rather sharply. "No need of that--I'm fool enough already," said Talbot, bitterly. "Oh, well, if you've only come here to make yourself disagreeable, I'm sure you'd better stay away," said the young lady, tossing her head. "I came here expecting sympathy and encouragement," said Talbot. "Instead, you receive me with taunts and coldness." "You are unreasonable, Mr. Talbot," said Virginia. "I will be cheerful and pleasant when you bring me agreeable news." "Oh, Virginia!" exclaimed Talbot, impulsively. "Why will you require impossibilities of me? Take me as I am. I have an income of two thousand dollars a year. We can live comfortably on that, and be happy in a snug little home." "Snug little home!" repeated the young lady, scornfully. "Thank you; I'd rather not. I know just what that means. It means that I am to be a household drudge, afraid to spend an extra sixpence--perhaps obliged to take lodgers, like my aunt." "Not so bad as that, Virginia." "It would come to that in time." "I am sure you cannot love me when you so coolly give me up for money." "I haven't given you up, but I want you to get money." "Would to Heaven I could!" "You could if you were in earnest." "Do you doubt that?" "Where there's a will, there's a way, Mr. Talbot. If you really care so much for me, you will try to support me as I want to live." "Tell me, in a word, what you want." "Well," said Virginia, slowly, "I want to go to Europe for my honey-moon. I've heard so much of Paris, I know I should like it ever so much. Then I want to live _respectably_ when I get back." "What do you call living respectably?" asked Talbot. "Well, we must have a nice little house to ourselves, and I think, just at first, I could get along with three servants; and I should want to go to the opera, and the theater, and to concerts." "You have not been accustomed to live in that way, Virginia." "No; and that's why I have made up my mind not to marry unless my husband can gratify me." "Suppose this is impossible?" "Impossible for you!" said Miss Conway, significantly. "You mean you will look elsewhere?" said Talbot, hastily. "Yes, I think so," said Virginia, coolly. "And you would desert me for a richer suitor?" he demanded, quickly. "Of course I would rather marry you--you know that," said Virginia, with perfect self-possession; "but if you can't meet my conditions, perhaps it is better that we should part." "You are cruel--heartless!" exclaimed Talbot, angrily. "No; only sensible," she returned, calmly. "I don't mean to marry you and be unhappy all my life; and I can't be happy living in the stuffy way my aunt does. We should both be sorry for such a marriage when it was too late." "I will take the risk, Virginia," said Talbot, fixing his eyes with passionate love on the cold-hearted girl. "But I will not," said Virginia, decidedly. "I am sure you needn't take it to heart, Mr. Talbot. Why don't you exert yourself and win a fortune, as other people do? I am sure plenty of money is made in Wall street." "And lost." "Not if you are smart. Come now, smooth your face, and tell me you will try," she said, coaxingly. "Yes, Virginia, I will try," he answered, his face clearing. "And if I try----" "You will succeed," she said, smiling. "Well, I hope I may." "And now don't let us talk about disagreeable things. Do you know, sir, it is a week since you took me to any place of amusement? And here I have been moping at home every evening with my aunt, who is terribly tiresome, poor old soul!" "I would rather spend the evening here with you, Virginia, than go to any place of amusement." "Then I can't agree with you. One gets tired of spooning." "I don't--if you call by that name being in the company of one you love." "You would, if you had as little variety as I have." "Tell me one thing, Virginia--you love me, don't you?" asked Talbot, in whose mind sometimes there rose an unpleasant suspicion that his love was not returned. "Why, of course I do, you foolish man," she said, carelessly. "And now, where are you going to take me?" "Where do you want to go, my darling?" "To the Italian opera. To-morrow they play 'The Huguenots.'" "I thought you didn't care for music, Virginia?" "I don't go for that. I want to go because it's fashionable, and I want to be seen. So, be a good boy, and get some nice seats for to-morrow evening." "Very well, my darling." "And you'll try to get rich, for my sake?" "Yes, Virginia. How rich must I be?" "As soon as you can tell me you have ten thousand dollars, and will spend half of it on a trip to Europe, I will marry you." "Is that a bargain?" "Yes." "Then I hope to tell you so soon." "The sooner the better." When Talbot left the house it was with the determination to secure the sum required by any means, however objectionable. His great love had made him reckless. Virginia Conway followed his retreating form with her cool, calculating glance. "Poor man! he is awfully in love!" she said to herself. "I'll give him two months to raise the money, and if he fails, I think I can captivate Mr. Cross, though he's horrid." Mr. Cross was a middle-aged grocer, a widower, without children, and reputed moderately wealthy. When Mr. Talbot had entered the house, Dan was not far off. Later, he saw him at the window with Virginia. "I suppose that's his young lady," thought Dan. "All right! I guess he's safe for this evening." CHAPTER XVIII. TWO KNIGHTS OF THE HIGHWAY. Stocks took an upward turn, so that Talbot's brokers were willing to carry them for him longer without an increase of margin. The market looked so uncertain, however, that he decided to sell, though he only made himself whole. To escape loss hardly satisfied him, when it was so essential to make money. He was deeply in love with Virginia Conway, but there was no hope of obtaining her consent to a marriage unless he could raise money enough to gratify her desires. How should he do it? He was returning to his boarding-house at a late hour one night, when, in an unfrequented street, two figures advanced upon him from the darkness, and, while one seized him by the throat, the other rifled his pockets. Talbot was not a coward, and having only a few dollars in his pocket-book, while his watch, luckily, was under repair at Tiffany's, he submitted quietly to the examination. The pocket-book was opened and its contents eagerly scanned. An exclamation of disgust mingled with profanity followed. "Only five dollars, Mike!" muttered one of the ruffians. "Why don't you carry money, like a gentleman?" demanded the man called Mike. "Ain't you ashamed to carry such a lean wallet as that there?" "Really, gentlemen, if I had expected to meet you, I would have provided myself better," said Talbot, not without a gleam of humor. "He's chaffing us Bill," said Mike. "You'd better not, if you know what's best for yourself," growled Bill. "Where's your ticker?" "My watch is at Tiffany's." "That's too thin." "It's the truth. You ought to have waited till next week, when I'd have had it for you." "You're a cool customer." "Why not?" "We might hurt you." "You have already. Don't squeeze my throat so next time." "Have you any jewelry about you?" "Only a pair of sleeve buttons." "Gold?" "Yes; but they are small, and not worth much." "You've took us in reg'lar! A gent like you ought to have diamond studs, or a pin, or something of value." "I know it, and I'm sorry I haven't, for your sakes." "No chaffing!" said Bill, with an ominous growl. "Don't be afraid. I look upon you as gentlemen, and treat you accordingly. In fact, I'm glad I've met with you." "Why?" asked Mike, suspiciously. "I may be able to put something in your way." "Are you on the square?" asked Bill, rather surprised. "Yes." "What is it?" "I can't tell you in the street. Is there any quiet place, where we shall not be disturbed or overheard?" The men looked at each other in doubt. "This may be a plant," said Mike, suspiciously. "On my honor, it isn't." "If it is," growled Bill, "you'd better make your will." "I know the risk, and am not afraid. In short, I have a job for you." The men consulted, and finally were led to put confidence in Talbot. "Is there money in it?" asked Mike. "Two hundred dollars apiece." "We'll hear what you have to say. Bill, let's go to your room." "Is it far away?" asked Talbot. "No." "Lead on, then." The three made their way to a dilapidated building on Houston street, and ascended to the fourth floor. Bill kicked open the door of a room with his foot and strode in. A thin, wretched-looking woman sat in a wooden chair, holding a young child. "Is it you, Bill?" she asked. "Yes, it's me!" growled her husband. "Just clear out into the other room. Me and these gentlemen have business together." She meekly obeyed the command of her lord, glancing curiously at Talbot as she went out. Mike she knew only too well, as one of her husband's evil companions. The door was closed, but the wife bent her ear to the keyhole and listened attentively. Suspecting nothing, the conspirators spoke in louder tones than they were aware of, so that she obtained a pretty clear idea of what was being planned. "Now go ahead," said Bill, throwing himself on the chair his wife had vacated. "What's your game?" "Can you open a safe?" asked Talbot. "We might, 'specially if we knowed the combination." "Perhaps I can manage that." "Where is it?" Talbot gave the name of his employer and the number of his store. "What have you got to do with it?" "I'm the book-keeper." "You are? What are you going to make out of it?" "Leave that to me. I'll guarantee that you'll find four hundred dollars there to pay you for your trouble." "That isn't enough. The risk is too great." "It is only one night's work." "If we're caught, it'll be Sing Sing for seven years." "That's true. How much do you require, gentlemen?" The men consulted. "We might do it for five hundred apiece," said Bill. There was a little discussion, but finally this was acceded to. Various details were discussed, and the men separated. "I'm goin' your way," said Mike. "I'll show you the way out." "All right, thank you, but we'd better separate at the street door." "Why? Are you too fine a gentleman to be seen with the likes of me?" demanded Mike, feeling insulted. "Not at all, my friend; but if we were seen together by any of the police, who know me as book-keeper, it would excite suspicion later." "You're right. Your head's level. You're sure you're on the square?" "Yes, my friend. I shouldn't dare to tamper with men like you and Bill. You might find a way to get even with me." "That's so, stranger. I guess we can trust you." "You may be sure of that." "More crime!" said the miserable wife to herself, as she heard through the keyhole the details of the plan. "Bill is getting worse and worse every day. Where will it all end?" "Here, Nancy, get me something to eat," said Bill, when his visitors had departed. "Yes, Bill, I will get you all there is." The wife brought out from a small closet a slice of bread and a segment of cheese. "Pah!" said the burly ruffian, turning up his nose. "What are you giving us?" "It's all I've got, Bill." "Where's the meat, I say?" "There is none." "You and your brat have eaten it!" said he, irritably. "God help us, Bill! We have had no meat for a week." "That's a lie! I can't eat such trash as that. Do you mean to starve me?" "I can't make food, Bill. If you will give money, I will provide better. I can't do anything without money." "Whining, are you?" said the brute, furiously. "I'll teach you to complain of me. Take that, and that!" and he struck the woman two brutal blows with his fist. One, glancing, struck the child, who began to cry. This further irritated Bill, who, seizing his wife by the shoulders, thrust her out on the landing. "There, stay there with the cursed brat!" he growled. "I mean to have one quiet night." The wretched wife crept down stairs, and out into the street, scarcely knowing what she did. She was not wholly destitute of spirit, and though she might have forgiven personal injury, felt incensed by the treatment of her innocent child. "My poor baby!" she said, pitifully, "must you suffer because your father is a brute? May Heaven avenge our wrongs! Sooner or later it will." She sat down on some steps near by; the air was chilly, and she shivered with the cold, but she tried to shelter her babe as well as she could. She attracted the attention of a boy who was walking slowly by. It was Dan, who had at a distance witnessed Talbot's encounter with the burglars, and his subsequent friendly companionship with them, and was trying to ascertain the character of the place which he visited. "What's the matter with you?" asked Dan, in a tone of sympathy. [Illustration: "What's the matter with you?" asked Dan, in a tone of sympathy. Page 148] "My husband has thrust me out of doors with my poor baby." "He must be a nice husband. Do you want a lodging?" "I have no money." "I can let you have enough for that. There's a cheap hotel near by. I'll take you to it, and pay for your lodging, and pay for it in advance." "Heaven bless you! You are indeed a friend." "Take my arm." Supported by Dan, the poor woman rose and walked to an humble tavern not far away. "She may know something about Talbot's visit. I'll question her," thought Dan. CHAPTER XIX. DAN AS A GOOD SAMARITAN. "What made your husband treat you so badly?" asked Dan. "Rum!" answered the woman. "Rum has been sinking him lower and lower, and it's easy to see the end." "What will be the end?" "The prison--perhaps the gallows." "You are taking too dark a view of your husband," said Dan, soothingly. "He won't go as far as that." The woman shook her head. "I know him only too well," she said. "This very evening he has been planning a burglary." Dan started, and a sudden suspicion entered his mind. "Did you hear him doing it?" he asked. "Yes." "Do you know where it is?" he asked, eagerly. "Yes; it is a store on Pearl street." Dan felt that he was on the track of a discovery. He was likely to be repaid at last for the hours he had spent in detective service. "Who put him up to it?" he asked, fixing his eyes intently on the woman. "I don't know his name; he is a well-dressed man. I think he is in the store." "Was it a man who came to your rooms this evening?" "Yes." "Is this the way he looked?" Here Dan gave a rapid description of Talbot. "That is the man. Do you know him?" "Yes, I know him. He is the book-keeper of the firm." "He is a bad man. He is to pay a thousand dollars for the job. Bill is to have half of it." "Bill, I suppose, is your husband?" "Yes." Dan looked thoughtful. Here was a most important discovery. He must consider what to do. By this time they had reached a small public-house, of humble exterior, but likely to afford his companion better accommodations than she had at home. "Come in," said Dan. The woman followed him, with the child in her arms. A stout German, who appeared to be the proprietor of the establishment, was sitting in an arm-chair, smoking a pipe. He scanned the party phlegmatically. "What you wants?" he asked. "Can you give this lady a room?" asked Dan. "Is she your vife?" asked the German, with a broad grin. "No; she is an acquaintance of mine. Her husband has driven her out of his house in a fit of drunkenness. Can she sleep here?" "Has she got any money?" asked the Dutchman, shrewdly. "I will pay for her lodging." "That's all right. She shall stay here." "What will you charge?" "Fifty cents a night for the lodging." "Here it is." "Will the lady go up now?" asked the landlord, upon whom the silver half-dollar produced a visible impression. "Yes," said the woman; "my poor baby is tired." "You had better stay here two nights," said Dan. "Don't let your husband know where you are just yet. Here is money to pay for another night's lodging, and enough to buy food besides." "God bless you, boy!" she said, gratefully. "But for you I should have had to stay out all night." "Oh, no; some one would have taken you in." "You don't know this neighborhood; the policeman would have found me, and taken me to the station-house. For myself I care little; but my poor babe, who is worse than fatherless----" and she burst into tears. "Keep up your courage, madam. Brighter days may be in store," said Dan, cheerfully. "I will come and see you day after to-morrow," said Dan. "Good-night." Our hero must not be awarded too great credit for his generosity. He knew that Mr. Rogers would willingly defray all expenses connected with the discovery, and that the money he had advanced to his unfortunate companion would be repaid. Had it been otherwise, however, his generous heart would have prompted him to relieve the woman's suffering. CHAPTER XX. LAYING THE TRAIN. Very early the next morning Dan rang the bell at Mr. Rogers' residence. "Can I see Mr. Rogers?" he asked. "The master won't be up for an hour," said the servant. "Tell him Dan wishes to see him on business of importance." The girl shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think he'll see you. He was up late last night," she said. "Never mind. Let him know I am here." "It's very important you make yourself," said Susan, crossly. "I _am_ a person of great importance," said Dan, smiling. "Mr. Rogers will see me, you'll find." Two minutes later Susan descended the stairs a little bewildered. "You're to walk into the parlor," she said. "Master'll be down directly." Dan did not have long to wait. Mr. Rogers came down stairs almost directly in dressing-gown and slippers. "Well, Dan, what is it?" he asked. "The store is to be broken open to-night and the safe robbed!" said Dan. "Good heavens! By whom?" "By two men living in Houston street--at least, one lives there." "Have you any more to tell?" "Yes, sir; they are employed by Mr. Talbot." Mr. Rogers started. "Are you sure of this?" he asked. "Quite sure." "How did you find out?" "Partly by accident, sir." "Go on. Tell me all." Dan rehearsed the story, already familiar to our readers, combining with it some further information he had drawn from the woman. "I didn't think Talbot capable of this," said Mr. Rogers. "He has been in our employ for ten years. I don't like to think of his treachery, but, unhappily, there is no reason to doubt it. Now, Dan, what is your advice?" "I am afraid my advice wouldn't be worth much, Mr. Rogers," said Dan, modestly. "I am not sure of that. I am indebted to you for this important discovery. You are keen and ready-witted. I won't promise to follow your advice, but I should like to hear it." "Then, sir, I will ask you a question. Do you want to prevent the robbery, or to catch the men in the act?" "I wish to catch the burglars in the act." "Then, sir, can you stay away from the store to-day?" "Why?" "Your looks might betray your suspicions." "There is something in that. But how can I take measures to guard against loss?" "You can act through me, sir. Is there much money in the safe?" "No; but Talbot is authorized to sign checks. He will draw money if I am not at the store." "Will he place it in the safe?" "Probably." "Then let him do so. He is to tell the burglars the combination. He will get it from the janitor." "The scoundrel!" "I will see the janitor, and ask him to give the book-keeper the wrong word." "What else?" "I will secretly notify the police, whom he will admit and hide till the time comes." "That is well planned." "Then," continued Dan, flushing with excitement, "we'll wait till the burglars come, and let them begin work on the safe. While they are at work, we will nab them." "You say we." "Yes, sir; I want to be there." "There may be danger." "I'll risk it, sir." "Dan, you are a brave boy." "I don't know about that, sir. But if anything is going on to-night, I want to be in it." "You shall, but be prudent. I don't want you to be hurt." "Thank you, sir. If Mr. Talbot sends me with a large check to the bank, what shall I do?" "Take it." "He may make off with the money during the day." "I will set another detective to watch him, and have him arrested in that event." "This is going to be an exciting day," said Dan to himself, as he set out for the store. CHAPTER XXI. TWELVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. As Dan entered the store he noticed that Talbot looked excited and nervous. Ordinarily the book-keeper would have reprimanded him sharply for his late arrival, but he was not disposed to be strict this morning. "I'm a little late this morning, Mr. Talbot," said Dan. "Oh, well, you can be excused for once," said Talbot. He wished to disarm suspicion by extra good humor. Besides, he intended to send Dan to the bank presently for a heavy sum, and thought it best to be on friendly terms with him. About ten o'clock a messenger entered the store with a note from Mr. Rogers to the book-keeper. It was to this effect: "I am feeling rather out of sorts this morning, and shall not come to the store. Should you desire to consult me on any subject, send a messenger to my house." Talbot read this note with great satisfaction. The only obstacle to carrying out his plans was the apprehended presence and vigilance of his employer. Now he had a clear field. About one o'clock he called Dan into the office. "Here, Dan," he said, "I want you to go to the bank at once." "Yes, sir." "Here is a check for twelve thousand dollars--rather a heavy amount--and you must be very careful not to lose any of it, or to let any one see that you have so much with you. