32094	----	THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ BY L. FRANK BAUM AUTHOR OF THE ROAD TO OZ, DOROTHY AND THE WIZARD IN OZ, THE EMERALD CITY OF OZ, THE LAND OF OZ, OZMA OF OZ, ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN R. NEILL The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago COPYRIGHT 1913 By L Frank Baum All RIGHTS RESERVED Affectionately Dedicated to my young friend Sumner Hamilton Britton of Chicago [Illustration] PROLOGUE Through the kindness of Dorothy Gale of Kansas, afterward Princess Dorothy of Oz, an humble writer in the United States of America was once appointed Royal Historian of Oz, with the privilege of writing the chronicle of that wonderful fairyland. But after making six books about the adventures of those interesting but queer people who live in the Land of Oz, the Historian learned with sorrow that by an edict of the Supreme Ruler, Ozma of Oz, her country would thereafter be rendered invisible to all who lived outside its borders and that all communication with Oz would, in the future, be cut off. The children who had learned to look for the books about Oz and who loved the stories about the gay and happy people inhabiting that favored country, were as sorry as their Historian that there would be no more books of Oz stories. They wrote many letters asking if the Historian did not know of some adventures to write about that had happened before the Land of Oz was shut out from all the rest of the world. But he did not know of any. Finally one of the children inquired why we couldn't hear from Princess Dorothy by wireless telegraph, which would enable her to communicate to the Historian whatever happened in the far-off Land of Oz without his seeing her, or even knowing just where Oz is. That seemed a good idea; so the Historian rigged up a high tower in his back yard, and took lessons in wireless telegraphy until he understood it, and then began to call "Princess Dorothy of Oz" by sending messages into the air. Now, it wasn't likely that Dorothy would be looking for wireless messages or would heed the call; but one thing the Historian was sure of, and that was that the powerful Sorceress, Glinda, would know what he was doing and that he desired to communicate with Dorothy. For Glinda has a big book in which is recorded every event that takes place anywhere in the world, just the moment that it happens, and so of course the book would tell her about the wireless message. And that was the way Dorothy heard that the Historian wanted to speak with her, and there was a Shaggy Man in the Land of Oz who knew how to telegraph a wireless reply. The result was that the Historian begged so hard to be told the latest news of Oz, so that he could write it down for the children to read, that Dorothy asked permission of Ozma and Ozma graciously consented. That is why, after two long years of waiting, another Oz story is now presented to the children of America. This would not have been possible had not some clever man invented the "wireless" and an equally clever child suggested the idea of reaching the mysterious Land of Oz by its means. L. FRANK BAUM. "OZCOT" at HOLLYWOOD in CALIFORNIA [Illustration] LIST OF CHAPTERS CHAPTER PAGE 1--OJO AND UNC NUNKIE 19 2--THE CROOKED MAGICIAN 23 3--THE PATCHWORK GIRL 35 4--THE GLASS CAT 47 5--A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT 55 6--THE JOURNEY 67 7--THE TROUBLESOME PHONOGRAPH 83 8--THE FOOLISH OWL AND THE WISE DONKEY 91 9--THEY MEET THE WOOZY 99 10--SHAGGY MAN TO THE RESCUE 115 11--A GOOD FRIEND 127 12--THE GIANT PORCUPINE 147 13--SCRAPS AND THE SCARECROW 159 14--OJO BREAKS THE LAW 179 15--OZMA'S PRISONER 191 16--PRINCESS DOROTHY 203 17--OZMA AND HER FRIENDS 215 18--OJO IS FORGIVEN 223 19--TROUBLE WITH THE TOTTENHOTS 235 20--THE CAPTIVE YOOP 255 21--HIPHOPPER THE CHAMPION 267 22--THE JOKING HORNERS 275 23--PEACE IS DECLARED 287 24--OJO FINDS THE DARK WELL 299 25--THEY BRIBE THE LAZY QUADLING 303 26--THE TRICK RIVER 311 27--THE TIN WOODMAN OBJECTS 323 28--THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ 335 [Illustration] OJO AND UNK NUNKIE CHAP. ONE [Illustration] "Where's the butter, Unc Nunkie?" asked Ojo. Unc looked out of the window and stroked his long beard. Then he turned to the Munchkin boy and shook his head. "Isn't," said he. "Isn't any butter? That's too bad, Unc. Where's the jam then?" inquired Ojo, standing on a stool so he could look through all the shelves of the cupboard. But Unc Nunkie shook his head again. "Gone," he said. "No jam, either? And no cake--no jelly--no apples--nothing but bread?" "All," said Unc, again stroking his beard as he gazed from the window. The little boy brought the stool and sat beside his uncle, munching the dry bread slowly and seeming in deep thought. "Nothing grows in our yard but the bread tree," he mused, "and there are only two more loaves on that tree; and they're not ripe yet. Tell me, Unc; why are we so poor?" The old Munchkin turned and looked at Ojo. He had kindly eyes, but he hadn't smiled or laughed in so long that the boy had forgotten that Unc Nunkie could look any other way than solemn. And Unc never spoke any more words than he was obliged to, so his little nephew, who lived alone with him, had learned to understand a great deal from one word. "Why are we so poor, Unc?" repeated the boy. "Not," said the old Munchkin. "I think we are," declared Ojo. "What have we got?" "House," said Unc Nunkie. "I know; but everyone in the Land of Oz has a place to live. What else, Unc?" "Bread." "I'm eating the last loaf that's ripe. There; I've put aside your share, Unc. It's on the table, so you can eat it when you get hungry. But when that is gone, what shall we eat, Unc?" The old man shifted in his chair but merely shook his head. "Of course," said Ojo, who was obliged to talk because his uncle would not, "no one starves in the Land of Oz, either. There is plenty for everyone, you know; only, if it isn't just where you happen to be, you must go where it is." The aged Munchkin wriggled again and stared at his small nephew as if disturbed by his argument. "By to-morrow morning," the boy went on, "we must go where there is something to eat, or we shall grow very hungry and become very unhappy." "Where?" asked Unc. "Where shall we go? I don't know, I'm sure," replied Ojo. "But _you_ must know, Unc. You must have traveled, in your time, because you're so old. I don't remember it, because ever since I could remember anything we've lived right here in this lonesome, round house, with a little garden back of it and the thick woods all around. All I've ever seen of the great Land of Oz, Unc dear, is the view of that mountain over at the south, where they say the Hammerheads live--who won't let anybody go by them--and that mountain at the north, where they say nobody lives." "One," declared Unc, correcting him. "Oh, yes; one family lives there, I've heard. That's the Crooked Magician, who is named Dr. Pipt, and his wife Margolotte. One year you told me about them; I think it took you a whole year, Unc, to say as much as I've just said about the Crooked Magician and his wife. They live high up on the mountain, and the good Munchkin Country, where the fruits and flowers grow, is just the other side. It's funny you and I should live here all alone, in the middle of the forest, isn't it?" "Yes," said Unc. "Then let's go away and visit the Munchkin Country and its jolly, good-natured people. I'd love to get a sight of something besides woods, Unc Nunkie." "Too little," said Unc. "Why, I'm not so little as I used to be," answered the boy earnestly. "I think I can walk as far and as fast through the woods as you can, Unc. And now that nothing grows in our back yard that is good to eat, we must go where there is food." Unc Nunkie made no reply for a time. Then he shut down the window and turned his chair to face the room, for the sun was sinking behind the tree-tops and it was growing cool. By and by Ojo lighted the fire and the logs blazed freely in the broad fireplace. The two sat in the firelight a long time--the old, white-bearded Munchkin and the little boy. Both were thinking. When it grew quite dark outside, Ojo said: "Eat your bread, Unc, and then we will go to bed." [Illustration] But Unc Nunkie did not eat the bread; neither did he go directly to bed. Long after his little nephew was sound asleep in the corner of the room the old man sat by the fire, thinking. THE CROOKED MAGICIAN CHAP. TWO [Illustration] Just at dawn next morning Unc Nunkie laid his hand tenderly on Ojo's head and awakened him. "Come," he said. Ojo dressed. He wore blue silk stockings, blue knee-pants with gold buckles, a blue ruffled waist and a jacket of bright blue braided with gold. His shoes were of blue leather and turned up at the toes, which were pointed. His hat had a peaked crown and a flat brim, and around the brim was a row of tiny golden bells that tinkled when he moved. This was the native costume of those who inhabited the Munchkin Country of the Land of Oz, so Unc Nunkie's dress was much like that of his nephew. Instead of shoes, the old man wore boots with turnover tops and his blue coat had wide cuffs of gold braid. The boy noticed that his uncle had not eaten the bread, and supposed the old man had not been hungry. Ojo was hungry, though; so he divided the piece of bread upon the table and ate his half for breakfast, washing it down with fresh, cool water from the brook. Unc put the other piece of bread in his jacket pocket, after which he again said, as he walked out through the doorway: "Come." Ojo was well pleased. He was dreadfully tired of living all alone in the woods and wanted to travel and see people. For a long time he had wished to explore the beautiful Land of Oz in which they lived. When they were outside, Unc simply latched the door and started up the path. No one would disturb their little house, even if anyone came so far into the thick forest while they were gone. At the foot of the mountain that separated the Country of the Munchkins from the Country of the Gillikins, the path divided. One way led to the left and the other to the right--straight up the mountain. Unc Nunkie took this right-hand path and Ojo followed without asking why. He knew it would take them to the house of the Crooked Magician, whom he had never seen but who was their nearest neighbor. All the morning they trudged up the mountain path and at noon Unc and Ojo sat on a fallen tree-trunk and ate the last of the bread which the old Munchkin had placed in his pocket. Then they started on again and two hours later came in sight of the house of Dr. Pipt. It was a big house, round, as were all the Munchkin houses, and painted blue, which is the distinctive color of the Munchkin Country of Oz. There was a pretty garden around the house, where blue trees and blue flowers grew in abundance and in one place were beds of blue cabbages, blue carrots and blue lettuce, all of which were delicious to eat. In Dr. Pipt's garden grew bun-trees, cake-trees, cream-puff bushes, blue buttercups which yielded excellent blue butter and a row of chocolate-caramel plants. Paths of blue gravel divided the vegetable and flower beds and a wider path led up to the front door. The place was in a clearing on the mountain, but a little way off was the grim forest, which completely surrounded it. Unc knocked at the door of the house and a chubby, pleasant-faced woman, dressed all in blue, opened it and greeted the visitors with a smile. "Ah," said Ojo; "you must be Dame Margolotte, the good wife of Dr. Pipt." "I am, my dear, and all strangers are welcome to my home." "May we see the famous Magician, Madam?" "He is very busy just now," she said, shaking her head doubtfully. "But come in and let me give you something to eat, for you must have traveled far in order to get to our lonely place." "We have," replied Ojo, as he and Unc entered the house. "We have come from a far lonelier place than this." "A lonelier place! And in the Munchkin Country?" she exclaimed. "Then it must be somewhere in the Blue Forest." "It is, good Dame Margolotte." "Dear me!" she said, looking at the man, "you must be Unc Nunkie, known as the Silent One." Then she looked at the boy. "And you must be Ojo the Unlucky," she added. "Yes," said Unc. "I never knew I was called the Unlucky," said Ojo, soberly; "but it is really a good name for me." "Well," remarked the woman, as she bustled around the room and set the table and brought food from the cupboard, "you were unlucky to live all alone in that dismal forest, which is much worse than the forest around here; but perhaps your luck will change, now you are away from it. If, during your travels, you can manage to lose that 'Un' at the beginning of your name 'Unlucky,' you will then become Ojo the Lucky, which will be a great improvement." "How can I lose that 'Un,' Dame Margolotte?" "I do not know how, but you must keep the matter in mind and perhaps the chance will come to you," she replied. Ojo had never eaten such a fine meal in all his life. There was a savory stew, smoking hot, a dish of blue peas, a bowl of sweet milk of a delicate blue tint and a blue pudding with blue plums in it. When the visitors had eaten heartily of this fare the woman said to them: "Do you wish to see Dr. Pipt on business or for pleasure?" Unc shook his head. "We are traveling," replied Ojo, "and we stopped at your house just to rest and refresh ourselves. I do not think Unc Nunkie cares very much to see the famous Crooked Magician; but for my part I am curious to look at such a great man." The woman seemed thoughtful. "I remember that Unc Nunkie and my husband used to be friends, many years ago," she said, "so perhaps they will be glad to meet again. The Magician is very busy, as I said, but if you will promise not to disturb him you may come into his workshop and watch him prepare a wonderful charm." "Thank you," replied the boy, much pleased. "I would like to do that." She led the way to a great domed hall at the back of the house, which was the Magician's workshop. There was a row of windows extending nearly around the sides of the circular room, which rendered the place very light, and there was a back door in addition to the one leading to the front part of the house. Before the row of windows a broad seat was built and there were some chairs and benches in the room besides. At one end stood a great fireplace, in which a blue log was blazing with a blue flame, and over the fire hung four kettles in a row, all bubbling and steaming at a great rate. The Magician was stirring all four of these kettles at the same time, two with his hands and two with his feet, to the latter, wooden ladles being strapped, for this man was so very crooked that his legs were as handy as his arms. Unc Nunkie came forward to greet his old friend, but not being able to shake either his hands or his feet, which were all occupied in stirring, he patted the Magician's bald head and asked: "What?" "Ah, it's the Silent One," remarked Dr. Pipt, without looking up, "and he wants to know what I'm making. Well, when it is quite finished this compound will be the wonderful Powder of Life, which no one knows how to make but myself. Whenever it is sprinkled on anything, that thing will at once come to life, no matter what it is. It takes me several years to make this magic Powder, but at this moment I am pleased to say it is nearly done. You see, I am making it for my good wife Margolotte, who wants to use some of it for a purpose of her own. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Unc Nunkie, and after I've finished my task I will talk to you." "You must know," said Margolotte, when they were all seated together on the broad window-seat, "that my husband foolishly gave away all the Powder of Life he first made to old Mombi the Witch, who used to live in the Country of the Gillikins, to the north of here. Mombi gave to Dr. Pipt a Powder of Perpetual Youth in exchange for his Powder of Life, but she cheated him wickedly, for the Powder of Youth was no good and could work no magic at all." "Perhaps the Powder of Life couldn't either," said Ojo. [Illustration] "Yes; it is perfection," she declared. "The first lot we tested on our Glass Cat, which not only began to live but has lived ever since. She's somewhere around the house now." "A Glass Cat!" exclaimed Ojo, astonished. "Yes; she makes a very pleasant companion, but admires herself a little more than is considered modest, and she positively refuses to catch mice," explained Margolotte. "My husband made the cat some pink brains, but they proved to be too high-bred and particular for a cat, so she thinks it is undignified in her to catch mice. Also she has a pretty blood-red heart, but it is made of stone--a ruby, I think--and so is rather hard and unfeeling. I think the next Glass Cat the Magician makes will have neither brains nor heart, for then it will not object to catching mice and may prove of some use to us." "What did old Mombi the Witch do with the Powder of Life your husband gave her?" asked the boy. "She brought Jack Pumpkinhead to life, for one thing," was the reply. "I suppose you've heard of Jack Pumpkinhead. He is now living near the Emerald City and is a great favorite with the Princess Ozma, who rules all the Land of Oz." "No; I've never heard of him," remarked Ojo. "I'm afraid I don't know much about the Land of Oz. You see, I've lived all my life with Unc Nunkie, the Silent One, and there was no one to tell me anything." "That is one reason you are Ojo the Unlucky," said the woman, in a sympathetic tone. "The more one knows, the luckier he is, for knowledge is the greatest gift in life." "But tell me, please, what you intend to do with this new lot of the Powder of Life, which Dr. Pipt is making. He said his wife wanted it for some especial purpose." "So I do," she answered. "I want it to bring my Patchwork Girl to life." "Oh! A Patchwork Girl? What is that?" Ojo asked, for this seemed even more strange and unusual than a Glass Cat. "I think I must show you my Patchwork Girl," said Margolotte, laughing at the boy's astonishment, "for she is rather difficult to explain. But first I will tell you that for many years I have longed for a servant to help me with the housework and to cook the meals and wash the dishes. No servant will come here because the place is so lonely and out-of-the-way, so my clever husband, the Crooked Magician, proposed that I make a girl out of some sort of material and he would make her live by sprinkling over her the Powder of Life. This seemed an excellent suggestion and at once Dr. Pipt set to work to make a new batch of his magic powder. He has been at it a long, long while, and so I have had plenty of time to make the girl. Yet that task was not so easy as you may suppose. At first I couldn't think what to make her of, but finally in searching through a chest I came across an old patchwork quilt, which my grandmother once made when she was young." "What is a patchwork quilt?" asked Ojo. "A bed-quilt made of patches of different kinds and colors of cloth, all neatly sewed together. The patches are of all shapes and sizes, so a patchwork quilt is a very pretty and gorgeous thing to look at. Sometimes it is called a 'crazy-quilt,' because the patches and colors are so mixed up. We never have used my grandmother's many-colored patchwork quilt, handsome as it is, for we Munchkins do not care for any color other than blue, so it has been packed away in the chest for about a hundred years. When I found it, I said to myself that it would do nicely for my servant girl, for when she was brought to life she would not be proud nor haughty, as the Glass Cat is, for such a dreadful mixture of colors would discourage her from trying to be as dignified as the blue Munchkins are." "Is blue the only respectable color, then?" inquired Ojo. "Yes, for a Munchkin. All our country is blue, you know. But in other parts of Oz the people favor different colors. At the Emerald City, where our Princess Ozma lives, green is the popular color. But all Munchkins prefer blue to anything else and when my housework girl is brought to life she will find herself to be of so many unpopular colors that she'll never dare be rebellious or impudent, as servants are sometimes liable to be when they are made the same way their mistresses are." Unc Nunkie nodded approval. "Good i-dea," he said; and that was a long speech for Unc Nunkie because it was two words. "So I cut up the quilt," continued Margolotte, "and made from it a very well-shaped girl, which I stuffed with cotton-wadding. I will show you what a good job I did," and she went to a tall cupboard and threw open the doors. Then back she came, lugging in her arms the Patchwork Girl, which she set upon the bench and propped up so that the figure would not tumble over. [Illustration] [Illustration: Ojo] THE PATCHWORK GIRL CHAP. THREE [Illustration] Ojo examined this curious contrivance with wonder. The Patchwork Girl was taller than he, when she stood upright, and her body was plump and rounded because it had been so neatly stuffed with cotton. Margolotte had first made the girl's form from the patchwork quilt and then she had dressed it with a patchwork skirt and an apron with pockets in it--using the same gay material throughout. Upon the feet she had sewn a pair of red leather shoes with pointed toes. All the fingers and thumbs of the girl's hands had been carefully formed and stuffed and stitched at the edges, with gold plates at the ends to serve as finger-nails. "She will have to work, when she comes to life," said Margolotte. The head of the Patchwork Girl was the most curious part of her. While she waited for her husband to finish making his Powder of Life the woman had found ample time to complete the head as her fancy dictated, and she realized that a good servant's head must be properly constructed. The hair was of brown yarn and hung down on her neck in several neat braids. Her eyes were two silver suspender-buttons cut from a pair of the Magician's old trousers, and they were sewed on with black threads, which formed the pupils of the eyes. Margolotte had puzzled over the ears for some time, for these were important if the servant was to hear distinctly, but finally she had made them out of thin plates of gold and attached them in place by means of stitches through tiny holes bored in the metal. Gold is the most common metal in the Land of Oz and is used for many purposes because it is soft and pliable. The woman had cut a slit for the Patchwork Girl's mouth and sewn two rows of white pearls in it for teeth, using a strip of scarlet plush for a tongue. This mouth Ojo considered very artistic and lifelike, and Margolotte was pleased when the boy praised it. There were almost too many patches on the face of the girl for her to be considered strictly beautiful, for one cheek was yellow and the other red, her chin blue, her forehead purple and the center, where her nose had been formed and padded, a bright yellow. "You ought to have had her face all pink," suggested the boy. "I suppose so; but I had no pink cloth," replied the woman. "Still, I cannot see as it matters much, for I wish my Patchwork Girl to be useful rather than ornamental. If I get tired looking at her patched face I can whitewash it." "Has she any brains?" asked Ojo. "No; I forgot all about the brains!" exclaimed the woman. "I am glad you reminded me of them, for it is not too late to supply them, by any means. Until she is brought to life I can do anything I please with this girl. But I must be careful not to give her too much brains, and those she has must be such as are fitted to the station she is to occupy in life. In other words, her brains mustn't be very good." "Wrong," said Unc Nunkie. "No; I am sure I am right about that," returned the woman. "He means," explained Ojo, "that unless your servant has good brains she won't know how to obey you properly, nor do the things you ask her to do." "Well, that maybe true," agreed Margolotte; "but, on the contrary, a servant with too much brains is sure to become independent and high-and-mighty and feel above her work. This is a very delicate task, as I said, and I must take care to give the girl just the right quantity of the right sort of brains. I want her to know just enough, but not too much." With this she went to another cupboard which was filled with shelves. All the shelves were lined with blue glass bottles, neatly labeled by the Magician to show what they contained. One whole shelf was marked: "Brain Furniture," and the bottles on this shelf were labeled as follows: "Obedience," "Cleverness," "Judgment," "Courage," "Ingenuity," "Amiability," "Learning," "Truth," "Poesy," "Self Reliance." "Let me see," said Margolotte; "of those qualities she must have 'Obedience' first of all," and she took down the bottle bearing that label and poured from it upon a dish several grains of the contents. "'Amiability' is also good and 'Truth.'" She poured into the dish a quantity from each of these bottles. "I think that will do," she continued, "for the other qualities are not needed in a servant." Unc Nunkie, who with Ojo stood beside her, touched the bottle marked "Cleverness." "Little," said he. "A little 'Cleverness'? Well, perhaps you are right, sir," said she, and was about to take down the bottle when the Crooked Magician suddenly called to her excitedly from the fireplace. "Quick, Margolotte! Come and help me." She ran to her husband's side at once and helped him lift the four kettles from the fire. Their contents had all boiled away, leaving in the bottom of each kettle a few grains of fine white powder. Very carefully the Magician removed this powder, placing it all together in a golden dish, where he mixed it with a golden spoon. When the mixture was complete there was scarcely a handful, all told. [Illustration] "That," said Dr. Pipt, in a pleased and triumphant tone, "is the wonderful Powder of Life, which I alone in the world know how to make. It has taken me nearly six years to prepare these precious grains of dust, but the little heap on that dish is worth the price of a kingdom and many a king would give all he has to possess it. When it has become cooled I will place it in a small bottle; but meantime I must watch it carefully, lest a gust of wind blow it away or scatter it." Unc Nunkie, Margolotte and the Magician all stood looking at the marvelous Powder, but Ojo was more interested just then in the Patchwork Girl's brains. Thinking it both unfair and unkind to deprive her of any good qualities that were handy, the boy took down every bottle on the shelf and poured some of the contents in Margolotte's dish. No one saw him do this, for all were looking at the Powder of Life; but soon the woman remembered what she had been doing, and came back to the cupboard. "Let's see," she remarked; "I was about to give my girl a little 'Cleverness,' which is the Doctor's substitute for 'Intelligence'--a quality he has not yet learned how to manufacture." Taking down the bottle of "Cleverness" she added some of the powder to the heap on the dish. Ojo became a bit uneasy at this, for he had already put quite a lot of the "Cleverness" powder in the dish; but he dared not interfere and so he comforted himself with the thought that one cannot have too much cleverness. Margolotte now carried the dish of brains to the bench. Ripping the seam of the patch on the girl's forehead, she placed the powder within the head and then sewed up the seam as neatly and securely as before. "My girl is all ready for your Powder of Life, my dear," she said to her husband. But the Magician replied: "This powder must not be used before to-morrow morning; but I think it is now cool enough to be bottled." He selected a small gold bottle with a pepper-box top, so that the powder might be sprinkled on any object through the small holes. Very carefully he placed the Powder of Life in the gold bottle and then locked it up in a drawer of his cabinet. "At last," said he, rubbing his hands together gleefully, "I have ample leisure for a good talk with my old friend Unc Nunkie. So let us sit down cosily and enjoy ourselves. After stirring those four kettles for six years I am glad to have a little rest." "You will have to do most of the talking," said Ojo, "for Unc is called the Silent One and uses few words." "I know; but that renders your uncle a most agreeable companion and gossip," declared Dr. Pipt. "Most people talk too much, so it is a relief to find one who talks too little." Ojo looked at the Magician with much awe and curiosity. "Don't you find it very annoying to be so crooked?" he asked. "No; I am quite proud of my person," was the reply. "I suppose I am the only Crooked Magician in all the world. Some others are accused of being crooked, but I am the only genuine." He was really very crooked and Ojo wondered how he managed to do so many things with such a twisted body. When he sat down upon a crooked chair that had been made to fit him, one knee was under his chin and the other near the small of his back; but he was a cheerful man and his face bore a pleasant and agreeable expression. "I am not allowed to perform magic, except for my own amusement," he told his visitors, as he lighted a pipe with a crooked stem and began to smoke. "Too many people were working magic in the Land of Oz, and so our lovely Princess Ozma put a stop to it. I think she was quite right. There were several wicked Witches who caused a lot of trouble; but now they are all out of business and only the great Sorceress, Glinda the Good, is permitted to practice her arts, which never harm anybody. The Wizard of Oz, who used to be a humbug and knew no magic at all, has been taking lessons of Glinda, and I'm told he is getting to be a pretty good Wizard; but he is merely the assistant of the great Sorceress. I've the right to make a servant girl for my wife, you know, or a Glass Cat to catch our mice--which she refuses to do--but I am forbidden to work magic for others, or to use it as a profession." "Magic must be a very interesting study," said Ojo. "It truly is," asserted the Magician. "In my time I've performed some magical feats that were worthy the skill of Glinda the Good. For instance, there's the Powder of Life, and my Liquid of Petrifaction, which is contained in that bottle on the shelf yonder--over the window." "What does the Liquid of Petrifaction do?" inquired the boy. "Turns everything it touches to solid marble. It's an invention of my own, and I find it very useful. Once two of those dreadful Kalidahs, with bodies like bears and heads like tigers, came here from the forest to attack us; but I sprinkled some of that Liquid on them and instantly they turned to marble. I now use them as ornamental statuary in my garden. This table looks to you like wood, and once it really was wood; but I sprinkled a few drops of the Liquid of Petrifaction on it and now it is marble. It will never break nor wear out." "Fine!" said Unc Nunkie, wagging his head and stroking his long gray beard. "Dear me; what a chatterbox you're getting to be, Unc," remarked the Magician, who was pleased with the compliment. But just then there came a scratching at the back door and a shrill voice cried: "Let me in! Hurry up, can't you? Let me in!" Margolotte got up and went to the door. "Ask like a good cat, then," she said. [Illustration] "Mee-ee-ow-w-w! There; does that suit your royal highness?" asked the voice, in scornful accents. "Yes; that's proper cat talk," declared the woman, and opened the door. At once a cat entered, came to the center of the room and stopped short at the sight of strangers. Ojo and Unc Nunkie both stared at it with wide open eyes, for surely no such curious creature had ever existed before--even in the Land of Oz. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE GLASS CAT CHAP. 4 [Illustration] The cat was made of glass, so clear and transparent that you could see through it as easily as through a window. In the top of its head, however, was a mass of delicate pink balls which looked like jewels, and it had a heart made of a blood-red ruby. The eyes were two large emeralds, but aside from these colors all the rest of the animal was clear glass, and it had a spun-glass tail that was really beautiful. "Well, Doc Pipt, do you mean to introduce us, or not?" demanded the cat, in a tone of annoyance. "Seems to me you are forgetting your manners." "Excuse me," returned the Magician. "This is Unc Nunkie, the descendant of the former kings of the Munchkins, before this country became a part of the Land of Oz." "He needs a hair-cut," observed the cat, washing its face. "True," replied Unc, with a low chuckle of amusement. "But he has lived alone in the heart of the forest for many years," the Magician explained; "and, although that is a barbarous country, there are no barbers there." "Who is the dwarf?" asked the cat. "That is not a dwarf, but a boy," answered the Magician. "You have never seen a boy before. He is now small because he is young. With more years he will grow big and become as tall as Unc Nunkie." "Oh. Is that magic?" the glass animal inquired. "Yes; but it is Nature's magic, which is more wonderful than any art known to man. For instance, my magic made you, and made you live; and it was a poor job because you are useless and a bother to me; but I can't make you grow. You will always be the same size--and the same saucy, inconsiderate Glass Cat, with pink brains and a hard ruby heart." "No one can regret more than I the fact that you made me," asserted the cat, crouching upon the floor and slowly swaying its spun-glass tail from side to side. "Your world is a very uninteresting place. I've wandered through your gardens and in the forest until I'm tired of it all, and when I come into the house the conversation of your fat wife and of yourself bores me dreadfully." "That is because I gave you different brains from those we ourselves possess--and much too good for a cat," returned Dr. Pipt. "Can't you take 'em out, then, and replace 'em with pebbles, so that I won't feel above my station in life?" asked the cat, pleadingly. "Perhaps so. I'll try it, after I've brought the Patchwork Girl to life," he said. The cat walked up to the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined and looked at her attentively. "Are you going to make that dreadful thing live?" she asked. The Magician nodded. "It is intended to be my wife's servant maid," he said. "When she is alive she will do all our work and mind the house. But you are not to order her around, Bungle, as you do us. You must treat the Patchwork Girl respectfully." "I won't. I couldn't respect such a bundle of scraps under any circumstances." "If you don't, there will be more scraps than you will like," cried Margolotte, angrily. "Why didn't you make her pretty to look at?" asked the cat. "You made me pretty--very pretty, indeed--and I love to watch my pink brains roll around when they're working, and to see my precious red heart beat." She went to a long mirror, as she said this, and stood before it, looking at herself with an air of much pride. "But that poor patched thing will hate herself, when she's once alive," continued the cat. "If I were you I'd use her for a mop, and make another servant that is prettier." "You have a perverted taste," snapped Margolotte, much annoyed at this frank criticism. "I think the Patchwork Girl is beautiful, considering what she's made of. Even the rainbow hasn't as many colors, and you must admit that the rainbow is a pretty thing." The Glass Cat yawned and stretched herself upon the floor. "Have your own way," she said. "I'm sorry for the Patchwork Girl, that's all." Ojo and Unc Nunkie slept that night in the Magician's house, and the boy was glad to stay because he was anxious to see the Patchwork Girl brought to life. The Glass Cat was also a wonderful creature to little Ojo, who had never seen or known anything of magic before, although he had lived in the Fairyland of Oz ever since he was born. Back there in the woods nothing unusual ever happened. Unc Nunkie, who might have been King of the Munchkins, had not his people united with all the other countries of Oz in acknowledging Ozma as their sole ruler, had retired into this forgotten forest nook with his baby nephew and they had lived all alone there. Only that the neglected garden had failed to grow food for them, they would always have lived in the solitary Blue Forest; but now they had started out to mingle with other people, and the first place they came to proved so interesting that Ojo could scarcely sleep a wink all night. Margolotte was an excellent cook and gave them a fine breakfast. While they were all engaged in eating, the good woman said: "This is the last meal I shall have to cook for some time, for right after breakfast Dr. Pipt has promised to bring my new servant to life. I shall let her wash the breakfast dishes and sweep and dust the house. What a relief it will be!" "It will, indeed, relieve you of much drudgery," said the Magician. "By the way, Margolotte, I thought I saw you getting some brains from the cupboard, while I was busy with my kettles. What qualities have you given your new servant?" "Only those that an humble servant requires," she answered. "I do not wish her to feel above her station, as the Glass Cat does. That would make her discontented and unhappy, for of course she must always be a servant." Ojo was somewhat disturbed as he listened to this, and the boy began to fear he had done wrong in adding all those different qualities of brains to the lot Margolotte had prepared for the servant. But it was too late now for regret, since all the brains were securely sewn up inside the Patchwork Girl's head. He might have confessed what he had done and thus allowed Margolotte and her husband to change the brains; but he was afraid of incurring their anger. He believed that Unc had seen him add to the brains, and Unc had not said a word against it; but then, Unc never did say anything unless it was absolutely necessary. As soon as breakfast was over they all went into the Magician's big workshop, where the Glass Cat was lying before the mirror and the Patchwork Girl lay limp and lifeless upon the bench. "Now, then," said Dr. Pipt, in a brisk tone, "we shall perform one of the greatest feats of magic possible to man, even in this marvelous Land of Oz. In no other country could it be done at all. I think we ought to have a little music while the Patchwork Girl comes to life. It is pleasant to reflect that the first sounds her golden ears will hear will be delicious music." As he spoke he went to a phonograph, which was screwed fast to a small table, and wound up the spring of the instrument and adjusted the big gold horn. "The music my servant will usually hear," remarked Margolotte, "will be my orders to do her work. But I see no harm in allowing her to listen to this unseen band while she wakens to her first realization of life. My orders will beat the band, afterward." The phonograph was now playing a stirring march tune and the Magician unlocked his cabinet and took out the gold bottle containing the Powder of Life. They all bent over the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte stood behind, near the windows, Ojo at one side and the Magician in front, where he would have freedom to sprinkle the powder. The Glass Cat came near, too, curious to watch the important scene. "All ready?" asked Dr. Pipt. "All is ready," answered his wife. So the Magician leaned over and shook from the bottle some grains of the wonderful Powder, and they fell directly on the Patchwork Girl's head and arms. [Illustration] [Illustration] A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT CHAP. 5 [Illustration] "It will take a few minutes for this powder to do its work," remarked the Magician, sprinkling the body up and down with much care. But suddenly the Patchwork Girl threw up one arm, which knocked the bottle of powder from the crooked man's hand and sent it flying across the room. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte were so startled that they both leaped backward and bumped together, and Unc's head joggled the shelf above them and upset the bottle containing the Liquid of Petrifaction. The Magician uttered such a wild cry that Ojo jumped away and the Patchwork Girl sprang after him and clasped her stuffed arms around him in terror. The Glass Cat snarled and hid under the table, and so it was that when the powerful Liquid of Petrifaction was spilled it fell only upon the wife of the Magician and the uncle of Ojo. With these two the charm worked promptly. They stood motionless and stiff as marble statues, in exactly the positions they were in when the Liquid struck them. Ojo pushed the Patchwork Girl away and ran to Unc Nunkie, filled with a terrible fear for the only friend and protector he had ever known. When he grasped Unc's hand it was cold and hard. Even the long gray beard was solid marble. The Crooked Magician was dancing around the room in a frenzy of despair, calling upon his wife to forgive him, to speak to him, to come to life again! The Patchwork Girl, quickly recovering from her fright, now came nearer and looked from one to another of the people with deep interest. Then she looked at herself and laughed. Noticing the mirror, she stood before it and examined her extraordinary features with amazement--her button eyes, pearl bead teeth and puffy nose. Then, addressing her reflection in the glass, she exclaimed: "Whee, but there's a gaudy dame! Makes a paint-box blush with shame. Razzle-dazzle, fizzle-fazzle! Howdy-do, Miss What's-your-name?" She bowed, and the reflection bowed. Then she laughed again, long and merrily, and the Glass Cat crept out from under the table and said: "I don't blame you for laughing at yourself. Aren't you horrid?" "Horrid?" she replied. "Why, I'm thoroughly delightful. I'm an Original, if you please, and therefore incomparable. Of all the comic, absurd, rare and amusing creatures the world contains, I must be the supreme freak. Who but poor Margolotte could have managed to invent such an unreasonable being as I? But I'm glad--I'm awfully glad!--that I'm just what I am, and nothing else." "Be quiet, will you?" cried the frantic Magician; "be quiet and let me think! If I don't think I shall go mad." "Think ahead," said the Patchwork Girl, seating herself in a chair. "Think all you want to. I don't mind." "Gee! but I'm tired playing that tune," called the phonograph, speaking through its horn in a brazen, scratchy voice. "If you don't mind, Pipt, old boy, I'll cut it out and take a rest." The Magician looked gloomily at the music-machine. "What dreadful luck!" he wailed, despondently. "The Powder of Life must have fallen on the phonograph." He went up to it and found that the gold bottle that contained the precious powder had dropped upon the stand and scattered its life-giving grains over the machine. The phonograph was very much alive, and began dancing a jig with the legs of the table to which it was attached, and this dance so annoyed Dr. Pipt that he kicked the thing into a corner and pushed a bench against it, to hold it quiet. "You were bad enough before," said the Magician, resentfully; "but a live phonograph is enough to drive every sane person in the Land of Oz stark crazy." [Illustration] "No insults, please," answered the phonograph in a surly tone. "You did it, my boy; don't blame me." "You've bungled everything, Dr. Pipt," added the Glass Cat, contemptuously. "Except me," said the Patchwork Girl, jumping up to whirl merrily around the room. "I think," said Ojo, almost ready to cry through grief over Unc Nunkie's sad fate, "it must all be my fault, in some way. I'm called Ojo the Unlucky, you know." "That's nonsense, kiddie," retorted the Patchwork Girl cheerfully. "No one can be unlucky who has the intelligence to direct his own actions. The unlucky ones are those who beg for a chance to think, like poor Dr. Pipt here. What's the row about, anyway, Mr. Magic-maker?" "The Liquid of Petrifaction has accidentally fallen upon my dear wife and Unc Nunkie and turned them into marble," he sadly replied. "Well, why don't you sprinkle some of that powder on them and bring them to life again?" asked the Patchwork Girl. The Magician gave a jump. "Why, I hadn't thought of that!" he joyfully cried, and grabbed up the golden bottle, with which he ran to Margolotte. Said the Patchwork Girl: "Higgledy, piggledy, dee-- What fools magicians be! His head's so thick He can't think quick, So he takes advice from me." Standing upon the bench, for he was so crooked he could not reach the top of his wife's head in any other way, Dr. Pipt began shaking the bottle. But not a grain of powder came out. He pulled off the cover, glanced within, and then threw the bottle from him with a wail of despair. "Gone--gone! Every bit gone," he cried. "Wasted on that miserable phonograph when it might have saved my dear wife!" Then the Magician bowed his head on his crooked arms and began to cry. Ojo was sorry for him. He went up to the sorrowful man and said softly: "You can make more Powder of Life, Dr. Pipt." "Yes; but it will take me six years--six long, weary years of stirring four kettles with both feet and both hands," was the agonized reply. "Six years! while poor Margolotte stands watching me as a marble image." "Can't anything else be done?" asked the Patchwork Girl. The Magician shook his head. Then he seemed to remember something and looked up. "There is one other compound that would destroy the magic spell of the Liquid of Petrifaction and restore my wife and Unc Nunkie to life," said he. "It may be hard to find the things I need to make this magic compound, but if they were found I could do in an instant what will otherwise take six long, weary years of stirring kettles with both hands and both feet." "All right; let's find the things, then," suggested the Patchwork Girl. "That seems a lot more sensible than those stirring times with the kettles." "That's the idea, Scraps," said the Glass Cat, approvingly. "I'm glad to find you have decent brains. Mine are exceptionally good. You can see 'em work; they're pink." "Scraps?" repeated the girl. "Did you call me 'Scraps'? Is that my name?" "I--I believe my poor wife had intended to name you 'Angeline,'" said the Magician. "But I like 'Scraps' best," she replied with a laugh. "It fits me better, for my patchwork is all scraps, and nothing else. Thank you for naming me, Miss Cat. Have you any name of your own?" "I have a foolish name that Margolotte once gave me, but which is quite undignified for one of my importance," answered the cat. "She called me 'Bungle.'" "Yes," sighed the Magician; "you were a sad bungle, taken all in all. I was wrong to make you as I did, for a more useless, conceited and brittle thing never before existed." "I'm not so brittle as you think," retorted the cat. "I've been alive a good many years, for Dr. Pipt experimented on me with the first magic Powder of Life he ever made, and so far I've never broken or cracked or chipped any part of me." "You seem to have a chip on your shoulder," laughed the Patchwork Girl, and the cat went to the mirror to see. "Tell me," pleaded Ojo, speaking to the Crooked Magician, "what must we find to make the compound that will save Unc Nunkie?" "First," was the reply, "I must have a six-leaved clover. That can only be found in the green country around the Emerald City, and six-leaved clovers are very scarce, even there." "I'll find it for you," promised Ojo. "The next thing," continued the Magician, "is the left wing of a yellow butterfly. That color can only be found in the yellow country of the Winkies, West of the Emerald City." "I'll find it," declared Ojo. "Is that all?" "Oh, no; I'll get my Book of Recipes and see what comes next." Saying this, the Magician unlocked a drawer of his cabinet and drew out a small book covered with blue leather. Looking through the pages he found the recipe he wanted and said: "I must have a gill of water from a dark well." "What kind of a well is