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir. In what denominations shall I get the money?" "You may get one hundred dollars in fives and tens, and the remainder in large bills." "All right, sir." "He means to make a big haul," said Dan to himself, as he left the store. "I hope our plans won't miscarry. I wouldn't like Mr. Rogers to lose so large a sum." As Dan left the store a man of middle size, who was lounging against a lamp-post, eyed him sharply. As Dan was turning the corner of the street he left his post, and, walking rapidly, overtook him. "Where are you going?" he asked. "What is that to you?" demanded Dan. "You are in the employ of Barton & Rogers, are you not?" "Yes, sir." "Is your name Dan?" "Yes, sir." "I am a detective, on watch here by order of Mr. Rogers. Now will you answer my question?" "Certainly. I am going to the bank." "To draw money?" "Yes, sir." "How much?" "Twelve thousand dollars." "Whew! That is a big sum. Who sent you?" "Mr. Talbot." "He is the book-keeper, is he not?" "Yes, sir." "I will walk along with you. There is no need of watching till you bring back the money. Where do you think Talbot will put the money?" "In the safe, I think, sir." "I am not sure of that. I believe he will retain the greater part on his own person. If the men who are to rob the safe got hold of all the money they would be likely to keep it, and not limit themselves to the sum he agrees to pay them." "I suppose you are right, sir. What, then, are we to do?" asked Dan, perplexed. "I shall take care to keep Talbot in view. He doesn't propose to run away. He means to have it understood that all this money has been taken by the burglars, whereas but a tithe of the sum will be deposited in the safe." Dan nodded assent. He was convinced that the detective was right. Still he was anxious. "It seems to me there is a risk of losing the money," he said. The detective smiled. "Don't be afraid," he said, confidentially. "Talbot won't leave the city. I will take care of that." His words inspired confidence, and Dan entered the bank without misgivings. The check was so large that the bank officials scrutinized it carefully. There was no doubt about its being correct, however. "How will you have it?" was asked. Dan answered as he had been directed. "Be very careful, young man," said the disbursing clerk. "You've got too much to lose." "All right, sir." Dan deposited one roll of bills in the left inside pocket of his coat, and the balance in the right pocket, and then buttoned up the coat. "I'm a boy of fortune for a short time," he said to himself. "I hope the time will come when I shall have as much money of my own." Dan observed that the detective followed him at a little distance, and it gave him a feeling of security. Some one might have seen the large sum of money paid him, and instances had been known where boys in such circumstances had suddenly been set upon in the open street at midday and robbed. He felt that he had a friend near at hand who would interfere in such a case. "What time is it, boy?" asked an ill-looking man, suddenly accosting him. "Half-past one." "Look at your watch." "I don't carry one," said Dan, eying the questioner suspiciously. "Nor I. I have been very unfortunate. Can't you give me a quarter to buy me some dinner?" "Ask some one else; I'm in a hurry," said Dan, coldly. The man went away muttering. "I'm not as green as you take me for," said Dan to himself. He thought his danger was over, but he was mistaken. Suddenly a large man, with red hair and beard, emerging from Dan knew not where, laid his hand on his shoulder. Dan turned in surprise. "Boy," said he, in a fierce undertone, "give me that money you have in your coat-pocket, or I will brain you." "You forget we are in the public street," said Dan. "No, I don't." "You would be arrested." "And you would be--stunned, perhaps killed!" hissed the man. "Look here, boy, I am a desperate man. I know how much money you have with you. Give me half, and go." Dan looked out of the corner of his eye, to see the detective close at hand. This gave him courage, for he recognized that the villain was only speaking the truth, and he did not wish to run any unnecessary risk. He gave a nod, which brought the detective nearer, and then slipped to one side, calling: "Stop thief!" The ruffian made a dash for him, his face distorted with rage, but his arm was grasped as by an iron vise. "Not so fast, Jack Benton!" exclaimed the detective, and he signaled to a policeman. "You are up to your old tricks again, as I expected." "Who are you?" demanded Jack, angrily. "A detective." "The devil!" ejaculated the foiled burglar. "I have taken nothing," he added, sullenly. "That isn't your fault. I heard you threatening the boy, unless he gave up the money in his possession. Take him away, officer. I will appear against him." "Thank you, sir," said Dan, gratefully. "All right. Go on as quickly as possible. I will keep you in view." All this took a little time. Talbot, whose conscience was uneasy, and with good cause, awaited Dan's arrival very anxiously. "What made you so long?" he asked. "A man tried to rob me." "Did he succeed?" asked Talbot, quickly. "No; he was recognized by a policeman, who arrested him as he was on the point of attacking me." Talbot asked no further questions, considerably to Dan's relief, for he did not wish to mention the detective if it could be avoided. The book-keeper contented himself with saying, in a preoccupied tone, as he received the money: "You can't be too careful when you have much money about you. I am almost sorry I sent for this money," he proceeded. "I don't think I shall need to use it to-day." "Shall I take it back to the bank, sir?" asked Dan. "No; I shall put it in the safe over night. I don't care to risk you or the money again to-day." "That's a blind," thought Dan. "He won't put it in the safe." CHAPTER XXII. TALBOT'S SCHEME FAILS. Talbot went into the office where he was alone. But the partition walls were of glass, and Dan managed to put himself in a position where he could see all that passed within. The book-keeper opened the package of bills, and divided them into two parcels. One he replaced in the original paper and labeled it "$12,000." The other he put into another paper, and put into his own pocket. Dan saw it all, but could not distinguish the denominations of the bills assigned to the different packages. He had no doubt, however, that the smaller bills were placed in the package intended to be deposited in the safe, so that, though of apparently equal value, it really contained only about one-tenth of the money drawn from the bank. Talbot was not conscious of observation. Indeed, he was not observed, except by Dan, whose business it was to watch him. The division being made, he opened the safe and placed the package therein. "Not quite smart enough, Mr. Talbot," thought Dan. "You will need more watching." He was anxious to communicate his discovery to the detective outside, but for some time had no opportunity. About an hour later he was sent out on an errand. He looked about him in a guarded manner till he attracted the attention of the outside detective. The latter, in answer to a slight nod, approached him carelessly. "Well," he asked, "have you any news?" "Yes," answered Dan. "Mr. Talbot has divided the money into two packages, and one of them he has put into his own pocket." "What has he done with the other?" "Put it into the safe." "As I expected. He means to appropriate the greater part to his own use." "Is there anything more for me to do?" asked Dan. "I don't know. Keep your eyes open. Does the book-keeper suspect that he is watched?" "I am sure that he doesn't." "That is well." "I am afraid he will get away with the money," said Dan, anxiously. "I am not. Do you know whether there's any woman in the case?" "He visits a young lady on Lexington avenue." "Do you know the number?" "No." "That is important. It is probably on her account that he wishes to become suddenly rich." This supposition was a correct one, as we know. It did not, however, argue unusual shrewdness on the part of the detective, since no motive is more common in such cases. Dan returned to the office promptly, and nothing of importance occurred during the remainder of the day. When Mr. Talbot was preparing to leave, he called in the janitor. "You may lock the safe," he said. "Very well, sir." "By the way, you may use the word 'Hartford' for the combination." "Very well, sir." "Be particularly careful, as the safe contains a package of money--twelve thousand dollars." "Wouldn't it have been better to deposit it in the bank, Mr. Talbot?" "Yes, but it was not till the bank closed that I decided not to use it to-day. However, it is secure in the safe," he added, carelessly. "I have no doubt of that, Mr. Talbot." Mr. Talbot put on his coat and departed. In turning a street corner, he brushed against a rough-looking man who was leaning against a lamp-post. "I beg your pardon," said the book-keeper, politely. "What did you say?" growled Bill. "Hartford," said Talbot, in a low tone. "All right, sir. If you apologize it's all correct." "They've got the word," said Talbot to himself. "Now the responsibility rests with them. Now I will go and see Virginia." His face flushed, and his eyes lighted up with joy, as he uttered her name. He was deeply in love, and he felt that at last he was in a position to win the consent of the object of his passion. He knew, or, rather, he suspected her to be coldly selfish, but he was infatuated. It was enough that he had fulfilled the conditions imposed upon him. In a few days he would be on his way to Europe with the lady of his love. Matters were so arranged that the loss of the twelve thousand dollars would be credited to the burglars. He would escape suspicion. If his European journey should excite a shadow of suspicion, nothing could be proved, and he could represent that he had been lucky in stock speculations, as even now he intended to represent to Miss Conway. He was not afraid that she would be deeply shocked by his method of obtaining money, but he felt that it would be better not to trust her with a secret, which, if divulged, would compromise his safety. "Is Miss Conway at home?" he inquired. Yes, Miss Conway was at home, and she soon entered the room, smiling upon him inquiringly. "Well," she said, "have you any news to tell me?" "Virginia, are you ready to fulfill your promise?" asked Talbot, eagerly. "What promise?" "You know, surely." "I make so many promises, you know," she said, fencing. "Your promise to marry me." "But there were conditions to that." "Suppose that the conditions are fulfilled, Virginia?" "Do you really mean so?" she asked, betraying strong interest now. "Have you been lucky in stocks?" "I took your advice, Virginia. I dared everything, and I have succeeded." "As you might have done before, had you listened to me. How much did you make?" "Ten thousand dollars--the amount you required." The girl's eyes sparkled. "And you will take me to Europe?" she said. "We will make the grand tour?" "As soon as you please." "Then you deserve a reward." She stooped and pressed a kiss lightly upon his cheek. It was a mercenary kiss, but he was so much in love that he felt repaid for the wrong and wickedness he had done. It would not always be so, even if he should never be detected, but for the moment he was happy. "Now let us form our plans," he said. "Will you marry me to-morrow evening?" "But that gives me no time." "You need no time. We will call on a clergyman, quietly, to-morrow evening, and in fifteen minutes we shall be man and wife. On Saturday a steamer leaves for Europe. We will start then." "Oh, that will be nice. I can hardly believe that I shall so soon realize the dreams of years. I want to go to Paris first." "Anywhere you please. Your wish shall be my law." "How can you be spared from your business?" asked Virginia, after a pause. "I will plead ill health--anything. There will be no difficulty about that." "Shall I tell my aunt?" "No; not till you are almost ready to start." "Why not?" "It is better that there should be no gossip about it. Besides, your aunt would probably be scandalized by our hasty marriage, and insist upon delay. That's something we should neither of us be willing to consent to." "No, for it would interfere with our European trip." "You consent, then, to my plans?" "Yes; I will give you your own way this time," said Virginia, smiling. "And you will insist on having your own way ever after?" "Of course," she said; "isn't that right?" "I am afraid I must consent, at any rate; but, since you are to rule, you must not be a tyrant, my darling." Talbot agreed to stay to dinner; indeed, it had been his intention from the first. He remained till the city clocks struck eleven, and then took leave of Miss Conway at the door. He set out for his boarding-place, his mind filled with thoughts of his coming happiness, when a hand was laid on his arm. He wheeled suddenly, and his glance fell on a quiet man--the detective. "What's wanted?" he asked, not dreaming of the truth. "You must come with me, Mr. Talbot," was the reply. "You are suspected of robbing the firm that employs you." "This is absurd nonsense!" exclaimed Talbot, putting on a bold face, though his heart sank within him. "I hope so; but you must accompany me, and submit to a search. If my suspicions are unfounded, I will apologize." "Hands off, fellow! I believe you intend to rob me. I will give you into custody." The detective put a whistle to his mouth, and his summons brought a policeman. "Take this man into custody," he said. "This is an outrage!" exclaimed Talbot; but he was very pale. "You will be searched at the station-house, Mr. Talbot," said the detective. "I hope nothing will be found to criminate you. If not, you shall go free." Talbot, with a swift motion, drew something from his pocket, and hurled it into the darkness. But he was observed. The detective darted after it, and brought it back. "This is what I wanted," he said. "Policeman, you will bear witness that it was in Mr. Talbot's possession. I fear we shall have to detain you a considerable time, sir." Talbot did not utter a word. Fate had turned against him, and he was sullen and desperate. "How did they suspect?" he asked himself; but no answer suggested itself. CHAPTER XXIII. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM. In the house on Houston street, Bill wasted little regret on the absence of his wife and child. Neither did he trouble himself to speculate as to where she had gone. "I'm better without her," he said to his confederate, Mike. "She's always a-whinin' and complainin', Nance is. It makes me sick to see her. If I speak a rough word to her, and it stands to reason a chap can't always be soft-spoken, she begins to cry. I like to see a woman have some spirit, I do." "They may have too much," said Mike, shrugging his shoulders. "My missus ain't much like yours. She don't cry, she don't. If I speak rough to her, she ups with something and flings it at my head. That's her style." "And what do you do?" asked Bill, in some curiosity. "Oh, I just leave her to get over it; that's the best way." "Is it?" said Bill, grimly. "Why, you're not half a man, you ain't. Do you want to know what I'd do if a woman raised her hand against me?" "Well, what would you do?" "I'd beat her till she couldn't see!" said Bill, fiercely; and he looked as if he was quite capable of it. "I don't know," said Mike. "You haven't got a wife like mine." "I just wish I had. I'd tame her." "She ain't easy to tame." "Just you take me round there some time, Mike. If she has a tantrum, turn her over to me." Mike did not answer. He was not as great a ruffian as Bill, and the proposal did not strike him favorably. His wife was certainly a virago, and though strong above the average, he was her superior in physical strength, but something hindered him from using it to subdue her. So he was often overmatched by the shrill-voiced vixen, who knew very well that he would not proceed to extremities. Had she been Bill's wife, she would have had to yield, or there would have been bloodshed. "I say, Bill," said Mike, suddenly, "how much did your wife hear of our plans last night?" "Nothing." "She might." "If she had she would not dare to say a word," said Bill, carelessly. "You don't know. Women like to use their tongues." "She knows I'd kill her if she betrayed me," said Bill. "There ain't no use considerin' that." "Well, I'm glad you think so. It would be awkward if the police got wind of it." "They won't." "What do you think of that chap that's puttin' us up to it?" "I don't like him, but I like his money." "Five hundred dollars a-piece ain't much for the risk we run." "We'll have more." "How?" "If we don't find more in the safe, we'll bleed him when all's over. He'll be in our power." "Well, Bill, you know best. You've got a better head nor me." "And a stouter heart, man. You're always afeared of something." It was true that Bill was the leading spirit. He was reckless and desperate, while Mike was apt to count the cost, and dwell upon the danger incurred. They had been associated more than once in unlawful undertakings; and though both had served a short term of imprisonment, they had in general escaped scot-free. It was Bill who hung round the store, and who received from Talbot at the close of the afternoon the "combination," which was to make the opening of the safe comparatively easy. "It's a good thing to have a friend inside," he said to his confederate. "Our money is as good as made." "There'll be the janitor to dispose of," suggested Mike. "Leave him to me. I'll knock him on the head." "Don't kill him if you can help it, Bill. Murder has an ugly look, and they'll look out twice as sharp for a murderer as for a burglar. Besides, swingin' ain't pleasant." "Never you mind. I'll only stun him a little. He can wake up when we're gone, but we'll tie him so he can't give the alarm." "How cool you take things, Bill!" "Do I? Well, it's my business. You just leave everything to me. Obey orders, and I'll bring you out all right." So the day passed, and darkness came on. It was the calm before the storm. CHAPTER XXIV. OLD JACK, THE JANITOR. The janitor, or watchman, was a sturdy old man, who in early life had been a sailor. Some accident had made him lame, and this incapacitated him for his early vocation. It had not, however, impaired his physical strength, which was very great, and Mr. Rogers was glad to employ him in his present capacity. Of his fidelity there was no question. When Jack Green--Jack was the name he generally went by--heard of the contemplated burglary, he was excited and pleased. It was becoming rather tame to him to watch night after night without interruption, and he fancied he should like a little scrimmage. He even wanted to withstand the burglars single-handed. "What's the use of callin' in the police?" he urged. "It's only two men, and old Jack is a match for two." "You're a strong man, Jack," said Dan, "but one of the burglars is as strong as you are. I have seen him, you know. He's broad-shouldered and big-chested." "I ain't afraid of him," said Jack, defiantly. "Perhaps not, but there's another man, too. You couldn't overcome both." "I don't know about that." But Jack finally yielded, though reluctantly, and three policemen were admitted about eight o'clock, and carefully secreted, to act when necessary. Jack pleaded for the privilege of meeting the burglars first, and the privilege was granted, partly in order that they might be taken in the act. Old Jack was instructed how to act, and though it was a part not wholly in accordance with his fearless spirit, he finally agreed to do as he was told. It is not necessary to explain how the burglars effected their entrance. This was effected about twelve o'clock, and by the light of a dark-lantern Bill and Mike advanced cautiously toward the safe. At this point old Jack made his appearance, putting on an air of alarm and dismay. "Who are you?" he demanded, in a tone which he partially succeeded in making tremulous. Bill took up the reply. "Are you the janitor?" he asked. "Yes, gentlemen. What do you want?" "Keep quiet, and we will do you no harm. We want you to open the safe." "I can't do that, gentlemen. I can't betray my trust." "All right; I'll do it myself. Give us the key. What's the combination?" "Hartford." Bill glanced at Mike significantly. The word agreed with the information they had received from Talbot. It served to convince them that the janitor had indeed succumbed, and could be relied upon. There was no suspicion in the mind of either that there was any one else in the establishment, and they felt moderately secure from interruption. "Here, old fellow, hold the lantern while we go to work. Just behave yourself, and we'll give you ten dollars--shall we, Mike?" "Yes," answered Mike; "I'm agreed." "It'll look as if I was helpin' to rob my master," objected Jack. "Oh, never mind about that; he won't know it. When all is over we'll tie you up, so that it will look as if you couldn't help yourself. What do you say?" Jack felt like making a violent assault upon the man who was offering him a bribe, but he controlled his impulse, and answered: "I'm a poor man, and ten dollars will come handy." "All right," said Bill, convinced by this time that Jack's fidelity was very cheaply purchased. He plumed himself on his success in converting the janitor into an ally, and felt that the way was clear before him. "Mike, give the lantern to this old man, and come here and help me." Old Jack took the lantern, laughing in his sleeve at the ease with which he had gulled the burglars, while they kneeled before the safe. It was then that, looking over his shoulder, he noticed the stealthy approach of the policemen, accompanied by Dan. He could content himself no longer. Setting down the lantern, he sprang upon the back of Bill as he was crouching before him, exclaiming: "Now, you villain, I have you!" CHAPTER XXV. THE BURGLARY. The attack was so sudden and unexpected that Bill, powerful as he was, was prostrated, and for an instant interposed no resistance. But this was not for long. "You'll repent this, you old idiot!" he hissed between his closed teeth, and, in spite of old Jack's efforts to keep him down, he forced his way up. At the same moment Mike, who had been momentarily dazed by the sudden attack, seized the janitor, and, between them both, old Jack's life was likely to be of a very brief tenure. But here the reinforcements appeared, and changed the aspect of the battle. One burly policeman seized Bill by the collar, while Mike was taken in hand by another, and their heavy clubs fell with merciless force on the heads of the two captives. In the new surprise Jack found himself a free man, and, holding up the lantern, cried, exultingly: "If I am an old idiot, I've got the better of you, you scoundrels! You'll open the safe, will you?" Bill looked about him doggedly. It was hard for him to give in, but the fight was too unequal. "Mike," said he, "this is a plant. I wish I had that cursed book-keeper here; he led us into this." "Is it Mr. Talbot you mean?" asked the janitor. "Yes," answered Bill; "he put us up to this. Curse him!" "No need to curse him," said Jack, dryly; "he meant you to succeed." "Didn't he tell you we were coming to-night?" "Not he." "How did you find it out, then?" asked Bill, quickly. "Not through him. He was watched, for we suspected him. What did he promise you?" "Five hundred dollars apiece." "Was that all?" "It wasn't enough; but we should have got more out of him." "Before you go away with your prisoners," said Jack to the policeman, "I wish to open the safe before you, to see if I am right in my suspicions. Mr. Talbot drew over ten thousand dollars from the bank to-day, and led us to think that he deposited it in the safe. I wish to ascertain, in the presence of witnesses, how much he placed there, and how much he carried away." "Go ahead," said the oldest policeman. The janitor proceeded to open the safe. "Did we have the right combination?" asked Bill. "No." "That cursed book-keeper deceived us, then." "You are mistaken. He was himself deceived. I gave him the wrong word." "Curse you, then!" said Bill, savagely. "Suit yourself, Mr. Burglar," said old Jack, indifferently. "There's an old saying, 'Curses, like chickens, still come home to roost.' Your cursing won't hurt me any." "If my curses don't my fists may!" retorted Bill, with a malignant look. "You won't have a chance to carry out your threats for some years to come, if you get your deserts," said Jack, by no means terrified. "I've only done my duty, and I'm ready to do it again whenever needed." By this time the safe was open; all present saw the envelope of money labeled "$12,000." The two burglars saw the prize which was to have rewarded their efforts and risk with a tantalizing sense of defeat. They had been so near success, only to be foiled at last, and consigned to a jail for a term of years. "Curse the luck!" muttered Bill, bitterly, and in his heart Mike said amen. "Gentlemen, I will count this money before you," said the janitor, as he opened the parcel. The count was quickly accomplished. It resulted, as my readers already know, in the discovery that, in place of twelve thousand, the parcel contained but one thousand dollars. "Eleven thousand dollars short!" said Jack. "Gentlemen, will you take notice of this? Of course it is clear where the rest is gone--Talbot carried it away with him." "Where is he?" inquired one of the policemen. "He ought to be pursued." "By this time he is in custody," said Jack. "Look here, old man, who engineered this thing?" demanded Bill. "Come here, Dan," said Jack, summoning our hero, who modestly stood in the background. "Mr. Burglar, this boy is entitled to the credit of defeating you. We should have known nothing of your intentions but for Dan, the Detective." "He!" said Bill, scornfully. "Why, I could crush him with one hand." "Force is a good thing, but brains are better," said Jack. "Dan here has got a better head-piece than any of us." "You've done yourself credit, boy," said the chief policeman. "When I have a difficult case I'll send for you." "You are giving me more credit than I deserve," said Dan, modestly. "If I ever get out of jail, I'll remember you," said Bill, scowling. "I wouldn't have minded so much if it had been a man, but to be laid by the heels by a boy like you--that's enough to make me sick." "You've said enough, my man," said the policeman who had him in charge. "Come along, will you?" The two prisoners, escorted by their captors, made their unwilling way to the station-house. They were duly tried, and were sentenced to a ten years' term of imprisonment. As for Talbot, he tried to have it believed that he took the money found on him because he distrusted the honesty of the janitor; but this statement fell to the ground before Dan's testimony and that of Bill's wife. He, too, received a heavy sentence, and it was felt that he only got his just deserts. * * * * * * * On the morning after the events recorded above, Mr. Rogers called Dan into the counting-room. "Dan," he said, "I wish to express to you my personal obligations for the admirable manner in which you have managed the affair of this burglary." "Thank you, sir," said Dan. "I am convinced that but for you I should have lost twelve thousand dollars. It would not have ruined me, to be sure, but it would have been a heavy loss." "Such a loss as that would have ruined me," said Dan, smiling. "So I should suppose," assented his employer. "I predict, however, that the time will come when you can stand such a loss, and have something left." "I hope so, sir." "As there must always be a beginning, suppose you begin with that." Mr. Rogers had turned to his desk and written a check, which he handed to Dan. This was the way it read: No. 375. PARK NATIONAL BANK. Pay to Dan Mordaunt or order One Thousand Dollars. ($1,000.) BARTON & ROGERS. Dan took the check, supposing it might be for twenty dollars or so. When he saw the amount, he started in excitement and incredulity. "One thousand dollars!" he repeated, in bewilderment. "Yes," said Mr. Rogers, smiling. "It is a large sum for a boy like you, Dan. I hope you will invest it wisely." "But, sir, you don't mean all this for me?" said Dan. "Indeed I do. It is less than ten per cent on the money you have saved for us." "How can I thank you for your kindness, sir?" said Dan, gratefully. "By continuing to serve us faithfully. By the way, what wages do we pay you?" "Six dollars a week." "It is too little. From this time you will draw ten dollars." "You have made me rich, Mr. Rogers," said Dan, gratefully. "It is a little better than selling papers in front of the Astor House, isn't it, Dan?" "A good deal, sir." "I hope you will continue to prosper. Now, Dan, let me give you two pieces of advice." "I wish you would, sir." "First, put this money in a good savings-bank, and don't draw upon it unless you are obliged to. Let it be a nest-egg." "I mean to do that, sir." "And next, spend a part of your earnings in improving your education. You have already had unusual advantages for a boy of your age, but you should still be learning. It may help you, in a business point of view, to understand book-keeping." "I will learn it, sir." Dan not only did this, but resumed the study of both French and German, of which he had some elementary knowledge, and advanced rapidly in all. CHAPTER XXVI. DAN LEARNS TO DANCE. Several months passed without any incidents worth recording. Punctually every month Dan received a remittance of sixty dollars through a foreign banker, whose office was near Wall street. Of this sum it may be remembered that ten dollars were to be appropriated to Althea's dress. Of the little girl it may be said she was very happy in her new home. She formed a strong attachment for Mrs. Mordaunt, whom she called mamma, while she always looked forward with delight to Dan's return at night. Mrs. Mordaunt was very happy in the child's companionship, and found the task of teaching her very congenial. But for the little girl she would have had many lonely hours, since Dan was absent all day on business. "I don't know what I shall do, Althea, when you go to school," she said one day. "I don't want to go to school. Let me stay at home with you, mamma." "For the present I can teach you, my dear, but the time will come when for your own good it will be better to go to school. I cannot teach you as well as the teachers you will find there." "You know ever so much, mamma. Don't you know everything?" Mrs. Mordaunt smiled. "Compared with you, my dear, I seem to know a great deal, but there are others who know much more." Althea was too young as yet, however, to attend school, and the happy home life continued. Mrs. Mordaunt and Dan often wondered how long their mysterious ward was to remain with them. Had she a mother living? If so, how could that mother voluntarily forego her child's society? These were questions they sometimes asked themselves, but no answer suggested itself. They were content to have them remain unanswered, so long as Althea might remain with them. The increase of Dan's income, and the large sum he had on interest, would have enabled them to live comfortably even without the provision made for their young ward. As it was they could do better. Dan felt himself justified in indulging in a little extravagance. "Mother," said he, one evening, "I am thinking of taking a course of lessons in dancing." "What has put that into your head, Dan?" "Julia Rogers is to have a birthday party in two or three months, and I think from a hint her father dropped to-day I shall have an invitation. I shall feel awkward if I don't know how to dance. Besides----" Here Dan hesitated. "Well, Dan, what besides?" "Tom Carver will be sure to be there, and if I don't dance, or if I am awkward, he will be sure to sneer at me." "Will that make you feel bad, Dan?" "Not exactly, but I don't want to appear at disadvantage when he is around. If I have been a newsboy, I want to show that I can take the part of gentleman as well as he." "Does the ability to dance make a gentleman, Dan?" "No, mother, but I should feel awkward without it. I don't want to be a wall-flower. What do you say to my plan, mother?" "Carry it out by all means, Dan. There is no reason why you shouldn't hold up your head with any of them," and Mrs. Mordaunt's eyes rested with pride on the handsome face and manly expression of her son. "You are a little prejudiced in my favor, mother," said Dan, smiling. "If I were as awkward as a cat in a strange garret, you wouldn't see it." "I am not quite blind, Dan." Dan accordingly decided to take lessons in dancing. He selected a fashionable teacher, although the price was high, for he thought it might secure him desirable acquaintances, purchased a handsome suit of clothes, and soon became very much interested in the lessons. He had a quick ear, a good figure, and a natural grace of movement, which soon made him noticeable in the class, and he was quite in demand among the young ladies as a partner. He was no less a favorite socially, being agreeable as well as good-looking. "Mr. Mordaunt," said the professor, "I wish all my scholars did me as much credit as you do. You dance beautifully." "Thank you, sir," said Dan, modestly, but he felt gratified. By the time the invitation came Dan had no fears as to acquitting himself creditably. "I hope Tom Carver will be there," he said to his mother, as he was dressing for the party. CHAPTER XXVII. IN THE DRESSING-ROOM. Mr. Rogers lived in a handsome brown-stone-front house up town. As Dan approached, he saw the entire house brilliantly lighted. He passed beneath a canopy, over carpeted steps, to the front door, and rang the bell. The door was opened by a stylish-looking colored man, whose grand air showed that he felt the importance and dignity of his position. As Dan passed in he said: "Gentlemen's dressing-room third floor back." With a single glance through the open door at the lighted parlors, where several guests were already assembled, Dan followed directions, and went up stairs. Entering the dressing-room, he saw a boy carefully arranging his hair before the glass. "That's my friend, Tom Carver," said Dan to himself. Tom was so busily engaged at his toilet that he didn't at once look at the new guest. When he had leisure to look up, he seemed surprised, and remarked, superciliously: "I didn't expect to see _you_ here." "Why not?" demanded Dan, who understood his meaning. "Are you engaged to look after this room? If so, just brush me." "With all my heart, if you'll brush me," answered Dan, partly offended and partly amused. "What do you mean?" demanded Tom, haughtily. "Just what I say. One good turn deserves another." "Our positions are rather different, I think." "How so? You are a guest of Miss Rogers, and so am I." "You don't mean to say that you are going down into the parlor?" "Why not?" "A boy who sells papers in front of the Astor House is not a suitable guest at a fashionable party." "That is not your affair," said Dan, coldly. "But it is not true that I sell papers anywhere." "Oh, I forgot. You're a shop-boy now. You used to sell papers, though." "And I will again, if necessary," answered Dan, as he took Tom's place in front of the glass and began to arrange his toilet. Then, for the first time, Tom took notice that Dan was dressed as well as himself, in a style with which the most captious critic could not find fault. Tom was both surprised and disappointed. He would have liked to see Dan in awkward, ill-fitting, or shabby clothes. It seemed to him that an ex-newsboy had no right to dress so well, and he was greatly puzzled to understand how he could afford it. "Where did you borrow those clothes?" he asked, impudently. "Where did you borrow yours?" retorted Dan. "Don't be saucy." "You set me the example." "It is not remarkable that I should be well dressed. I can afford it." "So can I," answered Dan, laconically. "Do you mean to say that you bought that suit and paid for it?" "I do." "It must have taken all your money." "You are very kind to take so much interest in me. It may relieve your mind to see this." Dan took a roll of bills from his pocket, and displayed them to the astonished Tom. "I don't see where you got so much money," said Tom, mystified. "I've got more in the bank," said Dan. "I mention it to you that you needn't feel bad about my extravagance in buying a party suit." "I wouldn't have come to this party if I had been you," said Tom, changing his tone. "Why not?" "You'll be so awkward, you know. You don't know any one except Miss Rogers, who, of course, invited you out of pity, not expecting you would accept." "Did she tell you so?" asked Dan, smiling. "No, but it stands to reason." "You forget I know you," said Dan, smiling again. "I beg you won't presume upon our former slight acquaintance," said Tom, hastily. "I shall be so busily occupied that I really can't give you any attention." "Then I must shift for myself, I suppose," said Dan, good-humoredly. "Shall we go down?" "Go first, if you like," said Tom, superciliously. "I will follow directly." "He doesn't want to go down with me," thought Dan. "Perhaps I shall surprise him a little;" and he made his way down stairs. CHAPTER XXVIII. DAN AT THE PARTY. As Dan entered the parlors he saw the young lady in whose honor the party was given only a few feet distant. He advanced with perfect ease, and paid his respects. "I am very glad to see you here this evening, Mr. Mordaunt," said Julia, cordially. "What a handsome boy he is!" she thought. "I had no idea he would look so well." Mentally she pronounced him the handsomest young gentleman present. "Take your partners for a quadrille, young gentlemen," announced the master of ceremonies. "Are you engaged, Miss Rogers?" asked Dan. "Not as yet," answered the young lady, smiling. "Then may I have the honor?" "Certainly." So it happened that as Tom Carver entered the room, he beheld, to his intense surprise and disgust, Dan leading the young hostess to her place in the quadrille. "What a cheek that fellow has!" said Tom to himself. "I suppose he never attempted to dance in his life. It will be fun to watch his awkwardness. I am very much surprised that Julia should condescend to dance with him--a common newsboy." At first Tom thought he wouldn't dance, but Mrs. Rogers approaching said: "Tom, there's Jane Sheldon. She has no partner." Accordingly Tom found himself leading up a little girl of eight. There was no place except in the quadrille in which Dan and Julia Rogers were to dance. Tom found himself one of the "sides." "Good-evening, Julia," he said, catching the eye of Miss Rogers. "Good-evening, Tom. You are late." "I am too late to be your partner." "Yes, but you see I am not left a wall-flower," said the young lady, smiling. "Mr. Mordaunt kindly relieved me of that apprehension." "You are fortunate," said Tom, sneering. "I leave my partner to thank you for that compliment," said Julia, determined not to gratify Tom by appearing to understand the sneer. "There's no occasion," said Tom, rudely. "I am glad of it," said Dan, "for I am so unused to compliments that I am afraid I should answer awkwardly." "I can very well believe that," returned Tom, significantly. Julia did not smile. She looked offended rather for she felt that rudeness to her partner reflected upon herself. But here the music struck up, and the quadrille began. "Now for awkwardness," said Tom to himself, and he watched Dan closely. But, to his surprise, nothing could be neater or better modulated than Dan's movements. Instead of hopping about, as Tom thought he would, he was thoroughly graceful. "Where could the fellow have learned to dance?" he asked himself, in disappointment. Julia was gratified; for, to tell the truth, she too had not been altogether without misgivings on the subject of Dan's dancing, and, being herself an excellent dancer, she would have found it a little disagreeable if Dan had proved awkward. The quadrille proceeded, and Tom was chagrined that the newsboy, as he mentally termed Dan, had proved a better dancer than himself. "Oh, well, it's easy to dance in a quadrille," he said to himself, by way of consolation. "He won't venture on any of the round dances." But as Dan was leading Julia to her seat he asked her hand in the next polka, and was graciously accepted. He then bowed and left her, knowing that he ought not to monopolize the young hostess. Although Tom had told Dan not to expect any attentions from him, he was led by curiosity to accost our hero. "It seems that newsboys dance," said he. "Does it?" asked Dan, indifferently. "But it was not in very good taste for you to engage Miss Rogers for the first dance." "Why not?" "It was making yourself too prominent." "Somebody had to be prominent, or Miss Rogers would have been left to dance by herself." "There are others who would have made more suitable partners for her." "Yourself, for instance." "Yes." "I am sorry to have stood in your way." "Oh, you needn't mind. I shall have plenty of opportunities of dancing with her, and you won't. I suppose she took pity on you, as you know no other young lady here." Just then a pretty girl, beautifully dressed, approached Dan. "Good-evening, Mr. Mordaunt," she said, offering her hand with a beaming smile. "Good-evening, Miss Carroll," said Dan. "Are you engaged for the galop?" Miss Carroll shook her head. "Then will you give me the pleasure?" In a minute Dan was whirling round the room with the young lady, greatly to Tom's amazement, for Edith Carroll was from a family of high social standing, living on Murray Hill. "How in the duse does Dan Mordaunt know that girl?" Tom asked himself, with a frown. "They spoke as if they were acquainted." To Tom's further disappointment Dan danced as gracefully in the galop as in the quadrille. When the galop was over, Dan promenaded with another young lady, whose acquaintance he had made at dancing-school, and altogether seemed as much at his ease as if he had been attending parties all his life. Tom managed to obtain Edith Carroll as a partner. "I didn't know you were acquainted with Dan Mordaunt," he said. "Oh, yes, I know him very well. Doesn't he dance charmingly?" "Humph!" said Tom, not very well pleased. "I thought him rather awkward." "How can you say so, Mr. Carver? Why I think he dances _beautifully_, and so do all the girls." "How do the girls know how he dances?" "Why he goes to our dancing-school. The professor says he is his best pupil. We all like to dance with him." "That's fortunate for him," said Tom, with a sneer. "Perhaps he may become a dancing-master in time." "He would make a good one, but I don't think he's very likely to do that." "It would be a good thing for him. He is poor, you know." "No, I don't. I am sure he dresses well. He is as well-dressed as any young gentleman here." This was true, and Tom resented it. He felt that Dan had no right to dress well. "He ought not to spend so much money on dress when he has his mother to support," he said, provoked. "It seems to me you take a great deal of interest in Mr. Mordaunt," said the young beauty, pointedly. "Oh, no; he can do as he likes for all me, but, of course, when a boy in his position dresses as if he were rich one can't help noticing it." "I am sure he can't be very poor, or he could not attend Dodworth's dancing-school. At any rate I like to dance with him, and I don't care whether he's poor or rich." Presently Tom saw Dan dancing the polka with Julia Rogers, and with the same grace that he had exhibited in the other dances. He felt jealous, for he fancied himself a favorite with Julia, because their families being intimate, he saw a good deal of her. On the whole Tom was not enjoying the party. He did succeed, however, in obtaining the privilege of escorting Julia to supper. Just in front of him was Dan, escorting a young lady from Fifth avenue. "Mr. Mordaunt appears to be enjoying himself," said Julia Rogers. "Yes, he has plenty of cheek," muttered Tom. "Excuse me, Tom, but do you think such expressions suitable for such an occasion as this?" "I am sorry you don't like it, but I never saw a more forward or presuming fellow than this Dan Mordaunt." "I beg you to keep your opinion to yourself," said Julia Rogers, with dignity. "I find he is a great favorite with all the young ladies here. I had no idea he knew so many of them." Tom gave it up. It seemed to him that all the girls were infatuated with a common newsboy, while his vanity was hurt by finding himself quite distanced in the race. About twelve o'clock the two boys met in the dressing-room. "You seemed to enjoy yourself," said Tom, coldly. "Yes, thanks to your kind attentions," answered Dan, with a smile. "It is pleasant to meet old friends, you know. By the way, I suppose we shall meet at Miss Carroll's party." "Are _you_ to be invited?" asked Tom, in astonishment. "So the young lady tells me," answered Dan, smiling. "I suppose _you'll_ be giving a fashionable party next," said Tom, with a sneer. "Consider yourself invited if I do. Good-night, and pleasant dreams." But Dan's dreams were by no means sweet that night. When he reached home, it was to hear of a great and startling misfortune. CHAPTER XXIX. A NE'ER DO WELL. At half-past twelve Dan ascended the stairs to his mother's room. He had promised to come in and tell her how he had enjoyed himself at the party. He was in excellent spirits on account of the flattering attentions he had received. It was in this frame of mind that he opened the door. What was his surprise, even