that, sir?" asked the boy. "One where the light of day never penetrates. The water must be put in a gold bottle and brought to me without any light ever reaching it." "I'll get the water from the dark well," said Ojo. "Then I must have three hairs from the tip of a Woozy's tail, and a drop of oil from a live man's body." Ojo looked grave at this. "What is a Woozy, please?" he inquired. "Some sort of an animal. I've never seen one, so I can't describe it," replied the Magician. "If I can find a Woozy, I'll get the hairs from its tail," said Ojo. "But is there ever any oil in a man's body?" The Magician looked in the book again, to make sure. "That's what the recipe calls for," he replied, "and of course we must get everything that is called for, or the charm won't work. The book doesn't say 'blood'; it says 'oil,' and there must be oil somewhere in a live man's body or the book wouldn't ask for it." "All right," returned Ojo, trying not to feel discouraged; "I'll try to find it." The Magician looked at the little Munchkin boy in a doubtful way and said: "All this will mean a long journey for you; perhaps several long journeys; for you must search through several of the different countries of Oz in order to get the things I need." "I know it, sir; but I must do my best to save Unc Nunkie." "And also my poor wife Margolotte. If you save one you will save the other, for both stand there together and the same compound will restore them both to life. Do the best you can, Ojo, and while you are gone I shall begin the six years' job of making a new batch of the Powder of Life. Then, if you should unluckily fail to secure any one of the things needed, I will have lost no time. But if you succeed you must return here as quickly as you can, and that will save me much tiresome stirring of four kettles with both feet and both hands." "I will start on my journey at once, sir," said the boy. "And I will go with you," declared the Patchwork Girl. "No, no!" exclaimed the Magician. "You have no right to leave this house. You are only a servant and have not been discharged." Scraps, who had been dancing up and down the room, stopped and looked at him. "What is a servant?" she asked. "One who serves. A--a sort of slave," he explained. "Very well," said the Patchwork Girl, "I'm going to serve you and your wife by helping Ojo find the things you need. You need a lot, you know, such as are not easily found." "It is true," sighed Dr. Pipt. "I am well aware that Ojo has undertaken a serious task." Scraps laughed, and resuming her dance she said: "Here's a job for a boy of brains: A drop of oil from a live man's veins; A six-leaved clover; three nice hairs From a Woozy's tail, the book declares Are needed for the magic spell, And water from a pitch-dark well. The yellow wing of a butterfly To find must Ojo also try, And if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; But if he doesn't get 'em, Unc Will always stand a marble chunk." The Magician looked at her thoughtfully. "Poor Margolotte must have given you some of the quality of poesy, by mistake," he said. "And, if that is true, I didn't make a very good article when I prepared it, or else you got an overdose or an underdose. However, I believe I shall let you go with Ojo, for my poor wife will not need your services until she is restored to life. Also I think you may be able to help the boy, for your head seems to contain some thoughts I did not expect to find in it. But be very careful of yourself, for you're a souvenir of my dear Margolotte. Try not to get ripped, or your stuffing may fall out. One of your eyes seems loose, and you may have to sew it on tighter. If you talk too much you'll wear out your scarlet plush tongue, which ought to have been hemmed on the edges. And remember you belong to me and must return here as soon as your mission is accomplished." "I'm going with Scraps and Ojo," announced the Glass Cat. "You can't," said the Magician. "Why not?" "You'd get broken in no time, and you couldn't be a bit of use to the boy and the Patchwork Girl." "I beg to differ with you," returned the cat, in a haughty tone. "Three heads are better than two, and my pink brains are beautiful. You can see 'em work." "Well, go along," said the Magician, irritably. "You're only an annoyance, anyhow, and I'm glad to get rid of you." "Thank you for nothing, then," answered the cat, stiffly. Dr. Pipt took a small basket from a cupboard and packed several things in it. Then he handed it to Ojo. "Here is some food and a bundle of charms," he said. "It is all I can give you, but I am sure you will find friends on your journey who will assist you in your search. Take care of the Patchwork Girl and bring her safely back, for she ought to prove useful to my wife. As for the Glass Cat--properly named Bungle--if she bothers you I now give you my permission to break her in two, for she is not respectful and does not obey me. I made a mistake in giving her the pink brains, you see." Then Ojo went to Unc Nunkie and kissed the old man's marble face very tenderly. "I'm going to try to save you, Unc," he said, just as if the marble image could hear him; and then he shook the crooked hand of the Crooked Magician, who was already busy hanging the four kettles in the fireplace, and picking up his basket left the house. The Patchwork Girl followed him, and after them came the Glass Cat. THE JOURNEY CHAP. SIX [Illustration] Ojo had never traveled before and so he only knew that the path down the mountainside led into the open Munchkin Country, where large numbers of people dwelt. Scraps was quite new and not supposed to know anything of the Land of Oz, while the Glass Cat admitted she had never wandered very far away from the Magician's house. There was only one path before them, at the beginning, so they could not miss their way, and for a time they walked through the thick forest in silent thought, each one impressed with the importance of the adventure they had undertaken. Suddenly the Patchwork Girl laughed. It was funny to see her laugh, because her cheeks wrinkled up, her nose tipped, her silver button eyes twinkled and her mouth curled at the corners in a comical way. "Has something pleased you?" asked Ojo, who was feeling solemn and joyless through thinking upon his uncle's sad fate. "Yes," she answered. "Your world pleases me, for it's a queer world, and life in it is queerer still. Here am I, made from an old bed-quilt and intended to be a slave to Margolotte, rendered free as air by an accident that none of you could foresee. I am enjoying life and seeing the world, while the woman who made me is standing helpless as a block of wood. If that isn't funny enough to laugh at, I don't know what is." "You're not seeing much of the world yet, my poor, innocent Scraps," remarked the Cat. "The world doesn't consist wholly of the trees that are on all sides of us." "But they're part of it; and aren't they pretty trees?" returned Scraps, bobbing her head until her brown yarn curls fluttered in the breeze. "Growing between them I can see lovely ferns and wild-flowers, and soft green mosses. If the rest of your world is half as beautiful I shall be glad I'm alive." "I don't know what the rest of the world is like, I'm sure," said the cat; "but I mean to find out." "I have never been out of the forest," Ojo added; "but to me the trees are gloomy and sad and the wild-flowers seem lonesome. It must be nicer where there are no trees and there is room for lots of people to live together." "I wonder if any of the people we shall meet will be as splendid as I am," said the Patchwork Girl. "All I have seen, so far, have pale, colorless skins and clothes as blue as the country they live in, while I am of many gorgeous colors--face and body and clothes. That is why I am bright and contented, Ojo, while you are blue and sad." "I think I made a mistake in giving you so many sorts of brains," observed the boy. "Perhaps, as the Magician said, you have an overdose, and they may not agree with you." "What had you to do with my brains?" asked Scraps. "A lot," replied Ojo. "Old Margolotte meant to give you only a few--just enough to keep you going--but when she wasn't looking I added a good many more, of the best kinds I could find in the Magician's cupboard." "Thanks," said the girl, dancing along the path ahead of Ojo and then dancing back to his side. "If a few brains are good, many brains must be better." "But they ought to be evenly balanced," said the boy, "and I had no time to be careful. From the way you're acting, I guess the dose was badly mixed." "Scraps hasn't enough brains to hurt her, so don't worry," remarked the cat, which was trotting along in a very dainty and graceful manner. "The only brains worth considering are mine, which are pink. You can see 'em work." After walking a long time they came to a little brook that trickled across the path, and here Ojo sat down to rest and eat something from his basket. He found that the Magician had given him part of a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese. He broke off some of the bread and was surprised to find the loaf just as large as it was before. It was the same way with the cheese: however much he broke off from the slice, it remained exactly the same size. "Ah," said he, nodding wisely; "that's magic. Dr. Pipt has enchanted the bread and the cheese, so it will last me all through my journey, however much I eat." "Why do you put those things into your mouth?" asked Scraps, gazing at him in astonishment. "Do you need more stuffing? Then why don't you use cotton, such as I am stuffed with?" "I don't need that kind," said Ojo. "But a mouth is to talk with, isn't it?" "It is also to eat with," replied the boy. "If I didn't put food into my mouth, and eat it, I would get hungry and starve." "Ah, I didn't know that," she said. "Give me some." Ojo handed her a bit of the bread and she put it in her mouth. "What next?" she asked, scarcely able to speak. "Chew it and swallow it," said the boy. Scraps tried that. Her pearl teeth were unable to chew the bread and beyond her mouth there was no opening. Being unable to swallow she threw away the bread and laughed. "I must get hungry and starve, for I can't eat," she said. [Illustration] "Neither can I," announced the cat; "but I'm not fool enough to try. Can't you understand that you and I are superior people and not made like these poor humans?" "Why should I understand that, or anything else?" asked the girl. "Don't bother my head by asking conundrums, I beg of you. Just let me discover myself in my own way." With this she began amusing herself by leaping across the brook and back again. "Be careful, or you'll fall in the water," warned Ojo. "Never mind." "You'd better. If you get wet you'll be soggy and can't walk. Your colors might run, too," he said. "Don't my colors run whenever I run?" she asked. "Not in the way I mean. If they get wet, the reds and greens and yellows and purples of your patches might run into each other and become just a blur--no color at all, you know." "Then," said the Patchwork Girl, "I'll be careful, for if I spoiled my splendid colors I would cease to be beautiful." "Pah!" sneered the Glass Cat, "such colors are not beautiful; they're ugly, and in bad taste. Please notice that my body has no color at all. I'm transparent, except for my exquisite red heart and my lovely pink brains--you can see 'em work." "Shoo--shoo--shoo!" cried Scraps, dancing around and laughing. "And your horrid green eyes, Miss Bungle! You can't see your eyes, but we can, and I notice you're very proud of what little color you have. Shoo, Miss Bungle, shoo--shoo--shoo! If you were all colors and many colors, as I am, you'd be too stuck up for anything." She leaped over the cat and back again, and the startled Bungle crept close to a tree to escape her. This made Scraps laugh more heartily than ever, and she said: "Whoop-te-doodle-doo! The cat has lost her shoe. Her tootsie's bare, but she don't care, So what's the odds to you?" "Dear me, Ojo," said the cat; "don't you think the creature is a little bit crazy?" "It may be," he answered, with a puzzled look. "If she continues her insults I'll scratch off her suspender-button eyes," declared the cat. "Don't quarrel, please," pleaded the boy, rising to resume the journey. "Let us be good comrades and as happy and cheerful as possible, for we are likely to meet with plenty of trouble on our way." It was nearly sundown when they came to the edge of the forest and saw spread out before them a delightful landscape. There were broad blue fields stretching for miles over the valley, which was dotted everywhere with pretty, blue domed houses, none of which, however, was very near to the place where they stood. Just at the point where the path left the forest stood a tiny house covered with leaves from the trees, and before this stood a Munchkin man with an axe in his hand. He seemed very much surprised when Ojo and Scraps and the Glass Cat came out of the woods, but as the Patchwork Girl approached nearer he sat down upon a bench and laughed so hard that he could not speak for a long time. This man was a woodchopper and lived all alone in the little house. He had bushy blue whiskers and merry blue eyes and his blue clothes were quite old and worn. "Mercy me!" exclaimed the woodchopper, when at last he could stop laughing. "Who would think such a funny harlequin lived in the Land of Oz? Where did you come from, Crazy-quilt?" "Do you mean me?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Of course," he replied. "You misjudge my ancestry. I'm not a crazy-quilt; I'm patchwork," she said. "There's no difference," he replied, beginning to laugh again. "When my old grandmother sews such things together she calls it a crazy-quilt; but I never thought such a jumble could come to life." "It was the Magic Powder that did it," explained Ojo. "Oh, then you have come from the Crooked Magician on the mountain. I might have known it, for--Well, I declare! here's a glass cat. But the Magician will get in trouble for this; it's against the law for anyone to work magic except Glinda the Good and the royal Wizard of Oz. If you people--or things--or glass spectacles--or crazy-quilts--or whatever you are, go near the Emerald City, you'll be arrested." "We're going there, anyhow," declared Scraps, sitting upon the bench and swinging her stuffed legs. "If any of us takes a rest, We'll be arrested sure, And get no restitution 'Cause the rest we must endure." "I see," said the woodchopper, nodding; "you're as crazy as the crazy-quilt you're made of." "She really _is_ crazy," remarked the Glass Cat. "But that isn't to be wondered at when you remember how many different things she's made of. For my part, I'm made of pure glass--except my jewel heart and my pretty pink brains. Did you notice my brains, stranger? You can see 'em work." "So I can," replied the woodchopper; "but I can't see that they accomplish much. A glass cat is a useless sort of thing, but a Patchwork Girl is really useful. She makes me laugh, and laughter is the best thing in life. There was once a woodchopper, a friend of mine, who was made all of tin, and I used to laugh every time I saw him." "A tin woodchopper?" said Ojo. "That is strange." "My friend wasn't always tin," said the man, "but he was careless with his axe, and used to chop himself very badly. Whenever he lost an arm or a leg he had it replaced with tin; so after a while he was all tin." "And could he chop wood then?" asked the boy. "He could if he didn't rust his tin joints. But one day he met Dorothy in the forest and went with her to the Emerald City, where he made his fortune. He is now one of the favorites of Princess Ozma, and she has made him the Emperor of the Winkies--the Country where all is yellow." "Who is Dorothy?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "A little maid who used to live in Kansas, but is now a Princess of Oz. She's Ozma's best friend, they say, and lives with her in the royal palace." "Is Dorothy made of tin?" inquired Ojo. "Is she patchwork, like me?" inquired Scraps. "No," said the man; "Dorothy is flesh, just as I am. I know of only one tin person, and that is Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman; and there will never be but one Patchwork Girl, for any magician that sees you will refuse to make another one like you." "I suppose we shall see the Tin Woodman, for we are going to the Country of the Winkies," said the boy. "What for?" asked the woodchopper. "To get the left wing of a yellow butterfly." "It is a long journey," declared the man, "and you will go through lonely parts of Oz and cross rivers and traverse dark forests before you get there." "Suits me all right," said Scraps. "I'll get a chance to see the country." "You're crazy, girl. Better crawl into a rag-bag and hide there; or give yourself to some little girl to play with. Those who travel are likely to meet trouble; that's why I stay at home." [Illustration] The woodchopper then invited them all to stay the night at his little hut, but they were anxious to get on and so left him and continued along the path, which was broader, now, and more distinct. They expected to reach some other house before it grew dark, but the twilight was brief and Ojo soon began to fear they had made a mistake in leaving the woodchopper. "I can scarcely see the path," he said at last. "Can you see it, Scraps?" "No," replied the Patchwork Girl, who was holding fast to the boy's arm so he could guide her. "I can see," declared the Glass Cat. "My eyes are better than yours, and my pink brains--" "Never mind your pink brains, please," said Ojo hastily; "just run ahead and show us the way. Wait a minute and I'll tie a string to you; for then you can lead us." He got a string from his pocket and tied it around the cat's neck, and after that the creature guided them along the path. They had proceeded in this way for about an hour when a twinkling blue light appeared ahead of them. "Good! there's a house at last," cried Ojo. "When we reach it the good people will surely welcome us and give us a night's lodging." But however far they walked the light seemed to get no nearer, so by and by the cat stopped short, saying: "I think the light is traveling, too, and we shall never be able to catch up with it. But here is a house by the roadside, so why go farther?" "Where is the house, Bungle?" "Just here beside us, Scraps." Ojo was now able to see a small house near the pathway. It was dark and silent, but the boy was tired and wanted to rest, so he went up to the door and knocked. "Who is there?" cried a voice from within. "I am Ojo the Unlucky, and with me are Miss Scraps Patchwork and the Glass Cat," he replied. "What do you want?" asked the Voice. "A place to sleep," said Ojo. "Come in, then; but don't make any noise, and you must go directly to bed," returned the Voice. Ojo unlatched the door and entered. It was very dark inside and he could see nothing at all. But the cat exclaimed: "Why, there's no one here!" "There must be," said the boy. "Some one spoke to me." "I can see everything in the room," replied the cat, "and no one is present but ourselves. But here are three beds, all made up, so we may as well go to sleep." "What is sleep?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "It's what you do when you go to bed," said Ojo. "But why do you go to bed?" persisted the Patchwork Girl. "Here, here! You are making altogether too much noise," cried the Voice they had heard before. "Keep quiet, strangers, and go to bed." The cat, which could see in the dark, looked sharply around for the owner of the Voice, but could discover no one, although the Voice had seemed close beside them. She arched her back a little and seemed afraid. Then she whispered to Ojo: "Come!" and led him to a bed. With his hands the boy felt of the bed and found it was big and soft, with feather pillows and plenty of blankets. So he took off his shoes and hat and crept into the bed. Then the cat led Scraps to another bed and the Patchwork Girl was puzzled to know what to do with it. "Lie down and keep quiet," whispered the cat, warningly. "Can't I sing?" asked Scraps. "No." "Can't I whistle?" asked Scraps. "No." "Can't I dance till morning, if I want to?" asked Scraps. "You must keep quiet," said the cat, in a soft voice. "I don't want to," replied the Patchwork Girl, speaking as loudly as usual. "What right have you to order me around? If I want to talk, or yell, or whistle--" Before she could say anything more an unseen hand seized her firmly and threw her out of the door, which closed behind her with a sharp slam. She found herself bumping and rolling in the road and when she got up and tried to open the door of the house again she found it locked. "What has happened to Scraps?" asked Ojo. "Never mind. Let's go to sleep, or something will happen to us," answered the Glass Cat. So Ojo snuggled down in his bed and fell asleep, and he was so tired that he never wakened until broad daylight. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE TROUBLESOME PHONOGRAPH CHAP. 7 [Illustration] When the boy opened his eyes next morning he looked carefully around the room. These small Munchkin houses seldom had more than one room in them. That in which Ojo now found himself had three beds, set all in a row on one side of it. The Glass Cat lay asleep on one bed, Ojo was in the second, and the third was neatly made up and smoothed for the day. On the other side of the room was a round table on which breakfast was already placed, smoking hot. Only one chair was drawn up to the table, where a place was set for one person. No one seemed to be in the room except the boy and Bungle. Ojo got up and put on his shoes. Finding a toilet stand at the head of his bed he washed his face and hands and brushed his hair. Then he went to the table and said: "I wonder if this is my breakfast?" "Eat it!" commanded a Voice at his side, so near that Ojo jumped. But no person could he see. He was hungry, and the breakfast looked good; so he sat down and ate all he wanted. Then, rising, he took his hat and wakened the Glass Cat. "Come on, Bungle," said he; "we must go." He cast another glance about the room and, speaking to the air, he said: "Whoever lives here has been kind to me, and I'm much obliged." There was no answer, so he took his basket and went out the door, the cat following him. In the middle of the path sat the Patchwork Girl, playing with pebbles she had picked up. "Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I thought you were never coming out. It has been daylight a long time." "What did you do all night?" asked the boy. "Sat here and watched the stars and the moon," she replied. "They're interesting. I never saw them before, you know." "Of course not," said Ojo. "You were crazy to act so badly and get thrown outdoors," remarked Bungle, as they renewed their journey. "That's all right," said Scraps. "If I hadn't been thrown out I wouldn't have seen the stars, nor the big gray wolf." "What wolf?" inquired Ojo. "The one that came to the door of the house three times during the night." "I don't see why that should be," said the boy, thoughtfully; "there was plenty to eat in that house, for I had a fine breakfast, and I slept in a nice bed." "Don't you feel tired?" asked the Patchwork Girl, noticing that the boy yawned. "Why, yes; I'm as tired as I was last night; and yet I slept very well." "And aren't you hungry?" "It's strange," replied Ojo. "I had a good breakfast, and yet I think I'll now eat some of my crackers and cheese." Scraps danced up and down the path. Then she sang: "Kizzle-kazzle-kore; The wolf is at the door, There's nothing to eat but a bone without meat, And a bill from the grocery store." "What does that mean?" asked Ojo. "Don't ask me," replied Scraps. "I say what comes into my head, but of course I know nothing of a grocery store or bones without meat or--very much else." "No," said the cat; "she's stark, staring, raving crazy, and her brains can't be pink, for they don't work properly." "Bother the brains!" cried Scraps. "Who cares for 'em, anyhow? Have you noticed how beautiful my patches are in this sunlight?" Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps pattering along the path behind them and all three turned to see what was coming. To their astonishment they beheld a small round table running as fast as its four spindle legs could carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a phonograph with a big gold horn. [Illustration] "Hold on!" shouted the phonograph. "Wait for me!" "Goodness me; it's that music thing which the Crooked Magician scattered the Powder of Life over," said Ojo. "So it is," returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of voice; and then, as the phonograph overtook them, the Glass Cat added sternly: "What are you doing here, anyhow?" "I've run away," said the music thing. "After you left, old Dr. Pipt and I had a dreadful quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces if I didn't keep quiet. Of course I wouldn't do that, because a talking-machine is supposed to talk and make a noise--and sometimes music. So I slipped out of the house while the Magician was stirring his four kettles and I've been running after you all night. Now that I've found such pleasant company, I can talk and play tunes all I want to." Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their party. At first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought decided him not to make friends. "We are traveling on important business," he declared, "and you'll excuse me if I say we can't be bothered." "How very impolite!" exclaimed the phonograph. "I'm sorry; but it's true," said the boy. "You'll have to go somewhere else." "This is very unkind treatment, I must say," whined the phonograph, in an injured tone. "Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended to amuse people." "It isn't you we hate, especially," observed the Glass Cat; "it's your dreadful music. When I lived in the same room with you I was much annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and grumbles and clicks and scratches so it spoils the music, and your machinery rumbles so that the racket drowns every tune you attempt." "That isn't my fault; it's the fault of my records. I must admit that I haven't a clear record," answered the machine. "Just the same, you'll have to go away," said Ojo. "Wait a minute," cried Scraps. "This music thing interests me. I remember to have heard music when I first came to life, and I would like to hear it again. What is your name, my poor abused phonograph?" "Victor Columbia Edison," it answered. "Well, I shall call you 'Vic' for short," said the Patchwork Girl. "Go ahead and play something." "It'll drive you crazy," warned the cat. "I'm crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel out the music, Vic." "The only record I have with me," explained the phonograph, "is one the Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It's a highly classical composition." "A what?" inquired Scraps. "It is classical music, and is considered the best and most puzzling ever manufactured. You're supposed to like it, whether you do or not, and if you don't, the proper thing is to look as if you did. Understand?" "Not in the least," said Scraps. "Then, listen!" At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and Scraps began to laugh. "Cut it out, Vic," she said. "That's enough." But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo seized the crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However, the moment the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine again and began winding it up. And still the music played. "Let's run!" cried Scraps, and they all started and ran down the path as fast as they could go. But the phonograph was right behind them and could run and play at the same time. It called out, reproachfully: "What's the matter? Don't you love classical music?" "No, Vic," said Scraps, halting. "We will passical the classical and preserve what joy we have left. I haven't any nerves, thank goodness, but your music makes my cotton shrink." "Then turn over my record. There's a rag-time tune on the other side," said the machine. "What's rag-time?" "The opposite of classical." "All right," said Scraps, and turned over the record. The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble of sounds which proved so bewildering that after a moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron into the gold horn and cried: "Stop--stop! That's the other extreme. It's extremely bad!" Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on. "If you don't shut off that music I'll smash your record," threatened Ojo. The music stopped, at that, and the machine turned its horn from one to another and said with great indignation: "What's the matter now? Is it possible you can't appreciate rag-time?" "Scraps ought to, being rags herself," said the cat; "but I simply can't stand it; it makes my whiskers curl." "It is, indeed, dreadful!" exclaimed Ojo, with a shudder. "It's enough to drive a crazy lady mad," murmured the Patchwork Girl. "I'll tell you what, Vic," she added as she smoothed out her apron and put it on again, "for some reason or other you've missed your guess. You're not a concert; you're a nuisance." "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," asserted the phonograph sadly. "Then we're not savages. I advise you to go home and beg the Magician's pardon." "Never! He'd smash me." "That's what we shall do, if you stay here," Ojo declared. "Run along, Vic, and bother some one else," advised Scraps. "Find some one who is real wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In that way you can do some good in the world." The music thing turned silently away and trotted down a side path, toward a distant Munchkin village. "Is that the way _we_ go?" asked Bungle anxiously. "No," said Ojo; "I think we shall keep straight ahead, for this path is the widest and best. When we come to some house we will inquire the way to the Emerald City." THE FOOLISH OWL AND THE WISE DONKEY CHAP. 8 [Illustration] On they went, and half an hour's steady walking brought them to a house somewhat better than the two they had already passed. It stood close to the roadside and over the door was a sign that read: "Miss Foolish Owl and Mr. Wise Donkey: Public Advisers." When Ojo read this sign aloud Scraps said laughingly: "Well, here is a place to get all the advice we want, maybe more than we need. Let's go in." The boy knocked at the door. "Come in!" called a deep bass voice. So they opened the door and entered the house, where a little light-brown donkey, dressed in a blue apron and a blue cap, was engaged in dusting the furniture with a blue cloth. On a shelf over the window sat a great blue owl with a blue sunbonnet on her head, blinking her big round eyes at the visitors. "Good morning," said the donkey, in his deep voice, which seemed bigger than he was. "Did you come to us for advice?" "Why, we came, anyhow," replied Scraps, "and now we are here we may as well have some advice. It's free, isn't it? "Certainly," said the donkey. "Advice doesn't cost anything--unless you follow it. Permit me to say, by the way, that you are the queerest lot of travelers that ever came to my shop. Judging you merely by appearances, I think you'd better talk to the Foolish Owl yonder." They turned to look at the bird, which fluttered its wings and stared back at them with its big eyes. "Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot!" cried the owl. "Fiddle-cum-foo, Howdy--do? Riddle-cum, tiddle-cum, Too-ra-la-loo!" "That beats your poetry, Scraps," said Ojo. "It's just nonsense!" declared the Glass Cat. "But it's good advice for the foolish," said the donkey, admiringly. "Listen to my partner, and you can't go wrong." Said the owl in a grumbling voice: "Patchwork Girl has come to life; No one's sweetheart, no one's wife; Lacking sense and loving fun, She'll be snubbed by everyone." "Quite a compliment! Quite a compliment, I declare," exclaimed the donkey, turning to look at Scraps. "You are certainly a wonder, my dear, and I fancy you'd make a splendid pincushion. If you belonged to me, I'd wear smoked glasses when I looked at you." "Why?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Because you are so gay and gaudy." "It is my beauty that dazzles you," she asserted. "You Munchkin people all strut around in your stupid blue color, while I--" "You are wrong in calling me a Munchkin," interrupted the donkey, "for I was born in the Land of Mo and came to visit the Land of Oz on the day it was shut off from all the rest of the world. So here I am obliged to stay, and I confess it is a very pleasant country to live in." "Hoot-ti-toot!" cried the owl; "Ojo's searching for a charm, 'Cause Unc Nunkie's come to harm. Charms are scarce; they're hard to get; Ojo's got a job, you bet!" "Is the owl so very foolish?" asked the boy. "Extremely so," replied the donkey. "Notice what vulgar expressions she uses. But I admire the owl for the reason that she _is_ positively foolish. Owls are supposed to be so very wise, generally, that a foolish one is unusual, and you perhaps know that anything or anyone unusual is sure to be interesting to the wise." The owl flapped its wings again, muttering these words: "It's hard to be a glassy cat-- No cat can be more hard than that; She's so transparent, every act Is clear to us, and that's a fact." "Have you noticed my pink brains?" inquired Bungle, proudly. "You can see 'em work." "Not in the daytime," said the donkey. "She can't see very well by day, poor thing. But her advice is excellent. I advise you all to follow it." "The owl hasn't given us any advice, as yet," the boy declared. "No? Then what do you call all those sweet poems?" "Just foolishness," replied Ojo. "Scraps does the same thing." "Foolishness! Of course! To be sure! The Foolish Owl must be foolish or she wouldn't be the Foolish Owl. You are very complimentary to my partner, indeed," asserted the donkey, rubbing his front hoofs together as if highly pleased. [Illustration] "The sign says that _you_ are wise," remarked Scraps to the donkey. "I wish you would prove it." "With great pleasure," returned the beast. "Put me to the test, my dear Patches, and I'll prove my wisdom in the wink of an eye." "What is the best way to get to the Emerald City?" asked Ojo. "Walk," said the donkey. "I know; but what road shall I take?" was the boy's next question. "The road of yellow bricks, of course. It leads directly to the Emerald City." "And how shall we find the road of yellow bricks?" "By keeping along the path you have been following. You'll come to the yellow bricks pretty soon, and you'll know them when you see them because they're the only yellow things in the blue country." "Thank you," said the boy. "At last you have told me something." "Is that the extent of your wisdom?" asked Scraps. "No," replied the donkey; "I know many other things, but they wouldn't interest you. So I'll give you a last word of advice: move on, for the sooner you do that the sooner you'll get to the Emerald City of Oz." "Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot-ti-too!" screeched the owl; "Off you go! fast or slow, Where you're going you don't know. Patches, Bungle, Munchkin lad, Facing fortunes good and bad, Meeting dangers grave and sad, Sometimes worried, sometimes glad-- Where you're going you don't know, Nor do I, but off you go!" "Sounds like a hint, to me," said the Patchwork Girl. "Then let's take it and go," replied Ojo. They said good-bye to the Wise Donkey and the Foolish Owl and at once resumed their journey. [Illustration] [Illustration] THEY MEET THE WOOZY CHAP. NINE [Illustration] "There seem to be very few houses around here, after all," remarked Ojo, after they had walked for a time in silence. "Never mind," said Scraps; "we are not looking for houses, but rather the road of yellow bricks. Won't it be funny to run across something yellow in this dismal blue country?" "There are worse colors than yellow in this country," asserted the Glass Cat, in a spiteful tone. "Oh; do you mean the pink pebbles you call your brains, and your red heart and green eyes?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "No; I mean you, if you must know it," growled the cat. "You're jealous!" laughed Scraps. "You'd give your whiskers for a lovely variegated complexion like mine." "I wouldn't!" retorted the cat. "I've the clearest complexion in the world, and I don't employ a beauty-doctor, either." "I see you don't," said Scraps. "Please don't quarrel," begged Ojo. "This is an important journey, and quarreling makes me discouraged. To be brave, one must be cheerful, so I hope you will be as good-tempered as possible." They had traveled some distance when suddenly they faced a high fence which barred any further progress straight ahead. It ran directly across the road and enclosed a small forest of tall trees, set close together. When the group of adventurers peered through the bars of the fence they thought this forest looked more gloomy and forbidding than any they had ever seen before. They soon discovered that the path they had been following now made a bend and passed around the enclosure, but what made Ojo stop and look thoughtful was a sign painted on the fence which read: "BEWARE OF THE WOOZY!" "That means," he said, "that there's a Woozy inside that fence, and the Woozy must be a dangerous animal or they wouldn't tell people to beware of it." "Let's keep out, then," replied Scraps. "That path is outside the fence, and Mr. Woozy may have all his little forest to himself, for all we care." "But one of our errands is to find a Woozy," Ojo explained. "The Magician wants me to get three hairs from the end of a Woozy's tail." "Let's go on and find some other Woozy," suggested the cat. "This one is ugly and dangerous, or they wouldn't cage him up. Maybe we shall find another that is tame and gentle." "Perhaps there isn't any other, at all," answered Ojo. "The sign doesn't say: 'Beware _a_ Woozy'; it says: 'Beware _the_ Woozy,' which may mean there's only one in all the Land of Oz." "Then," said Scraps, "suppose we go in and find him? Very likely if we ask him politely to let us pull three hairs out of the tip of his tail he won't hurt us." "It would hurt _him_, I'm sure, and that would make him cross," said the cat. "You needn't worry, Bungle," remarked the Patchwork Girl; "for if there is danger you can climb a tree. Ojo and I are not afraid; are we, Ojo?" "I am, a little," the boy admitted; "but this danger must be faced, if we intend to save poor Unc Nunkie. How shall we get over the fence?" "Climb," answered Scraps, and at once she began climbing up the rows of bars. Ojo followed and found it more easy than he had expected. When they got to the top of the fence they began to get down on the other side and soon were in the forest. The Glass Cat, being small, crept between the lower bars and joined them. Here there was no path of any sort, so they entered the woods, the boy leading the way, and wandered through the trees until they were nearly in the center of the forest. They now came upon a clear space in which stood a rocky cave. So far they had met no living creature, but when Ojo saw the cave he knew it must be the den of the Woozy. It is hard to face any savage beast without a sinking of the heart, but still more terrifying is it to face an unknown beast, which you have never seen even a picture of. So there is little wonder that the pulses of the Munchkin boy beat fast as he and his companions stood facing the cave. The opening was perfectly square, and about big enough to admit a goat. "I guess the Woozy is asleep," said Scraps. "Shall I throw in a stone, to waken him?" "No; please don't," answered Ojo, his voice trembling a little. "I'm in no hurry." But he had not long to wait, for the Woozy heard the sound of voices and came trotting out of his cave. As this is the only Woozy that has ever lived, either in the Land of Oz or out of it, I must describe it to you. The creature was all squares and flat surfaces and edges. Its head was an exact square, like one of the building-blocks a child plays with; therefore it had no ears, but heard sounds through two openings in the upper corners. Its nose, being in the center of a square surface, was flat, while the mouth was formed by the opening of the lower edge of the block. The body of the Woozy was much larger than its head, but was likewise block-shaped--being twice as long as it was wide and high. The tail was square and stubby and perfectly straight, and the four legs were made in the same way, each being four-sided. The animal was covered with a thick, smooth skin and had no hair at all except at the extreme end of its tail, where there grew exactly three stiff, stubby hairs. The beast was dark blue in color and his face was not fierce nor ferocious in expression, but rather good-humored and droll. Seeing the strangers, the Woozy folded his hind legs as if they had been hinged and sat down to look his visitors over. "Well, well," he exclaimed; "what a queer lot you are! At first I thought some of those miserable Munchkin farmers had come to annoy me, but I am relieved to find you in their stead. It is plain to me that you are a remarkable group--as remarkable in your way as I am in mine--and so you are welcome to my domain. Nice place, isn't it? But lonesome--dreadfully lonesome." "Why did they shut you up here?" asked Scraps, who was regarding the queer, square creature with much curiosity. "Because I eat up all the honey-bees which the Munchkin farmers who live around here keep to make them honey." "Are you fond of eating honey-bees?" inquired the boy. "Very. They are really delicious. But the farmers did not like to lose their bees and so they tried to destroy me. Of course they couldn't do that." "Why not?" "My skin is so thick and tough that nothing can get through it to hurt me. So, finding they could not destroy me, they drove me into this forest and built a fence around me. Unkind, wasn't it?" "But what do you eat now?" asked Ojo. "Nothing at all. I've tried the leaves from the trees and the mosses and creeping vines, but they don't seem to suit my taste. So, there being no honey-bees here, I've eaten nothing for years." "You must be awfully hungry," said the boy. "I've got some bread and cheese in my basket. Would you like that kind of food?" "Give me a nibble and I will try it; then I can tell you better whether it is grateful to my appetite," returned the Woozy. So the boy opened his basket and broke a piece off the loaf of bread. He tossed it toward the Woozy, who cleverly caught it in his mouth and ate it in a twinkling. "That's rather good," declared the animal. "Any more?" "Try some cheese," said Ojo, and threw down a piece. The Woozy ate that, too, and smacked its long, thin lips. "That's mighty good!" it exclaimed. "Any more?" "Plenty," replied Ojo. So he sat down on a stump and fed the Woozy bread and cheese for a long time; for, no matter how much the boy broke off, the loaf and the slice remained just as big. "That'll do," said the Woozy, at last; "I'm quite full. I hope the strange food won't give me indigestion." "I hope not," said Ojo. "It's what I eat." "Well, I must say I'm much obliged, and I'm glad you came," announced the beast. "Is there anything I can do in return for your kindness?" "Yes," said Ojo earnestly, "you have it in your power to do me a great favor, if you will." "What is it?" asked the Woozy. "Name the favor and I will grant it." "I--I want three hairs from the tip of your tail," said Ojo, with some hesitation. "Three hairs! Why, that's all I have--on my tail or anywhere else," exclaimed the beast. "I know; but I want them very much." "They are my sole ornaments, my prettiest feature," said the Woozy, uneasily. "If I give up those three hairs I--I'm just a blockhead." "Yet I must have them," insisted the boy, firmly, and he then told the Woozy all about the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and how the three hairs were to be a part of the magic charm that would restore them to life. The beast listened with attention and when Ojo had finished the recital it said, with a sigh: "I always keep my word, for I pride myself on being square. So you may have the three hairs, and welcome. I think, under such circumstances, it would be selfish in me to refuse you." "Thank you! Thank you very much," cried the boy, joyfully. "May I pull out the hairs now?" "Any time you like," answered the Woozy. So Ojo went up to the queer creature and taking hold of one of the hairs began to pull. He pulled harder. He pulled with all his might; but the hair remained fast. "What's the trouble?" asked the Woozy, which Ojo had dragged here and there all around the clearing in his endeavor to pull out the hair. "It won't come," said the boy, panting. "I was afraid of that," declared the beast. "You'll have to pull harder." "I'll help you," exclaimed Scraps, coming to the boy's side. "You pull the hair, and I'll pull you, and together we ought to get it out easily." "Wait a jiffy," called the Woozy, and then it went to a tree and hugged it with its front paws, so that its body couldn't be dragged around by the pull. "All ready, now. Go ahead!" Ojo grasped the hair with both hands and pulled with all his strength, while Scraps seized the boy around his waist and added her strength to his. But the hair wouldn't budge. Instead, it slipped out of Ojo's hands and he and Scraps both rolled upon the ground in a heap and never stopped until they bumped against the rocky cave. [Illustration] "Give it up," advised the Glass Cat, as the boy arose and assisted the Patchwork Girl to her feet. "A dozen strong men couldn't pull out those hairs. I believe they're clinched on the under side of the Woozy's thick skin." "Then what shall I do?" asked the boy, despairingly. "If on our return I fail to take these three hairs to the Crooked Magician, the other things I have come to seek will be of no use at all, and we cannot restore Unc Nunkie and Margolotte to life." "They're goners, I guess," said the Patchwork Girl. "Never mind," added the cat. "I can't see that old Unc and Margolotte are worth all this trouble, anyhow." But Ojo did not feel that way. He was so disheartened that he sat down upon a stump and began to cry. The Woozy looked at the boy thoughtfully. "Why don't you take me with you?" asked the beast. "Then, when at last you get to the Magician's house, he can surely find some way to pull out those three hairs." Ojo was overjoyed at this suggestion. "That's it!" he cried, wiping away the tears and springing to his feet with a smile. "If I take the three hairs to the Magician, it won't matter if they are still in your body." "It can't matter in the least," agreed the Woozy. "Come on, then," said the boy, picking up his basket; "let us start at once. I have several other things to find, you know." But the Glass Cat gave a little laugh and inquired in her scornful way: "How do you intend to get the beast out of this forest?" That puzzled them all for a time. "Let us go to the fence, and then we may find a way," suggested Scraps. So they walked through the forest to the fence, reaching it at a point exactly opposite that where they had entered the enclosure. "How did you get in?" asked the Woozy. "We climbed over," answered Ojo. "I can't do that," said the beast. "I'm a very swift runner, for I can overtake a honey-bee as it flies; and I can jump very high, which is the reason they made such a tall fence to keep me in. But I can't climb at all, and I'm too big to squeeze between the bars of the fence." Ojo tried to think what to do. "Can you dig?" he asked. "No," answered the Woozy, "for I have no claws. My feet are quite flat on the bottom of them. Nor can I gnaw away the boards, as I have no teeth." "You're not such a terrible creature, after all," remarked Scraps. "You haven't heard me growl, or you wouldn't say that," declared the Woozy. "When I growl, the sound echoes like thunder