consternation, when his mother advanced to meet him with tearful eyes and an expression of distress. "Oh, Dan, I am so glad you have got home!" she ejaculated. "What is the matter, mother? Are you sick?" asked Dan. "I am quite well, Dan; but Althea----" And Mrs. Mordaunt burst into tears. "What has happened to Althea? Is she sick?" asked Dan, alarmed. "We have lost her, Dan." "Lost her! You don't mean she is----" He couldn't finish the sentence, but his mother divined what he meant. "Not dead, thank God!" she said, "but she has disappeared--she has been stolen." "You don't mean it, mother!" exclaimed Dan, startled and grieved. "Tell me about it." Mrs. Mordaunt told what she knew, but that related only to the particulars of the abduction. We are in a position to tell the reader more, but it will be necessary to go back for a month, and transfer the scene to another continent. In a spacious and handsomely furnished apartment at the West End of London sat the lady who had placed Althea in charge of the Mordaunts. She was deep in thought, and that not of an agreeable nature. "I fear," she said to herself, "that trouble awaits me. John Hartley, whom I supposed to be in California, is certainly in London. I cannot be mistaken in his face, and I certainly saw him in Hyde Park to-day. Did he see me? I don't know, but I fear he did. If so, he will not long delay in making his appearance. Then I shall be persecuted, but I must be firm. He shall not learn through me where Althea is. He is her father, it is true, but he has forfeited all claim to her guardianship. A confirmed gambler and drunkard, he would soon waste her fortune, bequeathed her by her poor mother. He can have no possible claim to it; for, apart from his having had no hand in leaving it to her, he was divorced from my poor sister before her death." At this point there was a knock at the door of the room. "Come in," said the lady. There entered a young servant-maid, who courtesied, and said: "Mrs. Vernon, there is a gentleman who wishes to see you." "Can it be Hartley?" thought the lady, with quick suspicion. "Did he give his name?" she asked. "Yes, mum; he said his name was Bancroft." "Bancroft! I know no one of that name," mused the lady. "Well, Margaret, you may show him up, and you may remain in the anteroom within call." Her eyes were fixed upon the door with natural curiosity, when her visitor entered. Instantly her face flushed, and her eyes sparkled with anger. "John Hartley!" she exclaimed. The visitor smiled mockingly. "I see you know me, Harriet Vernon," he said. "It is some time since we met, is it not? I am charmed, I am sure, to see my sister-in-law looking so well." He sank into a chair without waiting for an invitation. "When did you change your name to Bancroft?" demanded the lady, abruptly. "Oh," he said, showing his teeth, "that was a little ruse. I feared you would have no welcome for John Hartley, notwithstanding our near relationship, and I was forced to sail under false colors." "It was quite in character," said Mrs. Vernon, coldly; "you were always false. But you need not claim relationship. The slender tie that connected us was broken when my sister obtained a divorce from you." "You think so, my lady," said the visitor, dropping his tone of mocking badinage, and regarding her in a menacing manner, "but you were never more mistaken. You may flatter yourself that you are rid of me, but you flatter yourself in vain." "Do you come here to threaten me, John Hartley?" "I come here to ask for my child. Where is Althea?" "Where you cannot get at her," answered Mrs. Vernon, coldly. "Don't think to put me off in that way," he said, fiercely. "I will know where she is." "Don't think to terrify me, John Hartley," said the lady, contemptuously. "I am not so easily alarmed as your poor wife." Hartley looked at her as if he would have assaulted her had he dared, but she knew very well that he did not dare. He was a bully, but he was a coward. "You refuse, then, to tell me what you have done with my child?" he demanded, at length. "I do." "Take care, madam! A father has some rights, and the law will not permit his child to be kept from him." "Does your anxiety to see Althea arise from parental affection?" she asked, in a sarcastic tone. "Never mind what it springs from. I have a right to the custody of my child." "I suppose you have a right to waste her fortune also at the gaming-table." "I have a right to act as my child's guardian," he retorted. "A fine guardian you would make!" she said, contemptuously. "Why should I not?" he asked, sulkily. "Why should you not, John Hartley? Do I need to answer the question? You ill-treated and abused her mother. You wasted half her fortune. Fortunately, she escaped from you before it was all gone. But you shortened her life, and she did not long survive the separation. It was her last request that I should care for her child--that I should, above all, keep her out of your clutches. I made that promise, and I mean to keep it." "You poisoned my wife's mind against me," he said. "But for your cursed interference we should never have separated." "You are right, perhaps, in your last statement. I certainly did urge my sister to leave you. I obtained her consent to the application for a divorce, but as to poisoning her mind against you, there was no need of that. By your conduct and your treatment you destroyed her love and forfeited her respect, and she saw the propriety of the course which I recommended." "I didn't come here to be lectured. You can spare your invectives, Harriet Vernon. What is past is past. I was not a model husband, perhaps, but I was as good as the average." "If that is the case, Heaven help the woman who marries!" "Or the man that marries a woman like you!" "You are welcome to your opinion of me. I am entirely indifferent to your good or bad opinion. Have you any more to say?" "Any more to say! I have hardly begun. Is my daughter Althea with you?" "I don't recognize your right to question me on this subject, but I will answer you. She is not with me." "Is she in London?" "I will even answer that question. She is not in London." "Is she in England?" "That I will not tell you. You have learned enough." John Hartley did not answer immediately. He appeared to be occupied with some thought. When he spoke it was in a more conciliatory tone. "I don't doubt that she is in good hands," he said. "I am sure you will treat her kindly. Perhaps you are a better guardian than I. I am willing to leave her in your hands, but I ought to have some compensation." "What do you mean?" "Althea has a hundred thousand dollars, yielding at least five thousand dollars income. Probably her expenses are little more than one-tenth of this sum. While my child is rich I am poor. Give me half her income--say three thousand dollars annually--and I will give you and her no further trouble." "I thought that was the object of your visit," said Mrs. Vernon, coldly. "I was right in giving you no credit for parental affection. In regard to your proposition, I cannot entertain it. You had one half of my sister's fortune, and you spent it. You have no further claim on her money." "Is this your final answer?" he demanded, angrily. "It is." "Then I swear to you that I will be even with you. I will find the child, and when I do you shall never see her again." Mrs. Vernon rang the bell. Margaret entered. "Margaret," she said, coldly, "will you show this gentleman out?" John Hartley rose and bowed ironically. "You are certainly very polite, Harriet Vernon," he said. "You are bold, too, for you are defying me, and that is dangerous. You had better reconsider your determination, before it is too late." "It will never be too late; I can at any time buy you off," she said, contemptuously. "All you want is money." "We shall see," he hissed, eying her malignantly. "Margaret," said Mrs. Vernon, when her visitor had been shown out, "never admit that person again; I am always out to him." "Yes, mum," said the girl. "I wonder who 'twas," she thought, curiously. CHAPTER XXX. HOW HARTLEY GOT A CLEW. John Hartley, when a young man, had wooed and won Althea's mother. Julia Belmont was a beautiful and accomplished girl, an heiress in her own right, and might have made her choice among at least a dozen suitors. That she should have accepted the hand of John Hartley, a banker's clerk, reputed "fast," was surprising, but a woman's taste in such a case is often hard to explain or justify. Her sister--now Mrs. Vernon--strenuously objected to the match, and by so doing gained the hatred of her future brother-in-law. Opposition proved ineffectual, and Julia Belmont became Mrs. Hartley. Her fortune amounted to two hundred thousand dollars. The trustee and her sister succeeded in obtaining her consent that half of this sum should be settled on herself, and her issue, should she have any. This proved to be a wise precaution. John Hartley resigned his position immediately after marriage, and declined to enter upon any business. "Why should I?" he said. "Julia and I have enough to live upon. If I am out of business I can devote myself more entirely to her." This reasoning satisfied his young wife, and for a time all went well. But Hartley joined a fashionable club, formed a taste for gambling, indulged in copious libations, not unfrequently staggering home drunk, to the acute sorrow of his wife, and then excesses soon led to ill-treatment. The money, which he could spend in a few years, melted away, and he tried to gain possession of the remainder of his wife's property. But, meanwhile, Althea was born, and a consideration for her child's welfare strengthened the wife in her firm refusal to accede to this unreasonable demand. "You shall have the income, John," she said--"I will keep none back; but the principal must be kept for Althea." "You care more for the brat than you do for me," he muttered. "I care for you both," she answered. "You know how the money would go, John. We should all be left destitute." "That meddling sister of yours has put you up to this," he said, angrily. "There was no need of that. It is right, and I have decided for myself." "Your first duty is to your husband." "I feel that in refusing I am doing my duty by you." "It is a strange way--to oppose your husband's wishes. Women ought never to be trusted with money--they don't know how to take care of it." "You are not the person to say this, John. In five years you have wasted one hundred thousand dollars." "It was bad luck in investments," he replied. "I am afraid you are right. Investing money at the gaming-table is not very profitable." "Do you mean to insult me, madam?" exclaimed Hartley, furiously. "I am only telling the sad truth, John." He forgot himself and struck her. She withdrew, flushed and indignant, for she had spirit enough to resent this outrage, and he left the house in a furious rage. When Hartley found that there was no hope of carrying his point, all restraint seemed removed. He plunged into worse excesses, and his treatment became so bad that Mrs. Hartley consented to institute proceedings for divorce. It was granted, and the child was given to her. Hartley disappeared for a time. When he returned his wife had died of pneumonia, and her sister--Mrs. Vernon, now a widow--had assumed the care of Althea. An attempt to gain possession of the child induced her to find another guardian for the child. This was the way Althea had come into the family of our young hero. Thus much, that the reader may understand the position of affairs, and follow intelligently the future course of the story. When John Hartley left the presence of his sister-in-law, he muttered maledictions upon her. "I'll have the child yet, if only to spite her," he muttered, between his teeth. "I won't allow a jade to stand between me and my own flesh and blood. I must think of some plan to circumvent her." This was not easy. He had absolutely no clew, and little money to assist him in his quest. But Fortune, which does not always favor the brave, but often helps the undeserving, came unexpectedly to his help. At an American banker's he ran across an old acquaintance--one who had belonged to the same club as himself in years past. "What are you doing here, Hartley?" he asked. "Not much. Luck is against me." "Sorry to hear it. By the way, I was reminded of you not long since." "How is that?" "I saw your child in Union Square, in New York." "Are you sure of it?" asked Hartley, eagerly. "Are you sure it was my child?" "Of course; I used to see it often, you know. She is a bright little thing." "Do you know where she lives?" asked Hartley. "Did you follow her?" "Don't _you_ know where she lives?" "No; her aunt is keeping the child from me. I am very anxious to find her." "That accounts for it. She was with a middle-aged lady, who evidently was suspicious of me, for she did not bring out the child but once more, and was clearly anxious when I took notice of her." "She was acting according to instructions, no doubt." "Very probably." "I wish you had learned more." "So do I. Why do they keep _you_ away from her?" "Because she has money, and they wish to keep it in their hands," said Hartley, plausibly. "The aunt is a very mercenary woman. She is living here in London, doubtless on my little girl's fortune." John Hartley knew that this was not true, for Mrs. Vernon was a rich woman; but it suited his purpose to say so, and the statement was believed by his acquaintance. "This is bad treatment, Hartley," he said, in a tone of sympathy. "Isn't it?" "What are you going to do about it?" "Try to find out where the child is placed, and get possession of her." "I wish you success." This information John Hartley felt to be of value. It narrowed his search, and made success much less difficult. In order to obtain more definite information, he lay in wait for Mrs. Vernon's servant. Margaret at first repulsed him, but a sovereign judiciously slipped into her hand convinced her that Hartley was quite the gentleman, and he had no difficulty, by the promise of a future douceur, in obtaining her co-operation. "What is it you want, sir?" she asked. "If it's no harm you mean my missus----" "Certainly not, but she is keeping my child from me. You can understand a father's wish to see his child, my dear girl." "Indeed, I think it's cruel to keep her from you, sir." "Then look over your mistress' papers and try to obtain the street and number where she is boarding in New York. I have a right to know that." "Of course you have, sir," said the girl, readily. So it came about that the girl obtained Dan's address, and communicated it to John Hartley. As soon as possible afterward Hartley sailed for New York. "I'll secure the child," he said to himself, exultingly, "and then my sweet sister-in-law must pay roundly for her if she wants her back." All which attested the devoted love of John Hartley for his child. CHAPTER XXXI. ALTHEA'S ABDUCTION. Arrived in New York, John Hartley lost no time in ascertaining where Dan and his mother lived. In order the better to watch without incurring suspicion, he engaged by the week a room in a house opposite, which, luckily for his purpose, happened to be for rent. It was a front window, and furnished him with a post of observation from which he could see who went in and out of the house opposite. Hartley soon learned that it would not be so easy as he had anticipated to gain possession of the little girl. She never went out alone, but always accompanied either by Dan or his mother. Hartley was disappointed. If, now, Althea were attending school, there would be an opportunity to kidnap her. As it was, he was at his wits' end. At last, however, opportunity favored him. On the evening of the party Mrs. Mordaunt chanced to need some small article necessary to the work upon which she was engaged. She might indeed wait until the next day, but she was repairing a vest of Dan's, which he would need to wear in the morning, and she did not like to disappoint him. "My child," she said, "I find I must go out a little while." "What for, mamma?" "I want to buy some braid to bind Dan's vest. He will want to wear it in the morning." "May I go with you, mamma?" "No, my child. You can be reading your picture-book till I come back. I won't be long." So Mrs. Mordaunt put on her street dress, and left the house in the direction of Eighth avenue, where there was a cheap store at which she often traded. No sooner did Hartley see her leave the house, as he could readily do, for the night was light, than he hurried to Union Square, scarcely five minutes distant, and hailed a cab-driver. "Do you want a job, my man?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "Can you hold your tongue?" "Yes, sir, if necessary." "It is necessary." "There is nothing wrong, sir, I hope." "Certainly not. My child has been kidnapped during my absence in Europe. With your help I mean to recover her." "All right, sir." "She is in the custody of some designing persons, who keep possession of her on account of a fortune which she is to inherit. She does not know me to be her father, we have been so long separated; but I feel anxious to take her away from her treacherous guardians." "You are right, sir. I've got a little girl of my own, and I understand your feelings. Where shall we go?" Hartley gave the proper address. Fifteen minutes afterward the cab drew up before Mrs. Brown's door, and Hartley, springing from it, rang the bell. It so happened that Mrs. Brown was out, and a servant answered the bell. She looked inquiringly at the visitor. "A lady lives here with a little girl," he said, quickly. "Yes, sir; Mrs. Mordaunt." "Precisely; and the little girl is named Althea." "You are right, sir." "Mrs. Mordaunt has been run over by a street-car, and been carried into my house. She wishes the little girl to come at once to her." "Is she much hurt?" asked Nancy, anxiously. "I am afraid her leg is broken; but I can't wait. Will you bring the little girl down at once?" "Oh, yes, sir. I'll lose no time." Nancy went up stairs two steps at a time, and broke into Mrs. Mordaunt's room breathless. "Put on your hat at once, Miss Althea," she said. "What for?" asked the child, in surprise. "Your ma has sent for you." "But she said she was coming right back." "She's hurt, and she can't come, and she has sent for you. Don't cry, my dear." "But how shall I know where to go, Nancy?" "There's a kind gentleman at the door with a carriage. Your ma has been taken to his home." The little girl began to cry once more. "Oh! I'm afraid mamma's been killed," she said. "No, she hasn't, or how could she send for you?" This argument tended to reassure Althea, and she put on her little shawl and hat, and hurried down stairs. Hartley was waiting for her impatiently, fearing that Mrs. Mordaunt would come back sooner than was anticipated, and so interfere with the fulfillment of his plans. "Is mamma very much hurt?" asked Althea, anxiously. "So she calls this woman mamma," said Hartley to himself. "Not very badly, but she cannot come home to-night. Get into the carriage, and I will tell you about it as we are riding to her." He hurried the little girl into the carriage, and taking a seat beside her, ordered the cabman to drive on. He had before directed him to drive to the South Ferry. "How did mamma get hurt?" asked the child. "She was crossing the street," said Hartley, "when she got in the way of a carriage and was thrown down and run over." The child began to cry. "Oh, she will die!" she exclaimed, sobbing. "No, she will not die. The carriage was not a heavy one, luckily, and she is only badly bruised. She will be all right in a few days." John Hartley was a trifle inconsistent in his stories, having told the servant that Mrs. Mordaunt had been run over by a street-car; but in truth he had forgotten the details of his first narrative, and had modified it in the second telling. However, Nancy had failed to tell the child precisely how Mrs. Mordaunt had been hurt, and she was not old enough to be suspicious. "Where is mamma?" was the little girl's next question. "She is at my house." "Where is your house?" "Not far from here," answered Hartley, evasively. "Then I shall soon see mamma." "Is she your mamma?" asked Hartley. "No, not my own mamma, but I call her so. I love her dearly." "Where is your own mamma?" "She is dead." "Do you remember her?" "A little." "Have you a papa?" "My papa is a very bad man. He treated poor mamma very badly." "Who told you this?" demanded Hartley, frowning. "Was it Mrs. Mordaunt?" "No; it was auntie." "I thought this was some of Harriet Vernon's work," said Hartley to himself. "It seems like my amiable sister-in-law. She might have been in better business than poisoning my child's mind against me." "Who else lives with you?" he asked, partly out of curiosity, but mainly to occupy the child's mind, so that she might not be fully conscious of the lapse of time. "My brother Dan." "How old is Dan?" "I don't know. He is a good deal bigger than me." "Do you like Dan?" "Oh, yes; Dan is a nice boy. He buys me candy. He has gone to a party to-night." "Has he?" "And he won't be home till late. He told mamma so." "I am glad of that," thought Hartley. "It is the better for my purpose." "Dan is a smart boy. He earns lots of money." "What does he do?" "I don't know. He goes down town every morning, and he doesn't come home till supper time." Hartley managed to continue his inquiries about Dan, but at last Althea became restless. "Are we most there?" she asked. "Yes, we are almost there." "I don't see how mamma could have gone so far." John Hartley looked out. "I see how it is," he said. "The cab-driver lost the way, and that has delayed us." This satisfied the child for a time. Meanwhile they reached the South Ferry, and Hartley began to consider in what way he could explain their crossing the water. CHAPTER XXXII. DONOVAN'S. After a moment's thought Hartley took a flask from his pocket, into which he had dropped a sleeping potion, and offered it to the child. "Drink, my dear," he said; "it will do you good." It was a sweet wine and pleasant to the taste. Althea drank considerable. "What is it? It tastes good," she said. "It is a cordial," answered Hartley. "I like it. I will ask mamma to get some. How long is it? Are we most there?" "Almost." "I feel very sleepy," said Althea, drowsily, the potion having already begun to