all through the valleys and woodlands, and children tremble with fear, and women cover their heads with their aprons, and big men run and hide. I suppose there is nothing in the world so terrible to listen to as the growl of a Woozy." "Please don't growl, then," begged Ojo, earnestly. "There is no danger of my growling, for I am not angry. Only when angry do I utter my fearful, ear-splitting, soul-shuddering growl. Also, when I am angry, my eyes flash fire, whether I growl or not." "Real fire?" asked Ojo. "Of course, real fire. Do you suppose they'd flash imitation fire?" inquired the Woozy, in an injured tone. "In that case, I've solved the riddle," cried Scraps, dancing with glee. "Those fence-boards are made of wood, and if the Woozy stands close to the fence and lets his eyes flash fire, they might set fire to the fence and burn it up. Then he could walk away with us easily, being free." "Ah, I have never thought of that plan, or I would have been free long ago," said the Woozy. "But I cannot flash fire from my eyes unless I am very angry." "Can't you get angry 'bout something, please?" asked Ojo. "I'll try. You just say 'Krizzle-Kroo' to me." "Will that make you angry?" inquired the boy. "Terribly angry." "What does it mean?" asked Scraps. "I don't know; that's what makes me so angry," replied the Woozy. He then stood close to the fence, with his head near one of the boards, and Scraps called out "Krizzle-Kroo!" Then Ojo said "Krizzle-Kroo!" and the Glass Cat said "Krizzle-Kroo!" The Woozy began to tremble with anger and small sparks darted from his eyes. Seeing this, they all cried "Krizzle-Kroo!" together, and that made the beast's eyes flash fire so fiercely that the fence-board caught the sparks and began to smoke. Then it burst into flame, and the Woozy stepped back and said triumphantly: "Aha! That did the business, all right. It was a happy thought for you to yell all together, for that made me as angry as I have ever been. Fine sparks, weren't they?" [Illustration] "Reg'lar fireworks," replied Scraps, admiringly. In a few moments the board had burned to a distance of several feet, leaving an opening big enough for them all to pass through. Ojo broke some branches from a tree and with them whipped the fire until it was extinguished. "We don't want to burn the whole fence down," said he, "for the flames would attract the attention of the Munchkin farmers, who would then come and capture the Woozy again. I guess they'll be rather surprised when they find he's escaped." "So they will," declared the Woozy, chuckling gleefully. "When they find I'm gone the farmers will be badly scared, for they'll expect me to eat up their honey-bees, as I did before." "That reminds me," said the boy, "that you must promise not to eat honey-bees while you are in our company." "None at all?" "Not a bee. You would get us all into trouble, and we can't afford to have any more trouble than is necessary. I'll feed you all the bread and cheese you want, and that must satisfy you." "All right; I'll promise," said the Woozy, cheerfully. "And when I promise anything you can depend on it, 'cause I'm square." "I don't see what difference that makes," observed the Patchwork Girl, as they found the path and continued their journey. "The shape doesn't make a thing honest, does it?" "Of course it does," returned the Woozy, very decidedly. "No one could trust that Crooked Magician, for instance, just because he _is_ crooked; but a square Woozy couldn't do anything crooked if he wanted to." "I am neither square nor crooked," said Scraps, looking down at her plump body. "No; you're round, so you're liable to do anything," asserted the Woozy. "Do not blame me, Miss Gorgeous, if I regard you with suspicion. Many a satin ribbon has a cotton back." Scraps didn't understand this, but she had an uneasy misgiving that she had a cotton back herself. It would settle down, at times, and make her squat and dumpy, and then she had to roll herself in the road until her body stretched out again. [Illustration] [Illustration] SHAGGY MAN TO THE RESCUE CHAP. 10 [Illustration] They had not gone very far before Bungle, who had run on ahead, came bounding back to say that the road of yellow bricks was just before them. At once they hurried forward to see what this famous road looked like. It was a broad road, but not straight, for it wandered over hill and dale and picked out the easiest places to go. All its length and breadth was paved with smooth bricks of a bright yellow color, so it was smooth and level except in a few places where the bricks had crumbled or been removed, leaving holes that might cause the unwary to stumble. "I wonder," said Ojo, looking up and down the road, "which way to go." "Where are you bound for?" asked the Woozy. "The Emerald City," he replied. "Then go west," said the Woozy. "I know this road pretty well, for I've chased many a honey-bee over it." "Have you ever been to the Emerald City?" asked Scraps. "No. I am very shy by nature, as you may have noticed, so I haven't mingled much in society." "Are you afraid of men?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "Me? With my heart-rending growl--my horrible, shudderful growl? I should say not. I am not afraid of anything," declared the Woozy. "I wish I could say the same," sighed Ojo. "I don't think we need be afraid when we get to the Emerald City, for Unc Nunkie has told me that Ozma, our girl Ruler, is very lovely and kind, and tries to help everyone who is in trouble. But they say there are many dangers lurking on the road to the great Fairy City, and so we must be very careful." "I hope nothing will break me," said the Glass Cat, in a nervous voice. "I'm a little brittle, you know, and can't stand many hard knocks." "If anything should fade the colors of my lovely patches it would break my heart," said the Patchwork Girl. "I'm not sure you have a heart," Ojo reminded her. "Then it would break my cotton," persisted Scraps. "Do you think they are all fast colors, Ojo?" she asked anxiously. "They seem fast enough when you run," he replied; and then, looking ahead of them, he exclaimed: "Oh, what lovely trees!" They were certainly pretty to look upon and the travelers hurried forward to observe them more closely. "Why, they are not trees at all," said Scraps; "they are just monstrous plants." That is what they really were: masses of great broad leaves which rose from the ground far into the air, until they towered twice as high as the top of the Patchwork Girl's head, who was a little taller than Ojo. The plants formed rows on both sides of the road and from each plant rose a dozen or more of the big broad leaves, which swayed continually from side to side, although no wind was blowing. But the most curious thing about the swaying leaves was their color. They seemed to have a general groundwork of blue, but here and there other colors glinted at times through the blue--gorgeous yellows, turning to pink, purple, orange and scarlet, mingled with more sober browns and grays--each appearing as a blotch or stripe anywhere on a leaf and then disappearing, to be replaced by some other color of a different shape. The changeful coloring of the great leaves was very beautiful, but it was bewildering, as well, and the novelty of the scene drew our travelers close to the line of plants, where they stood watching them with rapt interest. Suddenly a leaf bent lower than usual and touched the Patchwork Girl. Swiftly it enveloped her in its embrace, covering her completely in its thick folds, and then it swayed back upon its stem. [Illustration] "Why, she's gone!" gasped Ojo, in amazement, and listening carefully he thought he could hear the muffled screams of Scraps coming from the center of the folded leaf. But, before he could think what he ought to do to save her, another leaf bent down and captured the Glass Cat, rolling around the little creature until she was completely hidden, and then straightening up again upon its stem. "Look out," cried the Woozy. "Run! Run fast, or you are lost." Ojo turned and saw the Woozy running swiftly up the road. But the last leaf of the row of plants seized the beast even as he ran and instantly he disappeared from sight. The boy had no chance to escape. Half a dozen of the great leaves were bending toward him from different directions and as he stood hesitating one of them clutched him in its embrace. In a flash he was in the dark. Then he felt himself gently lifted until he was swaying in the air, with the folds of the leaf hugging him on all sides. At first he struggled hard to escape, crying out in anger: "Let me go! Let me go!" But neither struggles nor protests had any effect whatever. The leaf held him firmly and he was a prisoner. Then Ojo quieted himself and tried to think. Despair fell upon him when he remembered that all his little party had been captured, even as he was, and there was none to save them. "I might have expected it," he sobbed, miserably. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky, and something dreadful was sure to happen to me." He pushed against the leaf that held him and found it to be soft, but thick and firm. It was like a great bandage all around him and he found it difficult to move his body or limbs in order to change their position. The minutes passed and became hours. Ojo wondered how long one could live in such a condition and if the leaf would gradually sap his strength and even his life, in order to feed itself. The little Munchkin boy had never heard of any person dying in the Land of Oz, but he knew one could suffer a great deal of pain. His greatest fear at this time was that he would always remain imprisoned in the beautiful leaf and never see the light of day again. No sound came to him through the leaf; all around was intense silence. Ojo wondered if Scraps had stopped screaming, or if the folds of the leaf prevented his hearing her. By and by he thought he heard a whistle, as of some one whistling a tune. Yes; it really must be some one whistling, he decided, for he could follow the strains of a pretty Munchkin melody that Unc Nunkie used to sing to him. The sounds were low and sweet and, although they reached Ojo's ears very faintly, they were clear and harmonious. Could the leaf whistle, Ojo wondered? Nearer and nearer came the sounds and then they seemed to be just the other side of the leaf that was hugging him. Suddenly the whole leaf toppled and fell, carrying the boy with it, and while he sprawled at full length the folds slowly relaxed and set him free. He scrambled quickly to his feet and found that a strange man was standing before him--a man so curious in appearance that the boy stared with round eyes. He was a big man, with shaggy whiskers, shaggy eyebrows, shaggy hair--but kindly blue eyes that were gentle as those of a cow. On his head was a green velvet hat with a jeweled band, which was all shaggy around the brim. Rich but shaggy laces were at his throat; a coat with shaggy edges was decorated with diamond buttons; the velvet breeches had jeweled buckles at the knees and shags all around the bottoms. On his breast hung a medallion bearing a picture of Princess Dorothy of Oz, and in his hand, as he stood looking at Ojo, was a sharp knife shaped like a dagger. "Oh!" exclaimed Ojo, greatly astonished at the sight of this stranger; and then he added: "Who has saved me, sir?" "Can't you see?" replied the other, with a smile; "I'm the Shaggy Man." "Yes; I can see that," said the boy, nodding. "Was it you who rescued me from the leaf?" "None other, you may be sure. But take care, or I shall have to rescue you again." Ojo gave a jump, for he saw several broad leaves leaning toward him; but the Shaggy Man began to whistle again, and at the sound the leaves all straightened up on their stems and kept still. The man now took Ojo's arm and led him up the road, past the last of the great plants, and not till he was safely beyond their reach did he cease his whistling. "You see, the music charms 'em," said he. "Singing or whistling--it doesn't matter which--makes 'em behave, and nothing else will. I always whistle as I go by 'em and so they always let me alone. To-day as I went by, whistling, I saw a leaf curled and knew there must be something inside it. I cut down the leaf with my knife and--out you popped. Lucky I passed by, wasn't it?" "You were very kind," said Ojo, "and I thank you. Will you please rescue my companions, also?" "What companions?" asked the Shaggy Man. "The leaves grabbed them all," said the boy. "There's a Patchwork Girl and--" "A what?" "A girl made of patchwork, you know. She's alive and her name is Scraps. And there's a Glass Cat--" "Glass?" asked the Shaggy Man. "All glass." "And alive?" "Yes," said Ojo; "she has pink brains. And there's a Woozy--" "What's a Woozy?" inquired the Shaggy Man. "Why, I--I--can't describe it," answered the boy, greatly perplexed. "But it's a queer animal with three hairs on the tip of its tail that won't come out and--" "What won't come out?" asked the Shaggy Man; "the tail?" "The hairs won't come out. But you'll see the Woozy, if you'll please rescue it, and then you'll know just what it is." [Illustration] "Of course," said the Shaggy Man, nodding his shaggy head. And then he walked back among the plants, still whistling, and found the three leaves which were curled around Ojo's traveling companions. The first leaf he cut down released Scraps, and on seeing her the Shaggy Man threw back his shaggy head, opened wide his mouth and laughed so shaggily and yet so merrily, that Scraps liked him at once. Then he took off his hat and made her a low bow, saying: "My dear, you're a wonder. I must introduce you to my friend the Scarecrow." When he cut down the second leaf he rescued the Glass Cat, and Bungle was so frightened that she scampered away like a streak and soon had joined Ojo, when she sat beside him panting and trembling. The last plant of all the row had captured the Woozy, and a big bunch in the center of the curled leaf showed plainly where he was. With his sharp knife the Shaggy Man sliced off the stem of the leaf and as it fell and unfolded out trotted the Woozy and escaped beyond the reach of any more of the dangerous plants. [Illustration] [Illustration] A GOOD FRIEND CHAP. 11. [Illustration] Soon the entire party was gathered on the road of yellow bricks, quite beyond the reach of the beautiful but treacherous plants. The Shaggy Man, staring first at one and then at the other, seemed greatly pleased and interested. "I've seen queer things since I came to the Land of Oz," said he, "but never anything queerer than this band of adventurers. Let us sit down a while, and have a talk and get acquainted." "Haven't you always lived in the Land of Oz?" asked the Munchkin boy. "No; I used to live in the big, outside world. But I came here once with Dorothy, and Ozma let me stay." "How do you like Oz?" asked Scraps. "Isn't the country and the climate grand?" "It's the finest country in all the world, even if it is a fairyland, and I'm happy every minute I live in it," said the Shaggy Man. "But tell me something about yourselves." So Ojo related the story of his visit to the house of the Crooked Magician, and how he met there the Glass Cat, and how the Patchwork Girl was brought to life and of the terrible accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte. Then he told how he had set out to find the five different things which the Magician needed to make a charm that would restore the marble figures to life, one requirement being three hairs from a Woozy's tail. "We found the Woozy," explained the boy, "and he agreed to give us the three hairs; but we couldn't pull them out. So we had to bring the Woozy along with us." "I see," returned the Shaggy Man, who had listened with interest to the story. "But perhaps I, who am big and strong, can pull those three hairs from the Woozy's tail." "Try it, if you like," said the Woozy. So the Shaggy Man tried it, but pull as hard as he could he failed to get the hairs out of the Woozy's tail. So he sat down again and wiped his shaggy face with a shaggy silk handkerchief and said: "It doesn't matter. If you can keep the Woozy until you get the rest of the things you need, you can take the beast and his three hairs to the Crooked Magician and let him find a way to extract 'em. What are the other things you are to find?" "One," said Ojo, "is a six-leaved clover." "You ought to find that in the fields around the Emerald City," said the Shaggy Man. "There is a Law against picking six-leaved clovers, but I think I can get Ozma to let you have one." "Thank you," replied Ojo. "The next thing is the left wing of a yellow butterfly." "For that you must go to the Winkie Country," the Shaggy Man declared. "I've never noticed any butterflies there, but that is the yellow country of Oz and it's ruled by a good friend of mine, the Tin Woodman." "Oh, I've heard of him!" exclaimed Ojo. "He must be a wonderful man." "So he is, and his heart is wonderfully kind. I'm sure the Tin Woodman will do all in his power to help you to save your Unc Nunkie and poor Margolotte." "The next thing I must find," said the Munchkin boy, "is a gill of water from a dark well." "Indeed! Well, that is more difficult," said the Shaggy Man, scratching his left ear in a puzzled way. "I've never heard of a dark well; have you?" "No," said Ojo. "Do you know where one may be found?" inquired the Shaggy Man. "I can't imagine," said Ojo. "Then we must ask the Scarecrow." "The Scarecrow! But surely, sir, a scarecrow can't know anything." "Most scarecrows don't, I admit," answered the Shaggy Man. "But this Scarecrow of whom I speak is very intelligent. He claims to possess the best brains in all Oz." "Better than mine?" asked Scraps. "Better than mine?" echoed the Glass Cat. "Mine are pink, and you can see 'em work." "Well, you can't see the Scarecrow's brains work, but they do a lot of clever thinking," asserted the Shaggy Man. "If anyone knows where a dark well is, it's my friend the Scarecrow." "Where does he live?" inquired Ojo. "He has a splendid castle in the Winkie Country, near to the palace of his friend the Tin Woodman, and he is often to be found in the Emerald City, where he visits Dorothy at the royal palace." "Then we will ask him about the dark well," said Ojo. "But what else does this Crooked Magician want?" asked the Shaggy Man. "A drop of oil from a live man's body." "Oh; but there isn't such a thing." "That is what I thought," replied Ojo; "but the Crooked Magician said it wouldn't be called for by the recipe if it couldn't be found, and therefore I must search until I find it." "I wish you good luck," said the Shaggy Man, shaking his head doubtfully; "but I imagine you'll have a hard job getting a drop of oil from a live man's body. There's blood in a body, but no oil." [Illustration: I HATE DIGNITY] "There's cotton in mine," said Scraps, dancing a little jig. "I don't doubt it," returned the Shaggy Man admiringly. "You're a regular comforter and as sweet as patchwork can be. All you lack is dignity." "I hate dignity," cried Scraps, kicking a pebble high in the air and then trying to catch it as it fell. "Half the fools and all the wise folks are dignified, and I'm neither the one nor the other." "She's just crazy," explained the Glass Cat. The Shaggy Man laughed. "She's delightful, in her way," he said. "I'm sure Dorothy will be pleased with her, and the Scarecrow will dote on her. Did you say you were traveling toward the Emerald City?" "Yes," replied Ojo. "I thought that the best place to go, at first, because the six-leaved clover may be found there." "I'll go with you," said the Shaggy Man, "and show you the way." "Thank you," exclaimed Ojo. "I hope it won't put you out any." "No," said the other, "I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I've been a rover all my life, and although Ozma has given me a suite of beautiful rooms in her palace I still get the wandering fever once in a while and start out to roam the country over. I've been away from the Emerald City several weeks, this time, and now that I've met you and your friends I'm sure it will interest me to accompany you to the great city of Oz and introduce you to my friends." "That will be very nice," said the boy, gratefully. "I hope your friends are not dignified," observed Scraps. "Some are, and some are not," he answered; "but I never criticise my friends. If they are really true friends, they may be anything they like, for all of me." "There's some sense in that," said Scraps, nodding her queer head in approval. "Come on, and let's get to the Emerald City as soon as possible." With this she ran up the path, skipping and dancing, and then turned to await them. "It is quite a distance from here to the Emerald City," remarked the Shaggy Man, "so we shall not get there to-day, nor to-morrow. Therefore let us take the jaunt in an easy manner. I'm an old traveler and have found that I never gain anything by being in a hurry. 