attack her. "Lean back and shut your eyes. I will tell you when we have arrived." The innocent and unsuspecting child did as she was directed. Her little head nodded. She struggled against the increasing drowsiness, but in vain. In five minutes she was fast asleep. "There will be no further trouble," thought Hartley. "When she wakes up it will be morning. My plan has been a complete success." It might have been supposed that some instinct of parental affection would have made it disagreeable to this man to kidnap his own child by such means, but John Hartley had never been troubled with a heart or natural affections. He was supremely selfish, and surveyed the sleeping child as coolly and indifferently as if he had never before set eyes upon her. Two miles and a half beyond the South Ferry, in a thinly settled outlying district of Brooklyn, stood a three-story brick house, shabby and neglected in appearance, bearing upon a sign over the door the name DONOVAN'S WINES AND LIQUORS. It was the nightly resort of a set of rough and lawless men, many of them thieves and social outlaws, who drank and smoked as they sat at small tables in the sand-strewn bar-room. Hugh Donovan himself had served a term at Sing Sing for burglary, and was suspected to be indirectly interested in the ventures of others engaged in similar offenses, though he managed to avoid arrest. John Hartley ordered the hackman to stop. He sprang from the carriage, and unceremoniously entered the bar-room. Donovan, a short, thickset man with reddish whiskers, a beard of a week's growth, and but one serviceable eye, sat in a wooden arm-chair, smoking a clay pipe. There were two other men in the room, and a newsboy sat dozing on a settee. Donovan looked up, and his face assumed a look of surprise as he met the glance of the visitor, whom he appeared to know. "Where did you come from, Mr. Hartley?" he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth. "Hist! Come out here," said Hartley. Donovan obeyed directions. "Is your wife at home, Hugh?" asked Hartley. "Yes, Mr. Hartley. She's up stairs." "I have a job for her and for you." "What is it now?" "I have a child in that carriage. I want her taken care of for a few days or weeks." "Shure, the old woman isn't a very good protector for a gal. She's drunk half the time." "I can't help it. There are reasons--imperative reasons--why the girl should be concealed for a time, and I can think of no other place than this." "Who is the girl?" "It is my own child." Donovan whistled. "I see you are surprised. I have little time for explanation, but I may tell you that she has been kept from me by my enemies, who wanted to get hold of her money." "Has she got money?" asked Donovan, with curiosity. "She will have, sometime. She is her mother's heiress." "Did the old lady leave it all away from you, then? Shure, it's hard." "Of course it is. The least I can expect is to be made guardian of my own child. But we are wasting time. Is there no way of getting up stairs except by passing through the bar-room?" "Yes, Mr. Hartley, we can go up the back way. Just take the child and follow me." Hartley did so. At the rear of the house was a stair-way, up which he clambered, bearing the sleeping child in his arms. Donovan pushed the door open, and disclosed a dirty room, with his better-half--a tall, gaunt woman--reclining in a rocking-chair, evidently partially under the influence of liquor, as might be guessed from a black bottle on a wooden table near by. She stared in astonishment at her husband's companions. "Shure, Hugh, who is it you're bringin' here?" "It's a child, old woman, that you're to have the care of." "Divil a bit do I want a child to worrit me." "You'll be well paid, Mrs. Donovan," said John Hartley. "Will I get the money, or Hugh?" asked the Celtic lady. "You shall have half, Bridget," said her husband. "Will you shwar it?" asked the lady, cautiously. "Yes, I'll swear it." "And how much will it be?" "I will pay ten dollars a week--half to you, and half to your husband," said Hartley. "Here's a week's pay in advance," and he took out two five-dollar bills, one of which was eagerly clutched by Mrs. Donovan. "I'll take care of her," said she, readily. "What's her name?" "Althea." "Shure that's a quare name. I niver heard the like." "You needn't call her that. You can call her any name you like," said Hartley, indifferently. "Perhaps you had better call her Katy, as there may be a hue and cry after her, and that may divert suspicion." "How old is the crathur?" "Five or six--I forget which. Where shall I put her?" "Put her in here," said Mrs. Donovan, and she opened the door of a small room, in which was a single untidy bed. "She won't wake up till morning. I gave her a sleeping potion--otherwise she might have made a fuss, for she doesn't know me to be her father." "Shure ye knew what to do." "Now, Mrs. Donovan, I depend upon your keeping her safe. It will not do to let her escape, for she might find her way back to the people from whom I have taken her." "I'll see to that, Mr. Hartley," said Donovan. "Say nothing about me in connection with the matter, Donovan. I will communicate with you from time to time. If the police are put on the track, I depend on your sending her away to some other place of security." "All right, sir." "And now good-night. I shall go back to New York at once. I must leave you to pacify her as well as you can when she awakes. She is sure to make a fuss." "I'll trate her like my own child," said Mrs. Donovan. Had Hartley been a devoted father, this assurance from the coarse, red-faced woman would have been satisfactory, but he cared only for the child as a means of replenishing his pockets, and gave himself no trouble. The hackman was still waiting at the door. "It's a queer place to leave a child," thought he, as his experienced eye took in the features of the place. "It appears to be a liquor saloon. The gentleman can't be very particular. However, it is none of my business. I suppose it is all right." "Driver, I am ready," said Hartley. "I'll go back with you." "All right, sir." "Go over Fulton Ferry, and leave me at your stand in Union Square." The ride was a long one. Hartley threw himself back on the seat, and gave himself up to pleasant self-congratulation. "I think this will bring Harriet Vernon to terms," he said. "She will find that she can't stand between me and my child. If she will make it worth my while, she shall have the child back, but I propose to see that my interests are secured." The next morning Hartley stepped into an up-town hotel, and wrote a letter to his sister-in-law in London, demanding that four thousand dollars be sent him yearly, in quarterly payments, in consideration of which he agreed to give up the child, and abstain from further molestation. CHAPTER XXXIII. ALTHEA BECOMES KATY DONOVAN. The sleeping potion which had been administered to Althea kept her in sound sleep till eight o'clock the next morning. When her eyes opened, and she became conscious of her surroundings, she looked about her in surprise. Then she sat up in bed and gazed wildly at the torn wall paper and dirty and shabby furniture. "Where am I?" she asked herself, in alarm. "Mamma, mamma!" The door opened, and the red and inflamed face of Mrs. Hugh Donovan peered in. "What is it yer want?" she asked. "I want mamma," answered the child, still more frightened. "Shure I'm your ma, child." "No, you are not," said Althea. "I never saw you before." "Didn't you, now? Maybe you've forgotten. I sent you away to board, but you've come home to live with your ma." "You are telling stories. You are a bad woman," returned the child, ready to cry. "It's a purty thing for a child to tell her ma she's lyin'." "You're not my ma. You're an ugly woman. My ma hasn't got a red face." "Hear till her now!" exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, indignantly. "Don't you go on talkin' that way, but get right up, or you sha'n't have any breakfast." "Oh, send me back to my mother and Dan!" implored Althea. "Dress yourself, and I'll see about it," said Mrs. Donovan. Althea looked for her clothes, but could not find them. In their place she found a faded calico dress and some ragged undergarments, which had once belonged to a daughter of Mrs. Donovan, now at service. "Those clothes are not mine," said Althea. "Shure they are. What are yer talkin' about?" "I had a pretty pink dress and a nice new skirt. Oh, where are they?" "Shure you're dramin'. These was the clothes you took off last night," said Mrs. Donovan, with unblushing falsehood. "I won't put this dress on," said the child, indignantly. "Then you'll have to lay abed all day, and won't get nothing to eat," said the woman. "Maybe you'll like that now." "What is your name?" asked Althea. "Shure you're a quare child to ask your own mother's name. I'm Mrs. Donovan, and you're my Katy." "I am not Katy. My name is Althea." "That's a quare name intirely. Who put it into your head. I'm afraid you're gone crazy, Katy." Althea was bewildered. Was it possible that she could be Katy Donovan, and that this red-faced woman was her mother? She began to doubt her own identity. She could not remember this woman, but was it possible that there was any connection between them? "Are we in New York?" she asked, timidly. "No, we are in Brooklyn." "I used to live in New York with Mamma Mordaunt." "Well, you're livin' in Brooklyn now with Mamma Donovan." "I never saw you before." "Shure I shouldn't have sent you away from me to have you come home and deny your own mother." "Will you let me go to New York and see Mamma Mordaunt?" asked Althea, after a pause. "If you're a good girl, perhaps I will. Now get up, and I'll give you some breakfast." With a shudder of dislike Althea arrayed herself in the dirty garments of the real Katy Donovan, and looked at her image in the cracked mirror with a disgust which she could not repress. Hartley had suggested that her own garments should be taken away in order to make her escape less feasible. She opened the door, and entered the room in which Mrs. Donovan had set the table for breakfast. As she came in at one door, Hugh Donovan entered at another. "Come here, little gal," he said, with a grin. Althea looked at him with real terror. Certainly Hugh Donovan was not a man to attract a child. Althea at once thought of an ogre whom Dan had described to her in a fairy story, and half fancied that she was in the power of such a creature. "I don't want to," said the child, trembling. "Go to your father, Katy," said Mrs. Donovan. "He won't hurt you." This her father! Althea shuddered at the idea, and she gazed as if fascinated at his one eye. "Yes, come to your pa," said Donovan, jeeringly. "I like little gals--'specially when they're my own." "I am not your child!" said Althea, alarmed. "Yes, you be, and don't you deny it. Come and give your father a kiss." The little girl began to cry in nervous terror, and Donovan laughed, thinking it a good joke. "Well, it'll do after breakfast," he said. "Sit up, child, and we'll see what the ould woman has got for us." Mrs. Donovan did not excel as a cook, but Althea managed to eat a little bread and butter, for neither of which articles the lady of the house was responsible. When the meal was over she said: "Now, will you take me back to New York?" "You are not going back at all," said Hugh. "You are our little girl, and you are going to live with us." Althea looked from one to the other in terror. Was it possible they could be in earnest? She was forced to believe it, and was overwhelmed at the prospect. She burst into a tempest of sobs. Men are less tolerant of tears than women. Hugh Donovan's face darkened, and his anger was kindled. "Stop that howlin' now!" he said. Althea continued to cry hysterically. "Stop it now, if you know what's best for yourself!" Althea was terrified, but she could not at once control her emotion. "Old woman, get the whip!" said Hugh, hoarsely. From a drawer Mrs. Donovan drew out a riding whip. Her husband took it, and brandished it menacingly. "Do you see that, now?" he said. "Yes," said Althea, trembling, stopping short, as if fascinated. "Then you'll feel it if you don't stop your howlin'." Althea gazed at him horror-stricken. "I thought you'd come to your senses," he said, in a tone of satisfaction. "Kape her safe, old woman, till she knows how to behave." In silent misery the little girl sat down and watched Mrs. Donovan as she cleared away the table, and washed the dishes. It was dull and hopeless work for her. She thought sorrowfully of Mrs. Mordaunt and Dan, and wished she could be with them again. Should she never, never see them? The thought so saddened her that she burst into a low moan, which at once drew the attention of Mrs. Donovan. "Are you at it again?" she said. "I can't help it," moaned Althea. "Ye can't, can't ye? See here, now," and the woman displayed the whip with which her husband had threatened the child. "I'll give ye something to cry for." "Oh, don't--don't beat me!" entreated Althea. "Then kape quiet!" "May I go out into the street?" asked the little girl. "Ye want to run away," said Mrs. Donovan, suspiciously. "No, I don't. I mean I won't unless you let me." "I won't trust ye." "Must I stay here all the time?" asked Althea, with her little heart sinking at the thought. "No, Katy, you may go wid me when I go to the market," answered Mrs. Donovan. "Shure, if you'll be a good gal, I'll give you all the pleasure I can." Althea waited half an hour, and then was provided with a ragged sun-bonnet, with which, concealing her sad face, she emerged from the house, and walked to a small market, where Mrs. Donovan obtained her supplies for dinner. Troubled as she was, Althea looked about her with a child's curiosity on her way through the strange streets. It served to divert her from her sorrow. "Who's that little girl, Mrs. Donovan?" asked an acquaintance. "Shure it's my little Katy," said the woman, with a significant wink which prevented further questioning. Althea wished to deny this, but she did not dare to. She had become afraid of her new guardians. Oh, if she could only see Dan! She felt sure that he would take her away from these wicked people, but how was Dan to know where she was. The poor child's lips quivered, and she could hardly refrain from crying. CHAPTER XXXIV. ANOTHER LITTLE GAME. It was so late when Dan heard of Althea's disappearance that he felt it necessary to wait till morning before taking any steps toward her recovery. "I'll find her, mother," he said, confidently. "Do not lie awake thinking of her, for it won't do any good." "How can I help it, Dan? I didn't know how much I loved the dear child till I lost her." "You have not lost her, mother." "I am not so hopeful as you, Dan. I fear that I shall never see her again." "I am sure we shall. Now, mother, I am going to bed, but I shall be up bright and early in the morning, and then to work." "You won't have any time, Dan. You must go to the store." "I shall take a week's vacation. I will write a note to Mr. Rogers, telling him my reasons, and he will be sure not to object. If Althea is to be found, I will find her within a week." Dan's confidence gave Mrs. Mordaunt some courage, but she could not feel as sanguine of success as Dan. In the morning Dan sought out Nancy, and took down her account of how the little girl had been spirited away. "So she went away in a carriage, Nancy?" "Yes, Master Dan." "Can you tell me what sort of a looking man it was that took her away?" "Shure I couldn't. I was struck dumb, you see, wid hearing how your mother broke her leg, and I didn't think to look at him sharp." "You can tell if he was an old man or a young one." "He was naythur. He was betwixt and betwane." "Very tall or very short?" "Naythur. He was jist middlin'." "Well, that's something. Now, what kind of a carriage was it?" "Jist a hack like them at the square." "You wouldn't remember the driver?" "No; shure they all look alike to me." Dan made more inquiries, but elicited nothing further that was likely to be of service to him. After a little reflection he decided to go to Union Square and interview some of the drivers waiting for passengers there. He did so, but the driver who had actually been employed by Hartley was absent, and he learned nothing. One driver, however, remembered carrying a gentleman and child to a house on Twenty-seventh street, between Eighth and Ninth avenues. Dan thought the clew of sufficient importance to be followed up. His courage rose when, on inquiring at the house mentioned, he learned that a child had actually been brought there. "May I see the child, madam?" he asked. "If you like," answered the lady, in surprise. She appeared in a short time with a boy of about Althea's age. Dan's countenance fell. "It is a little girl I am inquiring after," he said. "Then why didn't you say so?" demanded the woman, sharply. "You would have saved me some trouble." "I beg your pardon, madam." "I begin to think I am not as good a detective as I thought," said Dan to himself. "I am on a false scent, that is sure." So Dan returned to Union Square. When he had been asking questions of the cab-drivers he had not been unobserved. John Hartley, who knew Dan by sight, laughed in his sleeve as he noted our hero's inquiries. "You may be a smart boy, my lad," he said to himself, "but I don't think you'll find the child. I have a great mind to give you a hint." He approached Dan, and observed, in a friendly way: "Are you in search of your little sister?" "Yes, sir," returned Dan, eagerly. "Can you tell me anything about her?" "I am not sure, but possibly I may. I occupy a room directly opposite the house in which you board." "Did you see Althea carried away?" asked Dan, eagerly. "Yes; I was sitting at my window when I saw a hack stop at your door. The door-bell was rung by a man who descended from the hack, and shortly afterward your sister came out, and was put into the carriage." "What was the man's appearance, sir? The servant could not tell me." "So much the better," thought Hartley, with satisfaction. "He was a little taller than myself, I should say," he answered, "and I believe his hair was brown"--Hartley's was black. "I am sorry I can't remember more particularly." "That is something. Thank you, sir. I wish I knew where the cab went." "I think I can tell you that. I came down into the street before the cab drove away, and I heard the gentleman referred to say, in a low voice, 'Drive to Harlem.'" "Thank you, sir," said Dan, gratefully. "That puts me on the right track. I shall know where to search now." "I wish I could tell you more," said Hartley, with a queer smile. "Thank you, sir." "If you find your little sister, I should be glad if you would let me know," continued Hartley, chuckling inwardly. "I will, sir, if you will let me know your name and address." "My name is John Franklin, and I live in the house directly opposite yours, No. --." "All right, sir; I will note it down." John Hartley looked after Dan with a smile. "My dear young friend," he said to himself, "it goes to my heart to deceive you, you are so innocent and confiding. I wish you much joy of your search in Harlem. I think it will be some time before I receive intelligence of your success. Still I will keep my room here, and look after you a little. I am really afraid your business will suffer while you are wandering about." John Hartley had already written to London, and he was prepared to wait three weeks or more for an answer to his proposition. Meanwhile he had one source of uneasiness. His funds were getting low, and unless Harriet Vernon responded favorably to his proposal, he was liable to be seriously embarrassed. He had on previous similar occasions had recourse to the gaming-table, but Fortune did not always decide in his favor. He did not dare to hazard the small sum he had on hand, lest want of success should imperil the bold scheme for obtaining an income at his child's expense. At this critical point in his fortunes he fell in with a Western adventurer, who, by a sort of freemasonry, recognizing Hartley's want of character, cautiously sounded him as to becoming a partner in a hazardous but probably profitable enterprise. It was to procure some genuine certificates of stock in a Western railway for a small number of shares, say five or ten, and raise them ingeniously to fifty and a hundred, and then pledge them as collateral in Wall street for a corresponding sum of money. John Hartley, if an honest man, would have indignantly declined the overtures; but he was not endowed with Roman virtue. He made a cautious investigation to ascertain how great was the danger of detection, and how well the enterprise would pay. The answer to the second question was so satisfactory that he made up his mind to run the necessary risk. Blake and he came to a definite understanding, and matters were put in train. Certificates were readily obtained, and by the help of a skillful accomplice, who did the work for a specified sum, were ingeniously raised tenfold. Then Blake, assuming the dress and manners of a thriving business man from Syracuse, negotiated a loan, pledging the raised certificate as collateral. The private banker put it away among his securities without a doubt or suspicion, and Blake and Hartley divided a thousand dollars between them. John Hartley was very much elated by his success. The pecuniary assistance came just in the nick of time, when his purse was very low. "It's a good thing to have more than one string to your bow," he thought. "Not but that my little game in getting hold of the child is likely to pay well. Harriet Vernon will find that I have the whip-hand of her. She must come to my terms, sooner or later." At that very moment Harriet Vernon was embarking at Liverpool on a Cunard steamer. She had received the letter of her brother-in-law, and decided to answer it in person. CHAPTER XXXV. DAN DISGUISES HIMSELF. For several days Dan strolled about Harlem, using his eyes to good advantage. As a pretext he carried with him a few morning papers for sale. Armed with these he entered shops and saloons without exciting surprise or suspicion. But he discovered not a trace of the lost girl. One day, as he was riding home in the Third avenue cars, there flashed upon his mind a conviction that he was on a wrong scent. "Is it probable that the man who carried away Althea would give the right direction so that it could be overheard by a third party? No; it was probably meant as a blind, and I have been just fool enough to fall into the trap." So Dan's eyes were partially opened. Before the day was over they were wholly opened. He met John Hartley on Broadway toward the close of the afternoon. "Well, have you heard anything of your sister?" he asked, with an appearance of interest. "Not yet," answered Dan. "That's a pity. Do you go up to Harlem every day?" "Yes." "Keep on, you will find her in time." After they parted, Dan, happening to look back, detected a mocking glance in the face of his questioner, and a new discovery flashed upon him. Hartley was making a fool of him. He had sent him to Harlem, purposely misleading him. "What can be his object?" thought Dan. "Can he have had anything to do with the abduction of Althea?" This was a question which he could not satisfactorily answer, but he resolved to watch Hartley, and follow him wherever he went, in the hope of obtaining some clew. Of course he must assume some disguise, as Hartley must not recognize him. Finally Dan decided upon this plan. He hired a room on East Fourth street for a week, and then sought an Italian boy to whom he had occasionally given a few pennies, and with some difficulty (for Giovanni knew but little English, and he no Italian) proposed that the Italian should teach him to sing and play "Viva Garibaldi." Dan could play a little on the violin, and soon qualified himself for his new business. At a second-hand shop on Chatham street he picked up a suit of tattered velvet, obtained a liquid with which to stain his skin to a dark brown, and then started out as an Italian street musician. His masquerade suit he kept in his room at East Fourth street, changing therefrom his street dress morning and evening. When in full masquerade he for the first time sang and played, Giovanni clapped his hands with delight. "Will I do, Giovanni?" asked Dan. "Yes, you do very well. You look like my brother." "All right." Giovanni was puzzled to understand why Dan took so much pains to enter upon a hard and unprofitable profession, but Dan did not enlighten him as to his motive. He thought it most prudent to keep his secret, even from his mother. One day he met her on the sidewalk, and began to sing "Viva Garibaldi." Mrs. Mordaunt listened without a suspicion that it was her own son, and gave him two pennies, which he acknowledged by a low bow, and "Grazia, signora." "Poor boy! Do you earn much money?" she asked. "I no understand English," said Dan. "I hope his padrone does not beat him," said Mrs. Mordaunt to herself. "I hear these poor boys are much abused. I wonder if I can make him understand? Have you a padrone?" she asked. "Si, signora, padrone," answered Dan. "Does he beat you?" "I no understand." "It is no use; he doesn't understand English. Here is some more money for you," and she handed him a five-cent coin. "Its a wise mother that knows her own child," thought Dan. "Hallo! there's Hartley. I'll follow him." Hartley boarded a University Place car, and Dan jumped on also. "I wonder where he's going?" thought our hero. Italian boys so seldom ride that the conductor eyed Dan with some suspicion. "Five cents," he demanded. Dan produced the money. "I thought you might be expecting to ride for nothing," said the conductor. "Seems to me you're flush for an Italian fiddler." "No understand English," said Dan. "And I don't understand your lingo." A charitable lady inside the car chanced to see Dan, and it occurred to her that she would do him a service. "Can you sing, my boy?" she asked. "I sing a little," answered Dan. "If the conductor doesn't object, you may sing while we are on our way. Here's ten cents for you." Dan bowed and took the money. "You can sing and play," said the conductor, good-naturedly. Dan was not at all desirous of doing this, for Hartley sat only three feet from him, and he feared he might recognize him, but it would not be in character to refuse, so he began, and sang his one air, playing an accompaniment. Several of the passengers handed him small coins, among them Hartley. "How well he sings!" said the charitable lady. "I can't agree with you, ma'am," said Hartley. "I would rather give him money to stop." "His voice strikes me as very rich, and the Italian is such a beautiful language." Hartley shrugged his shoulders. "I have heard a good deal better performers even among the street boys," said Hartley. "So have I," said Dan to himself. "He doesn't suspect me; I am glad of that." Hartley remained in the car till it reached the Astor House, and so, of course, did Dan. In fact, Hartley was on his way to Brooklyn to pay another installment to the guardians of the little girl whom he had carried off. Dan, therefore, was in luck. Hartley kept on his way to Fulton Ferry, Dan following at a prudent distance. Had Hartley looked back, he would have suspected nothing, for he had not penetrated Dan's disguise, and would therefore have been quite at a loss to understand any connection between the street musician and himself. They both boarded the same ferry-boat, and landed in Brooklyn together. At this moment Hartley turned round, and his glance fell upon Dan. "Hallo! you here?" he said, with surprise. "Si, signor," answered Dan, bowing deferentially. "What brings you to Brooklyn?" "I sing, I play," said our hero. "And you do both abominably." "I no understand English," said Dan. "It is lucky you don't, or you might not like my compliment." "Shall I sing 'Viva Garibaldi?'" asked our hero, innocently. "No--good heavens, no! I've had enough of your squeaking. Here, take this money, and don't sing." "Si, signor," answered Dan, assuming a look of bewilderment. Hartley prepared to board a car, which was not yet ready to start. Dan rapidly decided that it would not do for him to follow Hartley any farther. It would certainly arouse his suspicions. But must he abandon the pursuit? That would not do either. Looking about him, his eye fell on a bright-looking newsboy of about twelve. "Do you want to make some money, Johnny?" he asked. The boy surveyed him with astonishment. "Did you speak to me, Garibaldi?" he asked, jocosely. "Yes, but I am no Italian," said Dan, rapidly. "I am on the track of that man, but he suspects me. I will give you a dollar if you will jump on the car and find out where he goes." "Where's the dollar?" asked the boy, cautiously. "Here. Pay your expenses out of it, and I will pay you back when you report to me." "Where will I find you?" "Here. I will stay till you come back." "It's a bargain." "Hurry; the car is starting." The newsboy ran, jumped on the car, and it moved on. "It is the best thing I could do," thought Dan. "I hope the boy is sharp, and won't lose sight of him. I feel sure that he had something to do with carrying off poor little Althea." For two hours Dan lingered near the ferry, playing occasionally by way of filling up the time. It seemed to be a good location, for he received from fifty to sixty cents from passers-by. "When hard times come," thought Dan, "I shall know what to do. I will become an Italian street singer." After two hours the newsboy jumped off an incoming car, and approached Dan. "Did you find out where he went?" asked Dan, eagerly. "Yes," answered the boy. CHAPTER XXXVI. DAN MAKES A DISCOVERY. Dan's eyes sparkled with joy at the success of his plan. "Now tell me," he said, drawing the newsboy aside to a place where they would not be overheard. "First give me my car fare." "All right. Here's a quarter. Never mind the change." "You've made a fortun' by fiddling, you have," said the newsboy, in surprise. "I am not a fiddler. I am a detective." The newsboy whistled. "You're a young one." "Never mind that. Go ahead with your story." The newsboy described his following Hartley to Donovan's. Hartley went in, and he directly afterward. "What sort of a place is it?" asked Dan. "It's a saloon." "Perhaps he only went in for a drink," suggested Dan, uneasily. "No, he didn't call for nothing to drink. I saw him take out some money and give to the man and the woman." "What man and what woman?" "They was the Donovans." "How long did you stay?" "Ten minutes. I axed old Donovan to buy a paper, and he wouldn't. Then I sat down for a minute, makin' believe I was tired. They looked at me, but I didn't appear to be noticin' 'em, and they let me stay." "Did you see anything of a little girl?" asked Dan, eagerly. "Yes, there was a little gal came in. The woman called her Katy." Dan's spirits sank. It was Mrs. Donovan's daughter, he feared, not the child he was seeking. "How did she look? How old was she?" "About five or six years old." He added a description of the little girl which quite revived Dan's hopes, for it answered in every respect to Althea. "Did you hear the little girl say anything?" "Yes, she told her mother she wanted to see Dan." Dan's eyes glistened. It was Althea, after all. "It's all right," he said. "You needn't tell me any more. You're a trump." "Have you found out what you want to know?" "Yes. Have you anything to do for the next two hours?" "No." "Then I'll pay you another dollar to go to the place with me. I think I could find it myself, but I can't take any chances. And don't say a word about what you have seen." "I won't. Is this little gal your sister?" "She is my adopted sister, and she has been stolen from us." "Then I'd be willing to help you for nothing. I've got a little sister about her size. If anybody stole her, I'd mash him!" "Come along, then." The two boys boarded a car, and in forty minutes got out. "That's the place," said the newsboy, pointing out Donovan's, only a few rods away. "All right. You'd better leave me now, or you may be remembered, and that would lead them to suspect me. Here's your money, and thank you." "I hope you'll find your sister." "Thank you. If I do, it'll be through your help." Dan did not at once enter Donovan's. He stopped in the street, and began to sing "Viva Garibaldi." Two or three boys gathered about him, and finally a couple of men. One of them handed him a three-cent piece. "Grazio, signor," said Dan, pulling off his hat. "What part of Italy do you come from?" asked one of the men. "Si, signor, I come from Italy," answered Dan, not considering it prudent to understand too well. "Oh, he don't understand you. Come along." "His hair doesn't look like that of most Italians." "Pooh! I'd know him for an Italian boy anywhere." At this moment the door of the saloon opened, and Dan, putting his violin under his arm, entered. CHAPTER XXXVII. DAN IS DISCOVERED. Donovan had two customers. One was an Irishman, the other a German. Both had evidently drank more than was good for them. Dan looked in vain for Althea. Mrs. Donovan had taken her up stairs. "Well, boy, what do you want?" asked Donovan, rather roughly. "Will you have yer musique?" asked Dan, uncertain whether he was talking as an Italian boy might be expected to. "No; I don't want to hear any fiddle-scraping." "Shure, let him play a little, Mister Donovan," said the Irishman. "Just as you like," said Donovan, carelessly, "only I have no money for him." "Faith, thin, I have. Here boy, play something." Dan struck up his one tune--Viva Garibaldi--but the Irishman did not seem to care for that. "Oh, bother ould Garibaldi!" he said. "Can't you play something else?" "I wish I could," thought Dan. "Suppose I compose something." Accordingly he tried to play an air popular enough at the time, but made bad work of it. "Stop him! stop him!" exclaimed the German, who had a better musical ear than the Irishman. "Here, lend me your fiddle, boy." He took the violin, and in spite of his inebriety, managed to play a German air upon it. "Shure you bate the boy at his own trade," said the Irishman. "You must be dhry. What'll you have now?" The German indicated his preference, and the Irishman called for whisky. "What'll you have, Johnny?" he asked, addressing Dan. "I no drink," answered our hero, shaking his head. "Shure you're an Italian wonder, and it's Barnum ought to hire you." "I no understand English," said Dan. "Then you're a haythen," said Pat Moriarty. He gulped down the whisky, and finding it more convenient to sit than to stand, fell back upon a settee. "I wish Althea would come in," thought Dan. At that moment a heavy fall was heard in the room overhead, and a child's shrill scream directly afterward. "Something's happened to my wife," muttered Donovan. "She's drunk again." He hurried up stairs, and the German followed. This gave Dan an excuse for running up, too. Mrs. Donovan had been drinking more copiously than usual. While in this condition she imprudently got upon a chair to reach a pitcher from an upper shelf. Her footing was uncertain, and she fell over, pitcher in hand, the chair sharing in the downfall. When her husband entered the room she was lying flat on her back, grasping the handle of the pitcher, her eyes closed, and her breathing stertorious. Althea, alarmed, stood over her, crying and screaming. "The old woman's taken too much," said Donovan. "Get up, you divil!" he shouted, leaning over his matrimonial partner. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself, now?" Mrs. Donovan opened her eyes, and stared at him vacantly. "Where am I?" she inquired. "On your back, you old fool, where you deserve to be." "It's the whisky," murmured the fallen lady. "Of course it is. Why can't you drink dacent like me? Shure it's a purty example you're settin' to the child. Ain't you ashamed to lie here in a hape before them gintlemen?" This called Althea's attention to the German and Dan. In spite of Dan's disguise, she recognized him with a cry of joy. "Oh, Dan! have you come to take me away?" she exclaimed, dashing past Donovan, and clasping her arms round the supposed Italian. [Illustration: "Oh, Dan! Have you come to take me away?" Althea exclaimed.] "Hillo! what's up?" exclaimed Donovan, looking at the two in surprise. "Oh, it's my brother Dan," exclaimed Althea. "You'll take me away, won't you, Dan? How funny you look! Where did you get your fiddle?" "So that's your game, my young chicken, is it?" demanded Donovan, seizing our hero roughly by the shoulder. Then pulling off Dan's hat, he added: "You're no more Italian than I am." Dan saw that it would be useless to keep up the deceit any longer. He looked Donovan full in the face, and said, firmly: "You are right, Mr. Donovan, I have come here for my sister." CHAPTER XXXVIII. UNPLEASANT QUARTERS. Donovan's red face turned fairly purple with rage. "Well, I'll be blowed!" he said, adding an oath or two. "You're a bold little pup! You dare to insult me! Why, I could crush you with my little finger." "I have not insulted you," said Dan. "I have only come for my sister." "I don't know anything about your sister. So you can go about your business." "That little girl is my adopted sister," said Dan, pointing to Althea. "Ask her if she doesn't know me." "That is my daughter, Katy Donovan," said the saloon keeper. "No, I am not," said Althea, beginning to cry. "I want to go away with my brother Dan." "Shut up, you little jade!" said Donovan, roughly. "Mrs. Donovan," (by this time she was on her feet, looking on in a dazed sort of way), "is not this our little Katy?" "Shure it is," she answered. "You see, young man, you're mistaken. You can leave," and Donovan waved his hand triumphantly. "That's too thin, Mrs. Donovan!" said Dan, provoked. "That don't go down. I can bring plenty of proof that Althea was until a week since living with my mother." "That for your proof!" said Donovan, contemptuously snapping his fingers. "I know who stole her, and who brought her to this house," continued Dan. Donovan started. The boy knew more than he had expected. "The same man has been here to-day," added Dan. "You lie!" retorted Donovan, but he looked uneasy. "You know that I tell the truth. How much does he pay you for taking care of the girl?" "Enough of this!" roared the saloon keeper. "I can't waste my time talkin' wid you. Will you clear out now?" "No, I won't, unless Althea goes with me," said Dan, firmly. "You won't, then! We'll see about that," and Donovan, making a rush, seized Dan in his arms, and carried him down stairs, despite our hero's resistance. "I'll tache you to come here insultin' your betters!" he exclaimed. Dan struggled to get away, but though a strong boy, he was not a match for a powerful man, and could not effect his deliverance. The Irishman already referred to was still upon the settee. "What's up, Donovan?" he asked, as the saloon-keeper appeared with his burden. "What's the lad been doin'?" "What's he been doin', is it? He's been insultin' me to my face--that's what the Donovans won't stand. Open the trap-door, Barney." "What for?" "Don't trouble me wid your questions, but do as I tell you. You shall know afterward." Not quite willingly, but reluctant to offend Donovan, who gave him credit for the drinks, Barney raised a trap-door leading to the cellar below. There was a ladder for the convenience of those wishing to ascend and descend, but Donovan was not disposed to use much ceremony with the boy who had offended him. He dropped him through the opening, Dan by good luck falling on his feet. "That's the best place for you, you young meddler!" he said. "You'll find it mighty comfortable, and I wish you much joy. I won't charge you no rint, and that's an object in these hard times--eh, Barney?" "To be sure it is," said Barney; "but all the same, Donovan, I'd rather pay rint up stairs, if I had my choice!" "He hasn't the choice," said Donovan triumphantly. "Good-by to you!" and he let the trap fall. "What's it all about now, Donovan?" asked Barney. "He wanted to shtale my Katy," said Donovan. "What, right before your face?" asked Barney, puzzled. "Yes, shure! What'll you take to drink?" asked Donovan, not caring to go into particulars. Barney indicated his choice with alacrity, and, after drinking, was hardly in a condition to pursue his inquiries. CHAPTER XXXIX. DAN DISCOMFITS THE DONOVANS. Dan found himself at first bewildered and confused by his sudden descent into the cellar. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he was able to get an idea of his surroundings. It was a common cellar with an earthen floor. Ranged along one side was a row of kegs, some containing whisky, others empty. Besides, there were a few boxes and odds and ends which had been placed here to get them out of the way. "Not a very cheerful-looking place," thought Dan, "though I do get it rent free." He sat down on a box, and began to consider his position. Was there any way of escape? The walls were solid, and although there was a narrow window, consisting of a row of single panes, it was at the top of the cellar, and not easily accessible. He might indeed reach it by the ladder, but he would have to break the glass and crawl through, a mode of escape likely to be attended by personal risk. "No, that won't do," thought Dan. "At any rate, I won't try it till other things fail." Meanwhile Donovan, in the bar-room above, was in high good humor. He felt that he had done a sharp thing, and more than once chuckled as he thought of his prisoner below. Indeed he could not forbear, after about half an hour, lifting the trap and calling down stairs: "Hallo, there!" "Hallo!" said Dan, coolly. "What are you doin'?" "Sitting on a box." "How do you like it?" chuckled Donovan. "Come down and see." "You're an impudent jackanapes!" retorted Donovan, wrathfully. "You'll get enough of it before you're through." "So will you," answered Dan, boldly. "I'll take the risk," chuckled Donovan. "Do you know what you remind me of?" "Suppose you tell me." "You're like a rat in a trap." "Not exactly," answered Dan, as a bright thought dawned upon him. "Why not?" "Because a rat can do no harm, and I can." It occurred to Donovan that Dan might have some matches in his pocket, and was momentarily alarmed at the thought that our hero might set the house on fire. "Have you matches with you?" he asked. "No," answered Dan. "If you had," said the saloon-keeper, relieved, "it would do you no good to set a fire. You would only burn yourself up." "I don't mean to set the house on fire," said Dan, composedly. "Then you may do your worst. You can't scare me." "Can't I?" returned Dan, rising from his seat on the box. "What are you going to do?" asked Donovan, following with his glance the boy's motion. "I'll tell you," said Dan. "I'm going to take the spigot out of them whisky-kegs, and let the whisky run out on the floor." "Don't you do it!" exclaimed the saloon-keeper, now thoroughly frightened. "Then let me up." "I won't." "All right. You must take the consequences." As he spoke Dan dextrously pulled the spigot from a keg, and Donovan, to his dismay, heard the precious liquid--precious in his eyes--pouring out upon the floor. With an exertion he raised the trap-door, hastily descended the ladder, and rushed to the keg to replace the spigot. Meanwhile Dan ran up the ladder, pulled it after him, and made his late jailer a captive. "Put down the ladder, you young rascal!" roared Donovan, when, turning from his work, he saw how the tables had been turned. "It wouldn't be convenient just yet," answered Dan, coolly. He shut the trap-door, hastily lugged the ladder to the rear of the house (unobserved, for there were no customers present), then dashed up stairs and beckoned to Althea to follow him. There was no obstacle, for Mrs. Donovan was stupefied by liquor. Putting on her things, the little girl hastily and gladly obeyed. As they passed through the saloon, Donovan's execrations and shouts were heard proceeding from the cellar. "What's that, Dan?" asked Althea, trembling. "Never you mind, Althea," said Dan. "I'll tell you later." The two children hurried to the nearest horse-car, which luckily came up at the moment, and jumped on board. Dan looked back with a smile at the saloon, saying to himself: "I rather think, Mr. Donovan, you've found your match this time. I hope you'll enjoy the cellar as much as I did." In about an hour and a half Dan, holding Althea by the hand, triumphantly led her into his mother's presence. "I've brought her back, mother," he said. "Oh, my dear, dear little girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt, joyfully. "I thought I should never, never see you again. How did you find her, Dan?" But we will not wait to hear a twice-told tale. Rather let us return to Donovan, where the unhappy proprietor is still a captive in his own cellar. Here he remained till his cries attracted the attention of a wondering customer, who finally lifted the trap-door. "What are you doin' down there?" he asked, amazed. "Put down the ladder and let me up first of all." "I don't see any ladder." "Look round, then. I suppose the cursed boy has hidden it." It was a considerable time before the ladder was found. Then the saloon-keeper emerged from his prison in a very bad humor. "How did you get shut up there?" asked his liberator. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Donovan, irritably. "I wish I had left you there," said the customer, with justifiable indignation. "This is your gratitude for my trouble, is it?" "Excuse me, but I'm so mad with that cursed boy. What'll you take? It's my treat." "Come, that's talking," said the placated customer. "What boy do you mean?" "Wait a minute," said Donovan, a sudden fear possessing him. He rushed up stairs and looked for Althea. His wife was lying on the floor, breathing heavily, but the little girl was gone. "The boy's got her! What a cursed fool I have been!" exclaimed Donovan, sinking into a chair. Then, in a blind fury with the wife who didn't prevent the little girl's recapture, he seized a pail of water and emptied it over the face of the prostrate woman. Mrs. Donovan came to, and berated her husband furiously. "Serves you right, you jade!" said the affectionate husband. He went down stairs feeling better. He had had revenge on somebody. It was certainly an unlucky day for the Donovans. CHAPTER XL. HARTLEY SURPRISED. After calling at Donovan's, on the day when Dan recovered Althea, John Hartley crossed the Courtlandt street ferry, and took a train to Philadelphia with Blake, his accomplice in the forged certificates. The two confederates had raised some Pennsylvania railway certificates, which they proposed to put on the Philadelphia market. They spent several days in the Quaker City, and thus Hartley heard nothing of the child's escape. Donovan did not see fit to inform him, as this would stop the weekly remittance for the child's board, and, moreover, draw Hartley's indignation down upon his head. One day, in a copy of the _New York Herald_, which he purchased at the news-stand in the Continental Hotel, Hartley observed the arrival of Harriet Vernon at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. "I thought she would come," he said to himself, with a smile. "I have her in my power at last. She must submit to my terms, or lose sight of the child altogether." "Blake," he said, aloud, "I must take the first train to New York." "Why, what's up, partner?" asked Blake, in surprise. "Anything gone wrong?" "On the contrary, I see a chance of making a good haul." "How?" "Not in our line. It's some private business of my own." "All right. I wish you success. When will you return?" "That I can't exactly say. I will write or telegraph you." In the evening of the same day Mrs. Vernon sat in her room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. A servant brought up a card bearing the name of John Hartley. "He is prompt," she said to herself, with a smile. "Probably he has not heard of Althea's escape from the den to which he carried her. I will humor him, in that case, and draw him out." "I will see the gentleman in the parlor," she said. Five minutes later she entered the ladies' parlor. Hartley rose to receive her with a smile of conscious power, which told Harriet Vernon that he was ignorant of the miscarriage of his plans. "I heard of your _unexpected_ arrival, Mrs. Vernon," he commenced, "and have called to pay my respects." "Your motive is appreciated, John Hartley," she said, coldly. "I expected to see you." "That's pleasant," he said, mockingly. "May I beg to apologize for constraining you to cross the Atlantic?" "Don't apologize; you have merely acted out your nature." "Probably that is not meant to be complimentary. However, it can't be helped." "I suppose you have something to say to me, John Hartley," said Mrs. Vernon, seating herself. "Pray proceed." "You are quite right. I wrote you that I had ferreted out your cunningly devised place of concealment for my daughter." "You did." He looked at her a little puzzled. She seemed very cool and composed, whereas he expected she would be angry and disturbed. "We may as well come to business at once," he said. "If you wish to recover the charge of your ward, you must accede to my terms." "State them." "They are expressed in my letter to you. You must agree to pay me a thousand dollars each quarter." "It strikes me you are exorbitant in your demands." "I don't think so. At any rate, the money won't come out of you. It will come from my daughter's income." "So you would rob your daughter, John Hartley?" "Rob my daughter!" he exclaimed, angrily. "She will have enough left. Is she to live in luxury, and with thousands to spare, while I, her only living parent, wander penniless and homeless about the world." "I might sympathize with you, if I did not know how you have misused the gifts of fortune, and embittered the existence of my poor sister. As it is, it only disgusts me." "I don't want you sympathy, Harriet Vernon," he said, roughly. "I want four thousand dollars a year." "Suppose I decline to let you have it?" "Then you must take the consequences," he said, quickly. "What are to be the consequences?" she asked, quietly. "That you and Althea will be forever separated. She shall never see you again." He looked at her intently to see the effect of his threat. Harriet Vernon was as cool and imperturbable as ever. "Have you been in New York for a week past?" she asked, as he thought, irrelevantly. "Why do you ask?" "I have a reason." "No, I have not." "So I thought." "Why did you think so?" "Because you don't appear to know what has happened." "What has happened?" he asked, uneasily. "Mr. Donovan can tell you. As for me, I bid you good-evening." A wild fear took possession of him. "What do you mean?" he demanded, hurriedly. "I mean, John Hartley, that you are not as shrewd as you imagine. I mean that a boy has foiled you; and while you were doubtless laughing at his simplicity, he has proved more than a match for you. You have no claim upon me, and I must decline your disinterested proposal." She left the room, leaving him crest-fallen and stupefied. "Has Donovan betrayed me?" he muttered. "I will soon find out." He started for Brooklyn immediately, and toward eleven o'clock entered the saloon at Donovan's. "Where is the child?" he demanded, sternly. The rubicund host turned pale. "She's gone," he cried, "but I couldn't help it, Mr. Hartley. On my honor, I couldn't." "How did it happen? Tell me at once." The story was told, Donovan ending by invoking curses upon the boy who had played such a trick upon him. "You're a fool!" said Hartley, roughly. "I am ashamed of you, for allowing a boy to get the best of you." "That boy's a fox," said Donovan. "He's a match for the old one, he is. I'd like to break his neck for him." "It's not too late. I may get hold of the girl again," mused Hartley, as he rose to go. "If I do, I won't put her in charge of such a dunderhead." He left Donovan's and returned to New York, but he had hardly left the Fulton ferry-boat when he was tapped on the shoulder by an officer. "I want you," he said. "What for?" asked Hartley, nervously. "A little financial irregularity, as they call it in Wall street. You may know something about some raised railroad certificates!" "Confusion!" muttered Hartley. "Luck is dead against me." CHAPTER XLI. DAN IS ADOPTED. The morning papers contained an account of John Hartley's arrest, and the crime with which he was charged. Harriet Vernon read it at the breakfast-table with an interest which may be imagined. "I don't like to rejoice in any man's misfortune," she said to herself, "but now I can have a few years of peace. My precious brother-in-law will doubtless pass the next few years in enforced seclusion, and I can have a settled home." Directly after breakfast, she set out for the humble home of her niece. She found all at home, for Dan was not to go back to business till Monday. "Well, my good friend," she said, "I have news for you." "Good news, I hope," said Dan. "Yes, good news. Henceforth I can have Althea with me. The obstacle that separated us is removed." Mrs. Mordaunt's countenance fell, and Dan looked sober. It was plain that Althea was to be taken from them, and they had learned to love her. "I am very glad," faltered Mrs. Mordaunt. "You don't look glad," returned Mrs. Vernon. "You see we don't like to part with Althea," explained Dan, who understood his mother's feelings. "Who said you were to part with the child?" asked Mrs. Vernon, bluntly. "I thought you meant to take her from us." "Oh, I see. Your mistake is a natural one, for I have not told you my plans. I mean to take a house up town, install Mrs. Mordaunt as my housekeeper and friend, and adopt this young man (indicating Dan), provided he has no objection." "How kind you are, Mrs. Vernon," ejaculated Mrs. Mordaunt. "No, I am selfish. I have plenty of money, and no one to care for, or to care for me. I have taken a fancy to you all, and I am quite sure that we can all live happily together. Althea is my niece, and you, Dan, may call me aunt, too, if you like. Is it a bargain?" Dan offered her his hand in a frank, cordial way, which she liked. "So it is settled, then," she said, in a pleased voice. "I ought to warn you," she added, "that I have the reputation of being ill-tempered. You may get tired of living with me." "We'll take the risk," said Dan, smiling. Mrs. Vernon, whose habit it was to act promptly, engaged a house on Madison avenue, furnished it without regard to expense, and in less than a fortnight, installed her friends in it. Then she had a talk with Dan about his plans. "Do you wish to remain in your place," she asked, "or would you like to obtain a better education first?" "To obtain an education," said Dan, promptly. "Then give notice to your employer of your intention." Dan did so. Mrs. Vernon in a second interview informed him that besides defraying his school expenses, she should give him an allowance of fifty dollars a month for his own personal needs. "May I give a part of it to my mother?" asked Dan. "No." His countenance fell, but Mrs. Vernon smiled. "You don't ask why I refuse," she said. "I suppose you have a good reason," said Dan, dubiously. "My reason is that I shall pay your mother double this sum. Unless she is very extravagant it ought to be enough to defray her expenses." "How liberal you are, Mrs. Vernon!" exclaimed Dan, in fresh astonishment. "Mrs. Vernon!" "Aunt Harriet, I mean." "That is better." All these important changes in the position of the Mordaunts were unknown to their old friends, who, since their loss of property, had given them the cold shoulder. One day Tom Carver, in passing the house, saw Dan coming down the steps quite as handsomely dressed as himself. His surprise and curiosity were aroused. "Are you running errands?" he asked. "No. What makes you think so?" returned Dan, smiling. "I didn't know what else could carry you to such a house." "Oh, that's easily explained," said Dan. "I live here." "You live there!" ejaculated Tom. "Yes." "Oh, I see. You are in the employ of the family." "Not exactly," said Dan. "I have nothing to do." "Does your mother live there?" "Yes." "You don't mean to say she boards there?" "We are living with my aunt." "Is your aunt rich?" asked Tom, in a more deferential tone. "I believe she is. At any rate she gives me a handsome allowance." "You don't say so! How much does she give you?" "Fifty dollars a month." "And you don't have anything to do?" "Only to study. I am going back to school." "What a lucky fellow!" exclaimed Tom, enviously. "Why, my father only allows me three dollars a week." "I could get along on that. I don't need as much as my aunt allows me." "I say, Dan," said Tom, in the most friendly terms, "I'm awfully hard up. Could you lend me five dollars?" "Yes," said Dan, secretly amused with the change in Tom's manner. "You always were a good fellow!" said Tom, linking his arm in Dan's. "I'm very glad you're rich again. You must come to see me often." "Thank you," said Dan, smiling, "but I'm afraid you have forgotten something." "What do you mean?" "You know I used to be a newsboy in front of the Astor House." "That don't matter." "And you might not care to associate with a newsboy." "Well, you are all right now," said Tom, magnanimously. "You didn't always think so, Tom." "I always thought you were a gentleman, Dan. I am coming to see you soon. You must introduce me to your aunt." "I suppose it's the way of the world," thought Dan. "It is lucky that there are some true friends who stick by us through thick and thin." Mrs. Mordaunt had an experience similar to Dan's. Her old acquaintances, who, during her poverty never seemed to recognize her when they met, gradually awoke to the consciousness of her continued existence, and left cards. She received them politely, but rated their professions of friendship at their true value. They had not been "friends in need," and she could not count them "friends indeed." CHAPTER XLII. CONCLUSION. Six years rolled by, bringing with them many changes. The little family on Madison avenue kept together. Mrs. Vernon was never happier than now. She had a hearty love for young people, and enjoyed the growth and development of her niece Althea, and Dan, whom she called her nephew and loved no less. Dan is now a young man. He completed his preparation for college, and graduated with high honors. He is no less frank, handsome, and self-reliant than when as a boy he sold papers in front of the Astor House for his mother's support. He looks forward to a business life, and has accepted an invitation to go abroad to buy goods in London and Paris for his old firm. He was, in fact, preparing to go when a mysterious letter was put in his hands. It ran thus: "MR. DANIEL MORDAUNT:--I shall take it as a great favor if you will come to the St. Nicholas Hotel this evening, and inquire for me. I am sick, or I would not trouble you. Do not fail. I have to speak to you on a matter of great importance. "JOHN DAVIS." "John Davis!" repeated Dan. "I don't know of any one of that name. Do you, mother?" "I cannot think of any one," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "I hope you won't go, Dan," she added, anxiously; "it may be a trap laid by a wicked and designing man." "You forget that I am not a boy any longer, mother," said Dan, smiling. "I think I can defend myself, even if Mr. Davis is a wicked and designing person." Nevertheless Mrs. Mordaunt saw Dan depart with anxiety. To her he was still a boy, though in the eyes of others an athletic young man. On inquiring for Mr. Davis at the hotel, Dan was ushered into a room on the third floor. Seated in an arm-chair was an elderly man, weak and wasted, apparently in the last stages of consumption. He eyed Dan eagerly. "You are Daniel Mordaunt?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "Son of Lawrence Mordaunt?" "Yes. Did you know my father?" The old man sighed. "It would have been well if he had not known me, for I did him a great wrong." "You!--John Davis!" said Dan, trying to connect the name with his father. "That is not my real name. You see before you Robert Hunting, once your father's book-keeper." Dan's handsome face darkened, and he said, bitterly: "You killed my father!" "Heaven help me, I fear I did!" sighed Davis--to call him by his later name. "The money of which you robbed him caused him to fail, and failure led to his death." "I have accused myself of this crime oftentimes," moaned Davis. "Don't think that the money brought happiness, for it did not." "Where have you been all these years?" "First, I went to Europe. There I remained a year. From Europe I went to Brazil, and engaged in business in Rio Janeiro. A year since I found my health failing, and have come back to New York to die. But before I die I want to make what reparation I can." "You cannot call my father back to me," said Dan, sadly. "No; but I can restore the money that I stole. That is the right word--stole. I hope you and your mother have not suffered?" "We saw some hard times, but for years we have lived in comfort." "I am glad of that. Will you bring a lawyer to me to-morrow evening? I want to make restitution. Then I shall die easier." "You might keep every dollar if you would bring my father back." "Would that I could! I must do what I can." The next evening Davis transferred to Dan and his mother property amounting to fifty thousand dollars, in payment of what he had taken, with interest, and in less than a month later he died, Dan taking upon himself the charge of the funeral. His trip to Europe was deferred, and having now capital to contribute, he was taken as junior partner into the firm where he had once filled the position of office-boy. Tom Carver is down in the world. His father had failed disastrously, and Tom is glad to accept a minor clerkship from the boy at whom he once sneered. Julia Rogers has never lost her preference for Dan. It is whispered that they are engaged, or likely soon to be, and Dan's assiduous attentions to the young lady make the report a plausible one. John Hartley was sentenced to a term of years in prison. Harriet Vernon dreaded the day of his release, being well convinced that he would seize the earliest opportunity to renew his persecutions. She had about made up her mind to buy him off, when she received intelligence that he was carried off by fever, barely a month before the end of his term. It was a sad end of a bad life, but she could not regret him. Althea was saved the knowledge of her father's worthlessness. She was led to believe that he had died when she was a little girl. And now the curtain must fall. Dan, the young detective, has entered upon a career of influence and prosperity. The hardships of his earlier years contributed to strengthen his character, and give him that self-reliance of which the sons of rich men so often stand in need. A similar experience might have benefited Tom Carver, whose lofty anticipations have been succeeded by a very humble reality. Let those boys who are now passing through the discipline of poverty and privation, take courage and emulate the example of "Dan, the Detective." THE END. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS, 97-99-101 Reade Street, New York. +Bonnie Prince Charlie+: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself."--_Spectator._ +With Clive in India+; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._ +The Lion of the North+: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_Times._ +The Dragon and the Raven+; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. "Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_Athenæum._ +The Young Carthaginian+: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannæ, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ +In Freedom's Cause+: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_The Schoolmaster._ +With Lee in Virginia+: A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_Standard._ +By England's Aid+; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604). By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. "It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_Boston Gazette._ +By Right of Conquest+; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. "'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."--_Academy._ +In the Reign of Terror+: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ +With Wolfe in Canada+; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. 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 of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe. "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ +True to the Old Flag+: A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ +The Lion of St. Mark+: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_Saturday Review._ +A Final Reckoning+: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_Spectator._ +Under Drake's Flag+: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ +By Sheer Pluck+: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie. "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._ +By Pike and Dyke+: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. "Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_St. James' Gazette._ +St. George for England+: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_The Standard._ +Captain Kidd's Gold+: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adventurous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. +Captain Bayley's Heir+: A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ +For Name and Fame+; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan. "The best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ +Captured by Apes+: The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archipelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. +The Bravest of the Brave+; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were overshadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read 'The Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ +The Cat of Bubastes+: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ +With Washington at Monmouth+: A Story of Three Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of "Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. +For the Temple+: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor of Titus. "Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_Graphic._ +Facing Death+; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "The tale is well written and well illustrated and there is much reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ +Tom Temple's Career.+ By HORATIO ALGER. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to $40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to California, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. +Maori and Settler+: A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. "Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_Schoolmaster._ +Julian Mortimer+: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him as a favorite author. "+Carrots+:" Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_Examiner._ "A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's illustrations."