'Take it easy' is my motto. If you can't take it easy, take it as easy as you can." After walking some distance over the road of yellow bricks Ojo said he was hungry and would stop to eat some bread and cheese. He offered a portion of the food to the Shaggy Man, who thanked him but refused it. "When I start out on my travels," said he, "I carry along enough square meals to last me several weeks. Think I'll indulge in one now, as long as we're stopping anyway." Saying this, he took a bottle from his pocket and shook from it a tablet about the size of one of Ojo's finger-nails. "That," announced the Shaggy Man, "is a square meal, in condensed form. Invention of the great Professor Wogglebug, of the Royal College of Athletics. It contains soup, fish, roast meat, salad, apple-dumplings, ice cream and chocolate-drops, all boiled down to this small size, so it can be conveniently carried and swallowed when you are hungry and need a square meal." "I'm square," said the Woozy. "Give me one, please." So the Shaggy Man gave the Woozy a tablet from his bottle and the beast ate it in a twinkling. "You have now had a six course dinner," declared the Shaggy Man. "Pshaw!" said the Woozy, ungratefully, "I want to taste something. There's no fun in that sort of eating." "One should only eat to sustain life," replied the Shaggy Man, "and that tablet is equal to a peck of other food." "I don't care for it. I want something I can chew and taste," grumbled the Woozy. "You are quite wrong, my poor beast," said the Shaggy Man in a tone of pity. "Think how tired your jaws would get chewing a square meal like this, if it were not condensed to the size of a small tablet--which you can swallow in a jiffy." "Chewing isn't tiresome; it's fun," maintained the Woozy. "I always chew the honey-bees when I catch them. Give me some bread and cheese, Ojo." "No, no! You've already eaten a big dinner!" protested the Shaggy Man. "May be," answered the Woozy; "but I guess I'll fool myself by munching some bread and cheese. I may not be hungry, having eaten all those things you gave me, but I consider this eating business a matter of taste, and I like to realize what's going into me." Ojo gave the beast what he wanted, but the Shaggy Man shook his shaggy head reproachfully and said there was no animal so obstinate or hard to convince as a Woozy. At this moment a patter of footsteps was heard, and looking up they saw the live phonograph standing before them. It seemed to have passed through many adventures since Ojo and his comrades last saw the machine, for the varnish of its wooden case was all marred and dented and scratched in a way that gave it an aged and disreputable appearance. "Dear me!" exclaimed Ojo, staring hard. "What has happened to you?" "Nothing much," replied the phonograph in a sad and depressed voice. "I've had enough things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock a department store and furnish half a dozen bargain-counters." "Are you so broken up that you can't play?" asked Scraps. "No; I still am able to grind out delicious music. Just now I've a record on tap that is really superb," said the phonograph, growing more cheerful. "That is too bad," remarked Ojo. "We've no objection to you as a machine, you know; but as a music-maker we hate you." "Then why was I ever invented?" demanded the machine, in a tone of indignant protest. They looked at one another inquiringly, but no one could answer such a puzzling question. Finally the Shaggy Man said: "I'd like to hear the phonograph play." Ojo sighed. "We've been very happy since we met you, sir," he said. "I know. But a little misery, at times, makes one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony, what is this record like, which you say you have on tap?" "It's a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands the common people have gone wild over it." "Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then it's dangerous." "Wild with joy, I mean," explained the phonograph. "Listen. This song will prove a rare treat to you, I know. It made the author rich--for an author. It is called 'My Lulu.'" Then the phonograph began to play. A strain of odd, jerky sounds was followed by these words, sung by a man through his nose with great vigor of expression: "Ah want mah Lulu, mah cross-eyed Lulu; Ah want mah loo-loo, loo-loo, loo-loo, Lu! Ah love mah Lulu, mah cross-eyed Lulu, There ain't nobody else loves loo-loo, Lu!" "Here--shut that off!" cried the Shaggy Man, springing to his feet. "What do you mean by such impertinence?" "It's the latest popular song," declared the phonograph, speaking in a sulky tone of voice. "A popular song?" "Yes. One that the feeble-minded can remember the words of and those ignorant of music can whistle or sing. That makes a popular song popular, and the time is coming when it will take the place of all other songs." "That time won't come to us, just yet," said the Shaggy Man, sternly: "I'm something of a singer myself, and I don't intend to be throttled by any Lulus like your cross-eyed one. I shall take you all apart, Mr. Phony, and scatter your pieces far and wide over the country, as a matter of kindness to the people you might meet if allowed to run around loose. Having performed this painful duty I shall--" But before he could say more the phonograph turned and dashed up the road as fast as its four table-legs could carry it, and soon it had entirely disappeared from their view. The Shaggy Man sat down again and seemed well pleased. "Some one else will save me the trouble of scattering that phonograph," said he; "for it is not possible that such a music-maker can last long in the Land of Oz. When you are rested, friends, let us go on our way." [Illustration] During the afternoon the travelers found themselves in a lonely and uninhabited part of the country. Even the fields were no longer cultivated and the country began to resemble a wilderness. The road of yellow bricks seemed to have been neglected and became uneven and more difficult to walk upon. Scrubby underbrush grew on either side of the way, while huge rocks were scattered around in abundance. But this did not deter Ojo and his friends from trudging on, and they beguiled the journey with jokes and cheerful conversation. Toward evening they reached a crystal spring which gushed from a tall rock by the roadside and near this spring stood a deserted cabin. Said the Shaggy Man, halting here: "We may as well pass the night here, where there is shelter for our heads and good water to drink. Road beyond here is pretty bad; worst we shall have to travel; so let's wait until morning before we tackle it." They agreed to this and Ojo found some brushwood in the cabin and made a fire on the hearth. The fire delighted Scraps, who danced before it until Ojo warned her she might set fire to herself and burn up. After that the Patchwork Girl kept at a respectful distance from the darting flames, but the Woozy lay down before the fire like a big dog and seemed to enjoy its warmth. For supper the Shaggy Man ate one of his tablets, but Ojo stuck to his bread and cheese as the most satisfying food. He also gave a portion to the Woozy. When darkness came on and they sat in a circle on the cabin floor, facing the firelight--there being no furniture of any sort in the place--Ojo said to the Shaggy Man: "Won't you tell us a story?" "I'm not good at stories," was the reply; "but I sing like a bird." "Raven, or crow?" asked the Glass Cat. "Like a song bird. I'll prove it. I'll sing a song I composed myself. Don't tell anyone I'm a poet; they might want me to write a book. Don't tell 'em I can sing, or they'd want me to make records for that awful phonograph. Haven't time to be a public benefactor, so I'll just sing you this little song for your own amusement." They were glad enough to be entertained, and listened with interest while the Shaggy Man chanted the following verses to a tune that was not unpleasant: "I'll sing a song of Ozland, where wondrous creatures dwell And fruits and flowers and shady bowers abound in every dell, Where magic is a science and where no one shows surprise If some amazing thing takes place before his very eyes. Our Ruler's a bewitching girl whom fairies love to please; She's always kept her magic sceptre to enforce decrees To make her people happy, for her heart is kind and true And to aid the needy and distressed is what she longs to do. And then there's Princess Dorothy, as sweet as any rose, A lass from Kansas, where they don't grow fairies, I suppose; And there's the brainy Scarecrow, with a body stuffed with straw, Who utters words of wisdom rare that fill us all with awe. I'll not forget Nick Chopper, the Woodman made of Tin, Whose tender heart thinks killing time is quite a dreadful sin, Nor old Professor Wogglebug, who's highly magnified And looks so big to everyone that he is filled with pride. Jack Pumpkinhead's a dear old chum who might be called a chump, But won renown by riding round upon a magic Gump; The Sawhorse is a splendid steed and though he's made of wood He does as many thrilling stunts as any meat horse could. And now I'll introduce a beast that ev'ryone adores-- The Cowardly Lion shakes with fear 'most ev'ry time he roars, And yet he does the bravest things that any lion might, Because he knows that cowardice is not considered right. There's Tik-tok--he's a clockwork man and quite a funny sight-- He talks and walks mechanically, when he's wound up tight; And we've a Hungry Tiger who would babies love to eat But never does because we feed him other kinds of meat. It's hard to name all of the freaks this noble Land's acquired; 'Twould make my song so very long that you would soon be tired; But give attention while I mention one wise Yellow Hen And Nine fine Tiny Piglets living in a golden pen. Just search the whole world over--sail the seas from coast to coast-- No other nation in creation queerer folks can boast; And now our rare museum will include a Cat of Glass, A Woozy, and--last but not least--a crazy Patchwork Lass." Ojo was so pleased with this song that he applauded the singer by clapping his hands, and Scraps followed suit by clapping her padded fingers together, although they made no noise. The cat pounded on the floor with her glass paws--gently, so as not to break them--and the Woozy, which had been asleep, woke up to ask what the row was about. "I seldom sing in public, for fear they might want me to start an opera company," remarked the Shaggy Man, who was pleased to know his effort was appreciated. "Voice, just now, is a little out of training; rusty, perhaps." [Illustration] "Tell me," said the Patchwork Girl earnestly, "do all those queer people you mention really live in the Land of Oz?" "Every one of 'em. I even forgot one thing: Dorothy's Pink Kitten." "For goodness sake!" exclaimed Bungle, sitting up and looking interested. "A Pink Kitten? How absurd! Is it glass?" "No; just ordinary kitten." "Then it can't amount to much. I have pink brains, and you can see 'em work." "Dorothy's kitten is all pink--brains and all--except blue eyes. Name's Eureka. Great favorite at the royal palace," said the Shaggy Man, yawning. The Glass Cat seemed annoyed. "Do you think a pink kitten--common meat--is as pretty as I am?" she asked. "Can't say. Tastes differ, you know," replied the Shaggy Man, yawning again. "But here's a pointer that may be of service to you: make friends with Eureka and you'll be solid at the palace." "I'm solid now; solid glass." "You don't understand," rejoined the Shaggy Man, sleepily. "Anyhow, make friends with the Pink Kitten and you'll be all right. If the Pink Kitten despises you, look out for breakers." "Would anyone at the royal palace break a Glass Cat?" "Might. You never can tell. Advise you to purr soft and look humble--if you can. And now I'm going to bed." Bungle considered the Shaggy Man's advice so carefully that her pink brains were busy long after the others of the party were fast asleep. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE GIANT PORCUPINE CHAP. 12 [Illustration] Next morning they started out bright and early to follow the road of yellow bricks toward the Emerald City. The little Munchkin boy was beginning to feel tired from the long walk, and he had a great many things to think of and consider besides the events of the journey. At the wonderful Emerald City, which he would presently reach, were so many strange and curious people that he was half afraid of meeting them and wondered if they would prove friendly and kind. Above all else, he could not drive from his mind the important errand on which he had come, and he was determined to devote every energy to finding the things that were necessary to prepare the magic recipe. He believed that until dear Unc Nunkie was restored to life he could feel no joy in anything, and often he wished that Unc could be with him, to see all the astonishing things Ojo was seeing. But alas Unc Nunkie was now a marble statue in the house of the Crooked Magician and Ojo must not falter in his efforts to save him. The country through which they were passing was still rocky and deserted, with here and there a bush or a tree to break the dreary landscape. Ojo noticed one tree, especially, because it had such long, silky leaves and was so beautiful in shape. As he approached it he studied the tree earnestly, wondering if any fruit grew on it or if it bore pretty flowers. Suddenly he became aware that he had been looking at that tree a long time--at least for five minutes--and it had remained in the same position, although the boy had continued to walk steadily on. So he stopped short, and when he stopped, the tree and all the landscape, as well as his companions, moved on before him and left him far behind. Ojo uttered such a cry of astonishment that it aroused the Shaggy Man, who also halted. The others then stopped, too, and walked back to the boy. "What's wrong?" asked the Shaggy Man. "Why, we're not moving forward a bit, no matter how fast we walk," declared Ojo. "Now that we have stopped, we are moving backward! Can't you see? Just notice that rock." Scraps looked down at her feet and said: "The yellow bricks are not moving." "But the whole road is," answered Ojo. "True; quite true," agreed the Shaggy Man. "I know all about the tricks of this road, but I have been thinking of something else and didn't realize where we were." "It will carry us back to where we started from," predicted Ojo, beginning to be nervous. "No," replied the Shaggy Man; "it won't do that, for I know a trick to beat this tricky road. I've traveled this way before, you know. Turn around, all of you, and walk backward." "What good will that do?" asked the cat. "You'll find out, if you obey me," said the Shaggy Man. So they all turned their backs to the direction in which they wished to go and began walking backward. In an instant Ojo noticed they were gaining ground and as they proceeded in this curious way they soon passed the tree which had first attracted his attention to their difficulty. "How long must we keep this up, Shags?" asked Scraps, who was constantly tripping and tumbling down, only to get up again with a laugh at her mishap. "Just a little way farther," replied the Shaggy Man. A few minutes later he called to them to turn about quickly and step forward, and as they obeyed the order they found themselves treading solid ground. "That task is well over," observed the Shaggy Man. "It's a little tiresome to walk backward, but that is the only way to pass this part of the road, which has a trick of sliding back and carrying with it anyone who is walking upon it." [Illustration] With new courage and energy they now trudged forward and after a time came to a place where the road cut through a low hill, leaving high banks on either side of it. They were traveling along this cut, talking together, when the Shaggy Man seized Scraps with one arm and Ojo with another and shouted: "Stop!" "What's wrong now?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "See there!" answered the Shaggy Man, pointing with his finger. Directly in the center of the road lay a motionless object that bristled all over with sharp quills, which resembled arrows. The body was as big as a ten-bushel-basket, but the projecting quills made it appear to be four times bigger. "Well, what of it?" asked Scraps. "That is Chiss, who causes a lot of trouble along this road," was the reply. "Chiss! What is Chiss?" "I think it is merely an overgrown porcupine, but here in Oz they consider Chiss an evil spirit. He's different from a reg'lar porcupine, because he can throw his quills in any direction, which an American porcupine cannot do. That's what makes old Chiss so dangerous. If we get too near, he'll fire those quills at us and hurt us badly." "Then we will be foolish to get too near," said Scraps. "I'm not afraid," declared the Woozy. "The Chiss is cowardly, I'm sure, and if it ever heard my awful, terrible, frightful growl, it would be scared stiff." "Oh; can you growl?" asked the Shaggy Man. "That is the only ferocious thing about me," asserted the Woozy with evident pride. "My growl makes an earthquake blush and the thunder ashamed of itself. If I growled at that creature you call Chiss, it would immediately think the world had cracked in two and bumped against the sun and moon, and that would cause the monster to run as far and as fast as its legs could carry it." "In that case," said the Shaggy Man, "you are now able to do us all a great favor. Please growl." "But you forget," returned the Woozy; "my tremendous growl would also frighten you, and if you happen to have heart disease you might expire." "True; but we must take that risk," decided the Shaggy Man, bravely. "Being warned of what is to occur we must try to bear the terrific noise of your growl; but Chiss won't expect it, and it will scare him away." The Woozy hesitated. "I'm fond of you all, and I hate to shock you," it said. "Never mind," said Ojo. "You may be made deaf." "If so, we will forgive you." "Very well, then," said the Woozy in a determined voice, and advanced a few steps toward the giant porcupine. Pausing to look back, it asked: "All ready?" "All ready!" they answered. "Then cover up your ears and brace yourselves firmly. Now, then--look out!" The Woozy turned toward Chiss, opened wide its mouth and said: "Quee-ee-ee-eek." "Go ahead and growl," said Scraps. "Why, I--I _did_ growl!" retorted the Woozy, who seemed much astonished. "What, that little squeak?" she cried. [Illustration] "It is the most awful growl that ever was heard, on land or sea, in caverns or in the sky," protested the Woozy. "I wonder you stood the shock so well. Didn't you feel the ground tremble? I suppose Chiss is now quite dead with fright." The Shaggy Man laughed merrily. "Poor Wooz!" said he; "your growl wouldn't scare a fly." The Woozy seemed to be humiliated and surprised. It hung its head a moment, as if in shame or sorrow, but then it said with renewed confidence: "Anyhow, my eyes can flash fire; and good fire, too; good enough to set fire to a fence!" "That is true," declared Scraps; "I saw it done myself. But your ferocious growl isn't as loud as the tick of a beetle--or one of Ojo's snores when he's fast asleep." "Perhaps," said the Woozy, humbly, "I have been mistaken about my growl. It has always sounded very fearful to me, but that may have been because it was so close to my ears." "Never mind," Ojo said soothingly; "it is a great talent to be able to flash fire from your eyes. No one else can do that." [Illustration] As they stood hesitating what to do Chiss stirred and suddenly a shower of quills came flying toward them, almost filling the air, they were so many. Scraps realized in an instant that they had gone too near to Chiss for safety, so she sprang in front of Ojo and shielded him from the darts, which stuck their points into her own body until she resembled one of those targets they shoot arrows at in archery games. The Shaggy Man dropped flat on his face to avoid the shower, but one quill struck him in the leg and went far in. As for the Glass Cat, the quills rattled off her body without making even a scratch, and the skin of the Woozy was so thick and tough that he was not hurt at all. [Illustration] When the attack was over they all ran to the Shaggy Man, who was moaning and groaning, and Scraps promptly pulled the quill out of his leg. Then up he jumped and ran over to Chiss, putting his foot on the monster's neck and holding it a prisoner. The body of the great porcupine was now as smooth as leather, except for the holes where the quills had been, for it had shot every single quill in that one wicked shower. "Let me go!" it shouted angrily. "How dare you put your foot on Chiss?" "I'm going to do worse than that, old boy," replied the Shaggy Man. "You have annoyed travelers on this road long enough, and now I shall put an end to you." "You can't!" returned Chiss. "Nothing can kill me, as you know perfectly well." "Perhaps that is true," said the Shaggy Man in a tone of disappointment. "Seems to me I've been told before that you can't be killed. But if I let you go, what will you do?" "Pick up my quills again," said Chiss in a sulky voice. "And then shoot them at more travelers? No; that won't do. You must promise me to stop throwing quills at people." "I won't promise anything of the sort," declared Chiss. "Why not?" "Because it is my nature to throw quills, and every animal must do what Nature intends it to do. It isn't fair for you to blame me. If it were wrong for me to throw quills, then I wouldn't be made with quills to throw. The proper thing for you to do is to keep out of my way." "Why, there's some sense in that argument," admitted the Shaggy Man, thoughtfully; "but people who are strangers, and don't know you are here, won't be able to keep out of your way." "Tell you what," said Scraps, who was trying to pull the quills out of her own body, "let's gather up all the quills and take them away with us; then old Chiss won't have any left to throw at people." "Ah, that's a clever idea. You and Ojo must gather up the quills while I hold Chiss a prisoner; for, if I let him go, he will get some of his quills and be able to throw them again." So Scraps and Ojo picked up all the quills and tied them in a bundle so they might easily be carried. After this the Shaggy Man released Chiss and let him go, knowing that he was harmless to injure anyone. "It's the meanest trick I ever heard of," muttered the porcupine gloomily. "How would you like it, Shaggy Man, if I took all your shags away from you?" "If I threw my shags and hurt people, you would be welcome to capture them," was the reply. Then they walked on and left Chiss standing in the road sullen and disconsolate. The Shaggy Man limped as he walked, for his wound still hurt him, and Scraps was much annoyed because the quills had left a number of small holes in her patches. When they came to a flat stone by the roadside the Shaggy Man sat down to rest, and then Ojo opened his basket and took out the bundle of charms the Crooked Magician had given him. "I am Ojo the Unlucky," he said, "or we would never have met that dreadful porcupine. But I will see if I can find anything among these charms which will cure your leg." Soon he discovered that one of the charms was labelled: "For flesh wounds," and this the boy separated from the others. It was only a bit of dried root, taken from some unknown shrub, but the boy rubbed it upon the wound made by the quill and in a few moments the place was healed entirely and the Shaggy Man's leg was as good as ever. "Rub it on the holes in my patches," suggested Scraps, and Ojo tried it, but without any effect. "The charm you need is a needle and thread," said the Shaggy Man. "But do not worry, my dear; those holes do not look badly, at all." "They'll let in the air, and I don't want people to think I'm airy, or that I've been stuck up," said the Patchwork Girl. "You were certainly stuck up until we pulled out those quills," observed Ojo, with a laugh. So now they went on again and coming presently to a pond of muddy water they tied a heavy stone to the bundle of quills and sunk it to the bottom of the pond, to avoid carrying it farther. SCRAPS AND THE SCARECROW CHAP. 13 [Illustration] From here on the country improved and the desert places began to give way to fertile spots; still no houses were yet to be seen near the road. There were some hills, with valleys between them, and on reaching the top of one of these hills the travelers found before them a high wall, running to the right and the left as far as their eyes could reach. Immediately in front of them, where the wall crossed the roadway, stood a gate having stout iron bars that extended from top to bottom. They found, on coming nearer, that this gate was locked with a great padlock, rusty through lack of use. "Well," said Scraps, "I guess we'll stop here." "It's a good guess," replied Ojo. "Our way is barred by this great wall and gate. It looks as if no one had passed through in many years." "Looks are deceiving," declared the Shaggy Man, laughing at their disappointed faces, "and this barrier is the most deceiving thing in all Oz." "It prevents our going any farther, anyhow," said Scraps. "There is no one to mind the gate and let people through, and we've no key to the padlock." [Illustration] "True," replied Ojo, going a little nearer to peep through the bars of the gate. "What shall we do, Shaggy Man? If we had wings we might fly over the wall, but we cannot climb it and unless we get to the Emerald City I won't be able to find the things to restore Unc Nunkie to life." "All very true," answered the Shaggy Man, quietly; "but I know this gate, having passed through it many times." "How?" they all eagerly inquired. "I'll show you how," said he. He stood Ojo in the middle of the road and placed Scraps just behind him, with her padded hands on his shoulders. After the Patchwork Girl came the Woozy, who held a part of her skirt in his mouth. Then, last of all, was the Glass Cat, holding fast to the Woozy's tail with her glass jaws. "Now," said the Shaggy Man, "you must all shut your eyes tight, and keep them shut until I tell you to open them." "I can't," objected Scraps. "My eyes are buttons, and they won't shut." [Illustration] So the Shaggy Man tied his red handkerchief over the Patchwork Girl's eyes and examined all the others to make sure they had their eyes fast shut and could see nothing. "What's the game, anyhow--blind-man's-buff?" asked Scraps. "Keep quiet!" commanded the Shaggy Man, sternly. "All ready? Then follow me." He took Ojo's-hand and led him forward over the road of yellow bricks, toward the gate. Holding fast to one another they all followed in a row, expecting every minute to bump against the iron bars. The Shaggy Man also had his eyes closed, but marched straight ahead, nevertheless, and after he had taken one hundred steps, by actual count, he stopped and said: "Now you may open your eyes." They did so, and to their astonishment found the wall and the gateway far behind them, while in front the former Blue Country of the