--_Punch._ +Mopsa the Fairy.+ By JEAN INGELOW. With Eight page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss Ingelow has and the story of 'Jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_Eclectic._ +A Jaunt Through Java+: The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip across the island of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. Hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. There is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. +Wrecked on Spider Island+; or, How Ned Rogers Found the Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick, Ned Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part of a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure. Raising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. +Geoff and Jim+: A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. Illustrated by A. G. WALKER. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_Church Times._ "This is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_Schoolmaster._ "The story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_Standard._ +The Castaways+; or, On the Florida Reefs, By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the Sea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys she floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and Jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. They take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In "The Castaways" he is at his best. +Tom Thatcher's Fortune.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Like all of Mr. Alger's heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson's factory. The story begins with Tom's discharge from the factory, because Mr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom learns that which induces him to start overland for California with the view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many adventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that entertaining way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many homes. +Birdie+: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON. Illustrated by H. W. RAINEY. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_New York Express._ +Popular Fairy Tales.+ By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_Athenæum._ +With Lafayette at Yorktown+: A Story of How Two Boys Joined the Continental Army. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The two boys are from Portsmouth, N. H., and are introduced in August, 1781, when on the point of leaving home to enlist in Col. Scammell's regiment, then stationed near New York City. Their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the Colonial days. The lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under Lafayette. Once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the British camp, bringing away valuable information. The pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of Lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. The story is wholesome in tone, as are all of Mr. Otis' works. There is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffreys and Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. +Lost in the Cañon+: Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great Colorado. By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. The Vigilance Committee of Hurley's Gulch arrest Sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. Their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. This is in Sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. A messenger is dispatched to get it. He reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. His father's peril urges Sam to action. A raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. They fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. How the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and Sam reaches Hurley's Gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps Mr. Calhoun as a master of his art. +Jack+: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY. With upward of Thirty Illustrations by H. J. A. MILES. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes though wonderful and edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant book."--_Literary World._ +Search for the Silver City+: A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two American lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam yacht Day Dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. Homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. All hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They come across a young American named Cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful Silver City of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. Cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful Indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. At last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. Mr. Otis has built his story on an historical foundation. It is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. +Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Thrown upon his own resources Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named Wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. Frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of New Jersey and held a prisoner. This move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. Mr. Alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. +Budd Boyd's Triumph+; or, the Boy Firm of Fox Island. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The scene of this story is laid on the upper part of Narragansett Bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. Owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, Budd Boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. Chance brings Budd in contact with Judd Floyd. The two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. The scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of Thomas Bagsley, the man whom Budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. His pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. In following the career of the boy firm of Boyd & Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. +The Errand Boy+; or, How Phil Brent Won Success. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The career of "The Errand Boy" embraces the city adventures of a smart country lad who at an early age was abandoned by his father. Philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper named Brent. The death of Mrs. Brent paved the way for the hero's subsequent troubles. Accident introduces him to the notice of a retired merchant in New York, who not only secures him the situation of errand boy but thereafter stands as his friend. An unexpected turn of fortune's wheel, however, brings Philip and his father together. In "The Errand Boy" Philip Brent is possessed of the same sterling qualities so conspicuous in all of the previous creations of this delightful writer for our youth. +The Slate Picker+: The Story of a Boy's Life in the Coal Mines. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This is a story of a boy's life in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. There are many thrilling situations, notably that of Ben Burton's leap into the "lion's mouth"--the yawning shute in the breakers--to escape a beating at the hands of the savage Spilkins, the overseer. Gracie Gordon is a little angel in rags, Terence O'Dowd is a manly, sympathetic lad, and Enoch Evans, the miner-poet, is a big-hearted, honest fellow, a true friend to all whose burdens seem too heavy for them to bear. Ben Burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy he advanced step by step until he found himself called upon to fill the position of chief engineer of the Kohinoor Coal Company. +A Runaway Brig+; or, An Accidental Cruise. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A Runaway Brig" is a sea tale, pure and simple, and that's where it strikes a boy's fancy. The reader can look out upon the wide shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with Harry Vandyne, Walter Morse, Jim Libby and that old shell-back, Bob Brace, on the brig Bonita, which lands on one of the Bahama keys. Finally three strangers steal the craft, leaving the rightful owners to shift for themselves aboard a broken-down tug. The boys discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a buried treasure, then a storm comes on and the tug is stranded. At last a yacht comes in sight and the party with the treasure is taken off the lonely key. The most exacting youth is sure to be fascinated with this entertaining story. +Fairy Tales and Stories.+ By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "If I were asked to select a child's library I should name these three volumes 'English,' 'Celtic,' and 'Indian Fairy Tales,' with Grimm and Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales."--_Independent._ +The Island Treasure+; or, Harry Darrel's Fortune. By FRANK H. CONVERSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Darrel, an orphan, having received a nautical training on a school-ship, is bent on going to sea with a boyish acquaintance named Dan Plunket. A runaway horse changes his prospects. Harry saves Dr. Gregg from drowning and the doctor presents his preserver with a bit of property known as Gregg's Island, and makes the lad sailing-master of his sloop yacht. A piratical hoard is supposed to be hidden somewhere on the island. After much search and many thwarted plans, at last Dan discovers the treasure and is the means of finding Harry's father. Mr. Converse's stories possess a charm of their own which is appreciated by lads who delight in good healthy tales that smack of salt water. +The Boy Explorers+: The Adventures of Two Boys in Alaska. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two boys, Raymond and Spencer Manning, travel from San Francisco to Alaska to join their father in search of their uncle, who, it is believed, was captured and detained by the inhabitants of a place called the "Heart of Alaska." On their arrival at Sitka the boys with an Indian guide set off across the mountains. The trip is fraught with perils that test the lads' courage to the utmost. Reaching the Yukon River they build a raft and float down the stream, entering the Mysterious River, from which they barely escape with their lives, only to be captured by natives of the Heart of Alaska. All through their exciting adventures the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by pluck and resolution, and their experience makes one of the most interesting tales ever written. +The Treasure Finders+: A Boy's Adventures in Nicaragua. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Roy and Dean Coloney, with their guide Tongla, leave their father's indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. The boys eagerly explore the dismantled temples of an extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden away. They escape with the greatest difficulty; by taking advantage of a festive gathering they seize a canoe and fly down the river. Eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. Mr. Otis is the prince of story tellers, for he handles his material with consummate skill. We doubt if he has ever written a more entertaining story than "The Treasure Finders." +Household Fairy Tales.+ By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "As a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages this work ranks second to none."--_Daily Graphic._ +Dan the Newsboy.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The reader is introduced to Dan Mordaunt and his mother living in a poor tenement, and the lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of New York. A little heiress of six years is confided to the care of the Mordaunts. At the same time the lad obtains a position in a wholesale house. He soon demonstrates how valuable he is to the firm by detecting the bookkeeper in a bold attempt to rob his employers. The child is kidnaped and Dan tracks the child to the house where she it hidden, and rescues her. The wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so delighted with Dan's courage and many good qualities that she adopts him as her heir, and the conclusion of the book leaves the hero on the high road to every earthly desire. +Tony the Hero+: A Brave Boy's Adventure with a Tramp. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the control of Rudolph Rugg, a thorough rascal, shiftless and lazy, spending his time tramping about the country. After much abuse Tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel. Tony is heir to a large estate in England, and certain persons find it necessary to produce proof of the lad's death. Rudolph for a consideration hunts up Tony and throws him down a deep well. Of course Tony escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act makes a rich friend, with whom he goes to England, where he secures his rights and is prosperous. The fact that Mr. Alger is the author of this entertaining book will at once recommend it to all juvenile readers. +A Young Hero+; or, Fighting to Win. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen from the Misses Perkinpine, two very old and simple minded ladies. Fred Sheldon, the hero of this story and a friend of the old ladies, undertakes to discover the thieves and have them arrested. After much time spent in detective work, he succeeds in discovering the silver plate and winning the reward for its restoration. During the narrative a circus comes to town and a thrilling account of the escape of the lion from its cage, with its recapture, is told in Mr. Ellis' most fascinating style. Every boy will be glad to read this delightful book. +The Days of Bruce+: A Story from Scottish History. By GRACE AGUILAR. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "There is a delightful freshness, sincerity and vivacity about all of Grace Aguilar's stories which cannot fail to win the interest and admiration of every lover of good reading."--_Boston Beacon._ +Tom the Bootblack+; or, The Road to Success. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A bright, enterprising lad was Tom the bootblack. He was not at all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout to better himself. His guardian, old Jacob Morton, died, leaving him a small sum of money and a written confession that Tom, instead of being of humble origin, was the son and heir of a deceased Western merchant, and had been defrauded out of his just rights by an unscrupulous uncle. The lad started for Cincinnati to look up his heritage. But three years passed away before he obtained his first clue. Mr. Grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. The plan failed, and Gilbert Grey, once Tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. This is one of Mr. Alger's best stories. +Captured by Zulus+: A story of Trapping in Africa. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story details the adventures of two lads, Dick Elsworth and Bob Harvey, in the wilds of South Africa, for the purpose of obtaining a supply of zoological curiosities. By stratagem the Zulus capture Dick and Bob and take them to their principal kraal or village. The lads escape death by digging their way out of the prison hut by night. They are pursued, and after a rough experience the boys eventually rejoin the expedition and take part in several wild animal hunts. The Zulus finally give up pursuit and the expedition arrives at the coast without further trouble. Mr. Prentice has a delightful method of blending fact with fiction. He tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native stamping grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining reading. +Tom the Ready+; or, Up from the Lowest. By RANDOLPH HILL. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, ambitious boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder--the gate of the poorhouse--to wealth and the governorship of his native State. Thomas Seacomb begins life with a purpose. While yet a schoolboy he conceives and presents to the world the germ of the Overland Express Co. At the very outset of his career jealousy and craft seek to blast his promising future. Later he sets out to obtain a charter for a railroad line in connection with the express business. Now he realizes what it is to match himself against capital. Yet he wins and the railroad is built. Only an uncommon nature like Tom's could successfully oppose such a combine. How he manages to win the battle is told by Mr. Hill in a masterful way that thrills the reader and holds his attention and sympathy to the end. +Roy Gilbert's Search+: A Tale of the Great Lakes. By WM. P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A deep mystery hangs over the parentage of Roy Gilbert. He arranges with two schoolmates to make a tour of the Great Lakes on a steam launch. The three boys leave Erie on the launch and visit many points of interest on the lakes. Soon afterward the lad is conspicuous in the rescue of an elderly gentleman and a lady from a sinking yacht. Later on the cruise of the launch is brought to a disastrous termination and the boys narrowly escape with their lives. The hero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed with interest. +The Young Scout+; The Story of a West Point Lieutenant. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The crafty Apache chief Geronimo but a few years ago was the most terrible scourge of the southwest border. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of Geronimo's last raid. The hero is Lieutenant James Decker, a recent graduate of West Point. Ambitious to distinguish himself so as to win well-deserved promotion, the young man takes many a desperate chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly escapes with his life. The story naturally abounds in thrilling situations, and being historically correct, it is reasonable to believe it will find great favor with the boys. In our opinion Mr. Ellis is the best writer of Indian stories now before the public. +Adrift in the Wilds+: The Adventures of Two Shipwrecked Boys. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price, $1.00. Elwood Brandon and Howard Lawrence, cousins and schoolmates, accompanied by a lively Irishman called O'Rooney, are en route for San Francisco. Off the coast of California the steamer takes fire. The two boys and their companion reach the shore with several of the passengers. While O'Rooney and the lads are absent inspecting the neighborhood O'Rooney has an exciting experience and young Brandon becomes separated from his party. He is captured by hostile Indians, but is rescued by an Indian whom the lads had assisted. This is a very entertaining narrative of Southern California in the days immediately preceding the construction of the Pacific railroads. Mr. Ellis seems to be particularly happy in this line of fiction, and the present story is fully as entertaining as anything he has ever written. +The Red Fairy Book.+ Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A gift-book that will charm any child, and all older folk who have been fortunate enough to retain their taste for the old nursery stories."--_Literary World._ +The Boy Cruisers+; or, Paddling in Florida. By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE. 12mo, cloth, price, $1.00. Boys who like an admixture of sport and adventure will find this book just to their taste. We promise them that they will not go to sleep over the rattling experiences of Andrew George and Roland Carter, who start on a canoe trip along the Gulf coast, from Key West to Tampa, Florida. Their first adventure is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. Next they run into a gale in the Gulf and have a lively experience while it lasts. After that they have a lively time with alligators and divers varieties of the finny tribe. Andrew gets into trouble with a band of Seminole Indians and gets away without having his scalp raised. After this there is no lack of fun till they reach their destination. That Mr. Rathborne knows just how to interest the boys is apparent at a glance, and lads who are in search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. +Guy Harris+: The Runaway. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Guy Harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the Great Lakes. His head became filled with quixotic notions of going West to hunt grizzlies, in fact, Indians. He is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse of the rough side of life in a sailor's boarding house. He ships on a vessel and for five months leads a hard life. He deserts his ship at San Francisco and starts out to become a backwoodsman, but rough experiences soon cure him of all desire to be a hunter. At St. Louis he becomes a clerk and for a time he yields to the temptations of a great city. The book will not only interest boys generally on account of its graphic style, but will put many facts before their eyes in a new light. This is one of Castlemon's most attractive stories. +The Train Boy.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Paul Palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his mother and sister by selling books and papers on one of the trains running between Chicago and Milwaukee. He detects a young man named Luke Denton in the act of picking the pocket of a young lady, and also incurs the enmity of his brother Stephen, a worthless fellow. Luke and Stephen plot to ruin Paul, but their plans are frustrated. In a railway accident many passengers are killed, but Paul is fortunate enough to assist a Chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into his employ. Paul is sent to manage a mine in Custer City and executes his commission with tact and judgment and is well started on the road to business prominence. This is one of Mr. Alger's most attractive stories and is sure to please all readers. 
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.