Munchkins had given way to green fields, with pretty farm-houses scattered among them. "That wall," explained the Shaggy Man, "is what is called an optical illusion. It is quite real while you have your eyes open, but if you are not looking at it the barrier doesn't exist at all. It's the same way with many other evils in life; they seem to exist, and yet it's all seeming and not true. You will notice that the wall--or what we thought was a wall--separates the Munchkin Country from the green country that surrounds the Emerald City, which lies exactly in the center of Oz. There are two roads of yellow bricks through the Munchkin Country, but the one we followed is the best of the two. Dorothy once traveled the other way, and met with more dangers than we did. But all our troubles are over for the present, as another day's journey will bring us to the great Emerald City." They were delighted to know this, and proceeded with new courage. In a couple of hours they stopped at a farmhouse, where the people were very hospitable and invited them to dinner. The farm folk regarded Scraps with much curiosity but no great astonishment, for they were accustomed to seeing extraordinary people in the Land of Oz. The woman of this house got her needle and thread and sewed up the holes made by the porcupine quills in the Patchwork Girl's body, after which Scraps was assured she looked as beautiful as ever. "You ought to have a hat to wear," remarked the woman, "for that would keep the sun from fading the colors of your face. I have some patches and scraps put away, and if you will wait two or three days I'll make you a lovely hat that will match the rest of you." "Never mind the hat," said Scraps, shaking her yarn braids; "it's a kind offer, but we can't stop. I can't see that my colors have faded a particle, as yet; can you?" "Not much," replied the woman. "You are still very gorgeous, in spite of your long journey." The children of the house wanted to keep the Glass Cat to play with, so Bungle was offered a good home if she would remain; but the cat was too much interested in Ojo's adventures and refused to stop. "Children are rough playmates," she remarked to the Shaggy Man, "and although this home is more pleasant than that of the Crooked Magician I fear I would soon be smashed to pieces by the boys and girls." After they had rested themselves they renewed their journey, finding the road now smooth and pleasant to walk upon and the country growing more beautiful the nearer they drew to the Emerald City. By and by Ojo began to walk on the green grass, looking carefully around him. "What are you trying to find?" asked Scraps. "A six-leaved clover," said he. "Don't do that!" exclaimed the Shaggy Man, earnestly. "It's against the Law to pick a six-leaved clover. You must wait until you get Ozma's consent." "She wouldn't know it," declared the boy. "Ozma knows many things," said the Shaggy Man. "In her room is a Magic Picture that shows any scene in the Land of Oz where strangers or travelers happen to be. She may be watching the picture of us even now, and noticing everything that we do." "Does she always watch the Magic Picture?" asked Ojo. "Not always, for she has many other things to do; but, as I said, she may be watching us this very minute." "I don't care," said Ojo, in an obstinate tone of voice; "Ozma's only a girl." The Shaggy Man looked at him in surprise. "You ought to care for Ozma," said he, "if you expect to save your uncle. For, if you displease our powerful Ruler, your journey will surely prove a failure; whereas, if you make a friend of Ozma, she will gladly assist you. As for her being a girl, that is another reason why you should obey her laws, if you are courteous and polite. Everyone in Oz loves Ozma and hates her enemies, for she is as just as she is powerful." Ojo sulked a while, but finally returned to the road and kept away from the green clover. The boy was moody and bad tempered for an hour or two afterward, because he could really see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover, if he found one, and in spite of what the Shaggy Man had said he considered Ozma's law to be unjust. They presently came to a beautiful grove of tall and stately trees, through which the road wound in sharp curves--first one way and then another. As they were walking through this grove they heard some one in the distance singing, and the sounds grew nearer and nearer until they could distinguish the words, although the bend in the road still hid the singer. The song was something like this: "Here's to the hale old bale of straw That's cut from the waving grain, The sweetest sight man ever saw In forest, dell or plain. It fills me with a crunkling joy A straw-stack to behold, For then I pad this lucky boy With strands of yellow gold." "Ah!" exclaimed the Shaggy Man; "here comes my friend the Scarecrow." [Illustration] "What, a live Scarecrow?" asked Ojo. "Yes; the one I told you of. He's a splendid fellow, and very intelligent. You'll like him, I'm sure." Just then the famous Scarecrow of Oz came around the bend in the road, riding astride a wooden Sawhorse which was so small that its rider's legs nearly touched the ground. The Scarecrow wore the blue dress of the Munchkins, in which country he was made, and on his head was set a peaked hat with a flat brim trimmed with tinkling bells. A rope was tied around his waist to hold him in shape, for he was stuffed with straw in every part of him except the top of his head, where at one time the Wizard of Oz had placed sawdust, mixed with needles and pins, to sharpen his wits. The head itself was merely a bag of cloth, fastened to the body at the neck, and on the front of this bag was painted the face--ears, eyes, nose and mouth. The Scarecrow's face was very interesting, for it bore a comical and yet winning expression, although one eye was a bit larger than the other and the ears were not mates. The Munchkin farmer who had made the Scarecrow had neglected to sew him together with close stitches and therefore some of the straw with which he was stuffed was inclined to stick out between the seams. His hands consisted of padded white gloves, with the fingers long and rather limp, and on his feet he wore Munchkin boots of blue leather with broad turns at the tops of them. The Sawhorse was almost as curious as its rider. It had been rudely made, in the beginning, to saw logs upon, so that its body was a short length of a log, and its legs were stout branches fitted into four holes made in the body. The tail was formed by a small branch that had been left on the log, while the head was a gnarled bump on one end of the body. Two knots of wood formed the eyes, and the mouth was a gash chopped in the log. When the Sawhorse first came to life it had no ears at all, and so could not hear; but the boy who then owned him had whittled two ears out of bark and stuck them in the head, after which the Sawhorse heard very distinctly. This queer wooden horse was a great favorite with Princess Ozma, who had caused the bottoms of its legs to be shod with plates of gold, so the wood would not wear away. Its saddle was made of cloth-of-gold richly encrusted with precious gems. It had never worn a bridle. As the Scarecrow came in sight of the party of travelers, he reined in his wooden steed and dismounted, greeting the Shaggy Man with a smiling nod. Then he turned to stare at the Patchwork Girl in wonder, while she in turn stared at him. "Shags," he whispered, drawing the Shaggy Man aside, "pat me into shape, there's a good fellow!" While his friend punched and patted the Scarecrow's body, to smooth out the humps, Scraps turned to Ojo and whispered: "Roll me out, please; I've sagged down dreadfully from walking so much and men like to see a stately figure." She then fell upon the ground and the boy rolled her back and forth like a rolling-pin, until the cotton had filled all the spaces in her patchwork covering and the body had lengthened to its fullest extent. Scraps and the Scarecrow both finished their hasty toilets at the same time, and again they faced each other. "Allow me, Miss Patchwork," said the Shaggy Man, "to present my friend, the Right Royal Scarecrow of Oz. Scarecrow, this is Miss Scraps Patches; Scraps, this is the Scarecrow. Scarecrow--Scraps; Scraps--Scarecrow." They both bowed with much dignity. "Forgive me for staring so rudely," said the Scarecrow, "but you are the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever beheld." "That is a high compliment from one who is himself so beautiful," murmured Scraps, casting down her suspender-button eyes by lowering her head. "But, tell me, good sir, are you not a trifle lumpy?" "Yes, of course; that's my straw, you know. It bunches up, sometimes, in spite of all my efforts to keep it even. Doesn't your straw ever bunch?" "Oh, I'm stuffed with cotton," said Scraps. "It never bunches, but it's inclined to pack down and make me sag." "But cotton is a high-grade stuffing. I may say it is even more stylish, not to say aristocratic, than straw," said the Scarecrow politely. "Still, it is but proper that one so entrancingly lovely should have the best stuffing there is going. I--er--I'm _so_ glad I've met you, Miss Scraps! Introduce us again, Shaggy." [Illustration] "Once is enough," replied the Shaggy Man, laughing at his friend's enthusiasm. "Then tell me where you found her, and--Dear me, what a queer cat! What are _you_ made of--gelatine?" "Pure glass," answered the cat, proud to have attracted the Scarecrow's attention. "I am much more beautiful than the Patchwork Girl. I'm transparent, and Scraps isn't; I've pink brains--you can see 'em work; and I've a ruby heart, finely polished, while Scraps hasn't any heart at all." "No more have I," said the Scarecrow, shaking hands with Scraps, as if to congratulate her on the fact. "I've a friend, the Tin Woodman, who has a heart, but I find I get along pretty well without one. And so--Well, well! here's a little Munchkin boy, too. Shake hands, my little man. How are you?" Ojo placed his hand in the flabby stuffed glove that served the Scarecrow for a hand, and the Scarecrow pressed it so cordially that the straw in his glove crackled. Meantime, the Woozy had approached the Sawhorse and begun to sniff at it. The Sawhorse resented this familiarity and with a sudden kick pounded the Woozy squarely on its head with one gold-shod foot. "Take that, you monster!" it cried angrily. The Woozy never even winked. "To be sure," he said; "I'll take anything I have to. But don't make me angry, you wooden beast, or my eyes will flash fire and burn you up." The Sawhorse rolled its knot eyes wickedly and kicked again, but the Woozy trotted away and said to the Scarecrow: "What a sweet disposition that creature has! I advise you to chop it up for kindling-wood and use me to ride upon. My back is flat and you can't fall off." "I think the trouble is that you haven't been properly introduced," said the Scarecrow, regarding the Woozy with much wonder, for he had never seen such a queer animal before. "The Sawhorse is the favorite steed of Princess Ozma, the Ruler of the Land of Oz, and he lives in a stable decorated with pearls and emeralds, at the rear of the royal palace. He is swift as the wind, untiring, and is kind to his friends. All the people of Oz respect the Sawhorse highly, and when I visit Ozma she sometimes allows me to ride him--as I am doing to-day. Now you know what an important personage the Sawhorse is, and if some one--perhaps yourself--will tell me your name, your rank and station, and your history, it will give me pleasure to relate them to the Sawhorse. This will lead to mutual respect and friendship." The Woozy was somewhat abashed by this speech and did not know how to reply. But Ojo said: "This square beast is called the Woozy, and he isn't of much importance except that he has three hairs growing on the tip of his tail." The Scarecrow looked and saw that this was true. "But," said he, in a puzzled way, "what makes those three hairs important? The Shaggy Man has thousands of hairs, but no one has ever accused him of being important." So Ojo related the sad story of Unc Nunkie's transformation into a marble statue, and told how he had set out to find the things the Crooked Magician wanted, in order to make a charm that would restore his uncle to life. One of the requirements was three hairs from a Woozy's tail, but not being able to pull out the hairs they had been obliged to take the Woozy with them. The Scarecrow looked grave as he listened and he shook his head several times, as if in disapproval. "We must see Ozma about this matter," he said. "That Crooked Magician is breaking the Law by practicing magic without a license, and I'm not sure Ozma will allow him to restore your uncle to life." "Already I have warned the boy of that," declared the Shaggy Man. At this Ojo began to cry. "I want my Unc Nunkie!" he exclaimed. "I know how he can be restored to life, and I'm going to do it--Ozma or no Ozma! What right has this girl Ruler to keep my Unc Nunkie a statue forever?" "Don't worry about that just now," advised the Scarecrow. "Go on to the Emerald City, and when you reach it have the Shaggy Man take you to see Dorothy. Tell her your story and I'm sure she will help you. Dorothy is Ozma's best friend, and if you can win her to your side your uncle is pretty safe to live again." Then he turned to the Woozy and said: "I'm afraid you are not important enough to be introduced to the Sawhorse, after all." [Illustration] "I'm a better beast than he is," retorted the Woozy, indignantly. "My eyes can flash fire, and his can't." "Is this true?" inquired the Scarecrow, turning to the Munchkin boy. "Yes," said Ojo, and told how the Woozy had set fire to the fence. "Have you any other accomplishments?" asked the Scarecrow. "I have a most terrible growl--that is, _sometimes_," said the Woozy, as Scraps laughed merrily and the Shaggy Man smiled. But the Patchwork Girl's laugh made the Scarecrow forget all about the Woozy. He said to her: "What an admirable young lady you are, and what jolly good company! We must be better acquainted, for never before have I met a girl with such exquisite coloring or such natural, artless manners." "No wonder they call you the Wise Scarecrow," replied Scraps. "When you arrive at the Emerald City I will see you again," continued the Scarecrow. "Just now I am going to call upon an old friend--an ordinary young lady named Jinjur--who has promised to repaint my left ear for me. You may have noticed that the paint on my left ear has peeled off and faded, which affects my hearing on that side. Jinjur always fixes me up when I get weather-worn." "When do you expect to return to the Emerald City?" asked the Shaggy Man. "I'll be there this evening, for I'm anxious to have a long talk with Miss Scraps. How is it, Sawhorse; are you equal to a swift run?" "Anything that suits you suits me," returned the wooden horse. So the Scarecrow mounted to the jeweled saddle and waved his hat, when the Sawhorse darted away so swiftly that they were out of sight in an instant. [Illustration] [Illustration] OJO BREAKS THE LAW CHAP. 14 [Illustration] "What a queer man," remarked the Munchkin boy, when the party had resumed its journey. "And so nice and polite," added Scraps, bobbing her head. "I think he is the handsomest man I've seen since I came to life." "Handsome is as handsome does," quoted the Shaggy Man; "but we must admit that no living scarecrow is handsomer. The chief merit of my friend is that he is a great thinker, and in Oz it is considered good policy to follow his advice." "I didn't notice any brains in his head," observed the Glass Cat. "You can't see 'em work, but they're there, all right," declared the Shaggy Man. "I hadn't much confidence in his brains myself, when first I came to Oz, for a humbug Wizard gave them to him; but I was soon convinced that the Scarecrow is really wise; and, unless his brains make him so, such wisdom is unaccountable." "Is the Wizard of Oz a humbug?" asked Ojo. "Not now. He was once, but he has reformed and now assists Glinda the Good, who is the Royal Sorceress of Oz and the only one licensed to practice magic or sorcery. Glinda has taught our old Wizard a good many clever things, so he is no longer a humbug." They walked a little while in silence and then Ojo said: "If Ozma forbids the Crooked Magician to restore Unc Nunkie to life, what shall I do?" The Shaggy Man shook his head. "In that case you can't do anything," he said. "But don't be discouraged yet. We will go to Princess Dorothy and tell her your troubles, and then we will let her talk to Ozma. Dorothy has the kindest little heart in the world, and she has been through so many troubles herself that she is sure to sympathize with you." "Is Dorothy the little girl who came here from Kansas?" asked the boy. "Yes. In Kansas she was Dorothy Gale. I used to know her there, and she brought me to the Land of Oz. But now Ozma has made her a Princess, and Dorothy's Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are here, too." Here the Shaggy Man uttered a long sigh, and then he continued: "It's a queer country, this Land of Oz; but I like it, nevertheless." "What is queer about it?" asked Scraps. "You, for instance," said he. "Did you see no girls as beautiful as I am in your own country?" she inquired. "None with the same gorgeous, variegated beauty," he confessed. "In America a girl stuffed with cotton wouldn't be alive, nor would anyone think of making a girl out of a patchwork quilt." "What a queer country America must be!" she exclaimed in great surprise. "The Scarecrow, whom you say is wise, told me I am the most beautiful creature he has ever seen." "I know; and perhaps you are--from a scarecrow point of view," replied the Shaggy Man; but why he smiled as he said it Scraps could not imagine. As they drew nearer to the Emerald City the travelers were filled with admiration for the splendid scenery they beheld. Handsome houses stood on both sides of the road and each had a green lawn before it as well as a pretty flower garden. "In another hour," said the Shaggy Man, "we shall come in sight of the walls of the Royal City." He was walking ahead, with Scraps, and behind them came the Woozy and the Glass Cat. Ojo had lagged behind, for in spite of the warnings he had received the boy's eyes were fastened on the clover that bordered the road of yellow bricks and he was eager to discover if such a thing as a six-leaved clover really existed. Suddenly he stopped short and bent over to examine the ground more closely. Yes; here at last was a clover with six spreading leaves. He counted them carefully, to make sure. In an instant his heart leaped with joy, for this was one of the important things he had come for--one of the things that would restore dear Unc Nunkie to life. [Illustration] He glanced ahead and saw that none of his companions was looking back. Neither were any other people about, for it was midway between two houses. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. "I might search for weeks and weeks, and never find another six-leaved clover," he told himself, and quickly plucking the stem from the plant he placed the prized clover in his basket, covering it with the other things he carried there. Then, trying to look as if nothing had happened, he hurried forward and overtook his comrades. [Illustration] The Emerald City, which is the most splendid as well as the most beautiful city in any fairyland, is surrounded by a high, thick wall of green marble, polished smooth and set with glistening emeralds. There are four gates, one facing the Munchkin Country, one facing the Country of the Winkies, one facing the Country of the Quadlings and one facing the Country of the Gillikins. The Emerald City lies directly in the center of these four important countries of Oz. The gates had bars of pure gold, and on either side of each gateway were built high towers, from which floated gay banners. Other towers were set at distances along the walls, which were broad enough for four people to walk abreast upon. This enclosure, all green and gold and glittering with precious gems, was indeed a wonderful sight to greet our travelers, who first observed it from the top of a little hill; but beyond the wall was the vast city it surrounded, and hundreds of jeweled spires, domes and minarets, flaunting flags and banners, reared their crests far above the towers of the gateways. In the center of the city our friends could see the tops of many magnificent trees, some nearly as tall as the spires of the buildings, and the Shaggy Man told them that these trees were in the royal gardens of Princess Ozma. They stood a long time on the hilltop, feasting their eyes on the splendor of the Emerald City. "Whee!" exclaimed Scraps, clasping her padded hands in ecstacy, "that'll do for me to live in, all right. No more of the Munchkin Country for these patches--and no more of the Crooked Magician!" "Why, you belong to Dr. Pipt," replied Ojo, looking at her in amazement. "You were made for a servant, Scraps, so you are personal property and not your own mistress." "Bother Dr. Pipt! If he wants me, let him come here and get me. I'll not go back to his den of my own accord; that's certain. Only one place in the Land of Oz is fit to live in, and that's the Emerald City. It's lovely! It's almost as beautiful as I am, Ojo." "In this country," remarked the Shaggy Man, "people live wherever our Ruler tells them to. It wouldn't do to have everyone live in the Emerald City, you know, for some must plow the land and raise grains and fruits and vegetables, while others chop wood in the forests, or fish in the rivers, or herd the sheep and the cattle." "Poor things!" said Scraps. "I'm not sure they are not happier than the city people," replied the Shaggy Man. "There's a freedom and independence in country life that not even the Emerald City can give one. I know that lots of the city people would like to get back to the land. The Scarecrow lives in the country, and so do the Tin Woodman and Jack Pumpkinhead; yet all three would be welcome to live in Ozma's palace if they cared to. Too much splendor becomes tiresome, you know. But, if we're to reach the Emerald City before sundown, we must hurry, for it is yet a long way off." The entrancing sight of the city had put new energy into them all and they hurried forward with lighter steps than before. There was much to interest them along the roadway, for the houses were now set more closely together and they met a good many people who were coming or going from one place or another. All these seemed happy-faced, pleasant people, who nodded graciously to the strangers as they passed, and exchanged words of greeting. At last they reached the great gateway, just as the sun was setting and adding its red glow to the glitter of the emeralds on the green walls and spires. Somewhere inside the city a band could be heard playing sweet music; a soft, subdued hum, as of many voices, reached their ears; from the neighboring yards came the low mooing of cows waiting to be milked. They were almost at the gate when the golden bars slid back and a tall soldier stepped out and faced them. Ojo thought he had never seen so tall a man before. The soldier wore a handsome green and gold uniform, with a tall hat in which was a waving plume, and he had a belt thickly encrusted with jewels. But the most peculiar thing about him was his long green beard, which fell far below his waist and perhaps made him seem taller than he really was. "Halt!" said the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, not in a stern voice but rather in a friendly tone. They halted before he spoke and stood looking at him. "Good evening, Colonel," said the Shaggy Man. "What's the news since I left? Anything important?" "Billina has hatched out thirteen new chickens," replied the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, "and they're the cutest little fluffy yellow balls you ever saw. The Yellow Hen is mighty proud of those children, I can tell you." "She has a right to be," agreed the Shaggy Man. "Let me see; that's about seven thousand chicks she has hatched out; isn't it, General?" "That, at least," was the reply. "You will have to visit Billina and congratulate her." "It will give me pleasure to do that," said the Shaggy Man. "But you will observe that I have brought some strangers home with me. I am going to take them to see Dorothy." "One moment, please," said the soldier, barring their way as they started to enter the gate. "I am on duty, and I have orders to execute. Is anyone in your party named Ojo the Unlucky?" "Why, that's me!" cried Ojo, astonished at hearing his name on the lips of a stranger. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers nodded. "I thought so," said he, "and I am sorry to announce that it is my painful duty to arrest you." "Arrest me!" exclaimed the boy. "What for?" "I haven't looked to see," answered the soldier. Then he drew a paper from his breast pocket and glanced at it. "Oh, yes; you are to be arrested for wilfully breaking one of the Laws of Oz." "Breaking a law!" said Scraps. "Nonsense, Soldier; you're joking." "Not this time," returned the soldier, with a sigh. "My dear child--what are you, a rummage sale or a guess-me-quick?--in me you behold the Body-Guard of our gracious Ruler, Princess Ozma, as well as the Royal Army of Oz and the Police Force of the Emerald City." "And only one man!" exclaimed the Patchwork Girl. [Illustration] "Only one, and plenty enough. In my official positions I've had nothing to do for a good many years--so long that I began to fear I was absolutely useless--until to-day. An hour ago I was called to the presence of her Highness, Ozma of Oz, and told to arrest a boy named Ojo the Unlucky, who was journeying from the Munchkin Country to the Emerald City and would arrive in a short time. This command so astonished me that I nearly fainted, for it is the first time anyone has merited arrest since I can remember. You are rightly named Ojo the Unlucky, my poor boy, since you have broken a Law of Oz." "But you are wrong," said Scraps. "Ozma is wrong--you are all wrong--for Ojo has broken no Law." [Illustration] "Then he will soon be free again," replied the Soldier with the Green Whiskers. "Anyone accused of crime is given a fair trial by our Ruler and has every chance to prove his innocence. But just now Ozma's orders must be obeyed." With this he took from his pocket a pair of handcuffs made of gold and set with rubies and diamonds, and these he snapped over Ojo's wrists. [Illustration] OZMA'S PRISONER CHAP. 15 [Illustration] The boy was so bewildered by this calamity that he made no resistance at all. He knew very well he was guilty, but it surprised him that Ozma also knew it. He wondered how she had found out so soon that he had picked the six-leaved clover. He handed his basket to Scraps and said: "Keep that, until I get out of prison. If I never get out, take it to the Crooked Magician, to whom it belongs." The Shaggy Man had been gazing earnestly in the boy's face, uncertain whether to defend him or not; but something he read in Ojo's expression made him draw back and refuse to interfere to save him. The Shaggy Man was greatly surprised and grieved, but he knew that Ozma never made mistakes and so Ojo must really have broken the Law of Oz. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers now led them all through the gate and into a little room built in the wall. Here sat a jolly little man, richly dressed in green and having around his neck a heavy gold chain to which a number of great golden keys were attached. This was the Guardian of the Gate and at the moment they entered his room he was playing a tune upon a mouth-organ. "Listen!" he said, holding up his hand for silence. "I've just composed a tune called 'The Speckled Alligator.' It's in patch-time, which is much superior to rag-time, and I've composed it in honor of the Patchwork Girl, who has just arrived." "How did you know I had arrived?" asked Scraps, much interested. "It's my business to know who's coming, for I'm the Guardian of the Gate. Keep quiet while I play you 'The Speckled Alligator.'" It wasn't a very bad tune, nor a very good one, but all listened respectfully while he shut his eyes and swayed his head from side to side and blew the notes from the little instrument. When it was all over the Soldier with the Green Whiskers said: "Guardian, I have here a prisoner." "Good gracious! A prisoner?" cried the little man, jumping up from his chair. "Which one? Not the Shaggy Man?" "No; this boy." "Ah; I hope his fault is as small as himself," said the Guardian of the Gate. "But what can he have done, and what made him do it?" "Can't say," replied the soldier. "All I know is that he has broken the Law." "But no one ever does that!" "Then he must be innocent, and soon will be released. I hope you are right, Guardian. Just now I am ordered to take him to prison. Get me a prisoner's robe from your Official Wardrobe." [Illustration] The Guardian unlocked a closet and took from it a white robe, which the soldier threw over Ojo. It covered him from head to foot, but had two holes just in front of his eyes, so he could see where to go. In this attire the boy presented a very quaint appearance. As the Guardian unlocked a gate leading from his room into the streets of the Emerald City, the Shaggy Man said to Scraps: "I think I shall take you directly to Dorothy, as the Scarecrow advised, and the Glass Cat and the Woozy may come with us. Ojo must go to prison with the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, but he will be well treated and you need not worry about him." "What will they do with him?" asked Scraps. "That I cannot tell. Since I came to the Land of Oz no one has ever been arrested or imprisoned--until Ojo broke the Law." "Seems to me that girl Ruler of yours is making a big fuss over nothing," remarked Scraps, tossing her yarn hair out of her eyes with a jerk of her patched head. "I don't know what Ojo has done, but it couldn't be anything very bad, for you and I were with him all the time." The Shaggy Man made no reply to this speech and presently the Patchwork Girl forgot all about Ojo in her admiration of the wonderful city she had entered. They soon separated from the Munchkin boy, who was led by the Soldier with the Green Whiskers down a side street toward the prison. Ojo felt very miserable and greatly ashamed of himself, but he was beginning to grow angry because he was treated in such a disgraceful manner. Instead of entering the splendid Emerald City as a respectable traveler who was entitled to a welcome and to hospitality, he was being brought in as a criminal, handcuffed and in a robe that told all he met of his deep disgrace. Ojo was by nature gentle and affectionate and if he had disobeyed the Law of Oz it was to restore his dear Unc Nunkie to life. His fault was more thoughtless than wicked, but that did not alter the fact that he had committed a fault. At first he had felt sorrow and remorse, but the more he thought about the unjust treatment he had received--unjust merely because he considered it so--the more he resented his arrest, blaming Ozma for making foolish laws and then punishing folks who broke them. Only a six-leaved clover! A tiny green plant growing neglected and trampled under foot. What harm could there be in picking it? Ojo began to think Ozma must be a very bad and oppressive Ruler for such a lovely fairyland as Oz. The Shaggy Man said the people loved her; but how could they? The little Munchkin boy was so busy thinking these things--which many guilty prisoners have thought before him--that he scarcely noticed all the splendor of the city streets through which they passed. Whenever they met any of the happy, smiling people, the boy turned his head away in shame, although none knew who was beneath the robe. By and by they reached a house built just beside the great city wall, but in a quiet, retired place. It was a pretty house, neatly painted and with many windows. Before it was a garden filled with blooming flowers. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers led Ojo up the gravel path to the front door, on which he knocked. A woman opened the door and, seeing Ojo in his white robe, exclaimed: "Goodness me! A prisoner at last. But what a small one, Soldier." "The size doesn't matter, Tollydiggle, my dear. The fact remains that he is a prisoner," said the soldier. "And, this being the prison, and you the jailer, it is my duty to place the prisoner in your charge." "True. Come in, then, and I'll give you a receipt for him." They entered the house and passed through a hall to a large circular room, where the woman pulled the robe off from Ojo and looked at him with kindly interest. The boy, on his part, was gazing around him in amazement, for never had he dreamed of such a magnificent apartment as this in which he stood. The roof of the dome was of colored glass, worked into beautiful designs. The walls were paneled with plates of gold decorated with gems of great size and many colors, and upon the tiled floor were soft rugs delightful to walk upon. The furniture was framed in gold and upholstered in satin brocade and it consisted of easy chairs, divans and stools in great variety. Also there were several tables with mirror tops and cabinets filled with rare and curious things. In one place a case filled with books stood against the wall, and elsewhere Ojo saw a cupboard containing all sorts of games. "May I stay here a little while before I go to prison?" asked the boy, pleadingly. "Why, this is your prison," replied Tollydiggle, "and in me behold your jailor. Take off those handcuffs, Soldier, for it is impossible for anyone to escape from this house." "I know that very well," replied the soldier and at once unlocked the handcuffs and released the prisoner. The woman touched a button on the wall and lighted a big chandelier that hung suspended from the ceiling, for it was growing dark outside. Then she seated herself at a desk and asked: "What name?" "Ojo the Unlucky," answered the Soldier with the Green Whiskers. "Unlucky? Ah, that accounts for it," said she. "What crime?" "Breaking a Law of Oz." "All right. There's your receipt, Soldier; and now I'm responsible for the prisoner. I'm glad of it, for this is the first time I've ever had anything to do, in my official capacity," remarked the jailer, in a pleased tone. "It's the same with me, Tollydiggle," laughed the soldier. "But my task is finished and I must go and report to Ozma that I've done my duty like a faithful Police Force, a loyal Army and an honest Body-Guard--as I hope I am." Saying this, he nodded farewell to Tollydiggle and Ojo and went away. "Now, then," said the woman briskly, "I must get you some supper, for you are doubtless hungry. What would you prefer: planked whitefish, omelet with jelly or mutton-chops with gravy?" Ojo thought about it. Then he said: "I'll take the chops, if you please." "Very well; amuse yourself while I'm gone; I won't be long," and then she went out by a door and left the prisoner alone. Ojo was much astonished, for not only was this unlike any prison he had ever heard of, but he was being treated more as a guest than a criminal. There were many windows and they had no locks. There were three doors to the room and none were bolted. He cautiously opened one of the doors and found it led into a hallway. But he had no intention of trying to escape. If his jailor was willing to trust him in this way he would not betray her trust, and moreover a hot supper was being prepared for him and his prison was very pleasant and comfortable. So he took a book from the case and sat down in a big chair to look at the pictures. This amused him until the woman came in with a large tray and spread a cloth on one of the tables. Then she arranged his supper, which proved the most varied and delicious meal Ojo had ever eaten in his life. Tollydiggle sat near him while he ate, sewing on some fancy work she held in her lap. When he had finished she cleared the table and then read to him a story from one of the books. [Illustration] "Is this really a prison?" he asked, when she had finished reading. "Indeed it is," she replied. "It is the only prison in the Land of Oz." "And am I a prisoner?" "Bless the child! Of course." "Then why is the prison so fine, and why are you so kind to me?" he earnestly asked. Tollydiggle seemed surprised by the question, but she presently answered: "We consider a prisoner unfortunate. He is unfortunate in two ways--because he has done something wrong and because he is deprived of his liberty. Therefore we should treat him kindly, because of his misfortune, for otherwise he would become hard and bitter and would not be sorry he had done wrong. Ozma thinks that one who has committed a fault did so because he was not strong and brave; therefore she puts him in prison to make him strong and brave. When that is accomplished he is no longer a prisoner, but a good and loyal citizen and everyone is glad that he is now strong enough to resist doing wrong. You see, it is kindness that makes one strong and brave; and so we are kind to our prisoners." Ojo thought this over very carefully. "I had an idea," said he, "that prisoners were always treated harshly, to punish them." "That would be dreadful!" cried Tollydiggle. "Isn't one punished enough in knowing he has done wrong? Don't you wish, Ojo, with all your heart, that you had not been disobedient and broken a Law of Oz?" "I--I hate to be different from other people," he admitted. "Yes; one likes to be respected as highly as his neighbors are," said the woman. "When you are tried and found guilty, you will be obliged to make amends, in some way. I don't know just what Ozma will do to you, because this is the first time one of us has broken a Law; but you may be sure she will be just and merciful. Here in the Emerald City people are too happy and contented ever to do wrong; but perhaps you came from some faraway corner of our land, and having no love for Ozma carelessly broke one of her Laws." "Yes," said Ojo, "I've lived all my life in the heart of a lonely forest, where I saw no one but dear Unc Nunkie." "I thought so," said Tollydiggle. "But now we have talked enough, so let us play a game until bedtime." [Illustration] [Illustration] PRINCESS DOROTHY CHAP. 16 [Illustration] Dorothy Gale was sitting in one of her rooms in the royal palace, while curled up at her feet was a little black dog with a shaggy coat and very bright eyes. She wore a plain white frock, without any jewels or other ornaments except an emerald-green hair-ribbon, for Dorothy was a simple little girl and had not been in the least spoiled by the magnificence surrounding her. Once the child had lived on the Kansas prairies, but she seemed marked for adventure, for she had made several trips to the Land of Oz before she came to live there for good. Her very best friend was the beautiful Ozma of Oz, who loved Dorothy so well that she kept her in her own palace, so as to be near her. The girl's Uncle Henry and Aunt Em--the only relatives she had in the world--had also been brought here by Ozma and given a pleasant home. Dorothy knew almost everybody in Oz, and it was she who had discovered the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion, as well as Tik-tok the Clockwork Man. Her life was very pleasant now, and although she had been made a Princess of Oz by her friend Ozma she did not care much to be a Princess and remained as sweet as when she had been plain Dorothy Gale of Kansas. Dorothy was reading in a book this evening when Jellia Jamb, the favorite servant-maid of the palace, came to say that the Shaggy Man wanted to see her. "All right," said Dorothy; "tell him to come right up." "But he has some queer creatures with him--some of the queerest I've ever laid eyes on," reported Jellia. "Never mind; let 'em all come up," replied Dorothy. But when the door opened to admit not only the Shaggy Man, but Scraps, the Woozy and the Glass Cat, Dorothy jumped up and looked at her strange visitors in amazement. The Patchwork Girl was the most curious of all and Dorothy was uncertain at first whether Scraps was really alive or only a dream or a nightmare. Toto, her dog, slowly uncurled himself and going to the Patchwork Girl sniffed at her inquiringly; but soon he lay down again, as if to say he had no interest in such an irregular creation. "You're a new one to me," Dorothy said reflectively, addressing the Patchwork Girl. "I can't imagine where you've come from." "Who, me?" asked Scraps, looking around the pretty room instead of at the girl. "Oh, I came from a bed-quilt, I guess. That's what they say, anyhow. Some call it a crazy-quilt and some a patchwork quilt. But my name is Scraps--and now you know all about me." [Illustration] "Not quite all," returned Dorothy with a smile. "I wish you'd tell me how you came to be alive." "That's an easy job," said Scraps, sitting upon a big upholstered chair and making the springs bounce her up and down. "Margolotte wanted a slave, so she made me out of an old bed-quilt she didn't use. Cotton stuffing, suspender-button eyes, red velvet tongue, pearl beads for teeth. The Crooked Magician made a Powder of Life, sprinkled me with it and--here I am. Perhaps you've noticed my different colors. A very refined and educated gentleman named the Scarecrow, whom I met, told me I am the most beautiful creature in all Oz, and I believe it." "Oh! Have you met our Scarecrow, then?" asked Dorothy, a little puzzled to understand the brief history related. "Yes; isn't he jolly?" "The Scarecrow has many good qualities," replied Dorothy. "But I'm sorry to hear all this 'bout the Crooked Magician. Ozma'll be mad as hops when she hears he's been doing magic again. She told him not to." "He only practices magic for the benefit of his own family," explained Bungle, who was keeping at a respectful distance from the little black dog. "Dear me," said Dorothy; "I hadn't noticed you before. Are you glass, or what?" "I'm glass, and transparent, too, which is more than can be said of some folks," answered the cat. "Also I have some lovely pink brains; you can see 'em work." "Oh; is that so? Come over here and let me see." The Glass Cat hesitated, eyeing the dog. "Send that beast away and I will," she said. "Beast! Why, that's my dog Toto, an' he's the kindest dog in all the world. Toto knows a good many things, too; 'most as much as I do, I guess." "Why doesn't he say anything?" asked Bungle. "He can't talk, not being a fairy dog," explained Dorothy. "He's just a common United States dog; but that's a good deal; and I understand him, and he understands me, just as well as if he could talk." Toto, at this, got up and rubbed his head softly against Dorothy's hand, which she held out to him, and he looked up into her face as if he had understood every word she had said. "This cat, Toto," she said to him, "is made of glass, so you mustn't bother it, or chase it, any more than you do my Pink Kitten. It's prob'ly brittle and might break if it bumped against anything." "Woof!" said Toto, and that meant he understood. The Glass Cat was so proud of her pink brains that she ventured to come close to Dorothy, in order that the girl might "see 'em work." This was really interesting, but when Dorothy patted the cat she found the glass cold and hard and unresponsive, so she decided at once that Bungle would never do for a pet. "What do you know about the Crooked Magician who lives on the mountain?" asked Dorothy. "He made me," replied the cat; "so I know all about him. The Patchwork Girl is new--three or four days old--but I've lived with Dr. Pipt for years; and, though I don't much care for him, I will say that he has always refused to work magic for any of the people who come to his house. He thinks there's no harm in doing magic things for his own family, and he made me out of glass because the meat cats drink too much milk. He also made Scraps come to life so she could do the housework for his wife Margolotte." "Then why did you both leave him?" asked Dorothy. "I think you'd better let me explain that," interrupted the Shaggy Man, and then he told Dorothy all of Ojo's story, and how Unc Nunkie and Margolotte had accidentally been turned to marble by the Liquid of Petrifaction. Then he related how the boy had started out in search of the things needed to make the magic charm, which would restore the unfortunates to life, and how he had found the Woozy and taken him along because he could not pull the three hairs out of its tail. Dorothy listened to all this with much interest, and thought that so far Ojo had acted very well. But when the Shaggy Man told her of the Munchkin boy's arrest by the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, because he was accused of wilfully breaking a Law of Oz, the little girl was greatly shocked. "What do you s'pose he's done?" she asked. "I fear he has picked a six-leaved clover," answered the Shaggy Man, sadly. "I did not see him do it, and I warned him that to do so was against the Law; but perhaps that is what he did, nevertheless." "I'm sorry 'bout that," said Dorothy gravely, "for now there will be no one to help his poor uncle and Margolotte--'cept this Patchwork Girl, the Woozy and the Glass Cat." "Don't mention it," said Scraps. "That's no affair of mine. Margolotte and Unc Nunkie are perfect strangers to me, for the moment I came to life they came to marble." "I see," remarked Dorothy with a sigh of regret; "the woman forgot to give you a heart." "I'm glad she did," retorted the Patchwork Girl. "A heart must be a great annoyance to one. It makes a person feel sad or sorry or devoted or sympathetic--all of which sensations interfere with one's happiness." "I have a heart," murmured the Glass Cat. "It's made of a ruby; but I don't imagine I shall let it bother me about helping Unc Nunkie and Margolotte." "That's a pretty hard heart of yours," said Dorothy. "And the Woozy, of course--" "Why, as for me," observed the Woozy, who was reclining on the floor with his legs doubled under him, so that he looked much like a square box, "I have never seen those unfortunate people you are speaking of, and yet I am sorry for them, having at times been unfortunate myself. When I was shut up in that forest I longed for some one to help me, and by and by Ojo came and did help me. So I'm willing to help his uncle. I'm only a stupid beast, Dorothy, but I can't help that, and if you'll tell me what to do to help Ojo and his uncle, I'll gladly do it." Dorothy walked over and patted the Woozy on his square head. "You're not pretty," she said, "but I like you. What are you able to do; anything 'special?" "I can make my eyes flash fire--real fire--when I'm angry. When anyone says: 'Krizzle-Kroo' to me I get angry, and then my eyes flash fire." "I don't see as fireworks could help Ojo's uncle," remarked Dorothy. "Can you do anything else?" "I--I thought I had a very terrifying growl," said the Woozy, with hesitation; "but perhaps I was mistaken." "Yes," said the Shaggy Man, "you were certainly wrong about that." Then he turned to Dorothy and added: "What will become of the Munchkin boy?" "I don't know," she said, shaking her head thoughtfully. "Ozma will see him 'bout it, of course, and then she'll punish him. But how, I don't know, 'cause no one ever has been punished in Oz since I knew anything about the place. Too bad, Shaggy Man, isn't it?" While they were talking Scraps had been roaming around the room and looking at all the pretty things it contained. She had carried Ojo's basket in her hand, until now, when she decided to see what was inside it. She found the bread and cheese, which she had no use for, and the bundle of charms, which were curious but quite a mystery to her. Then, turning these over, she came upon the six-leaved clover which the boy had plucked. [Illustration] Scraps was quick-witted, and although she had no heart she recognized the fact that Ojo was her first friend. She knew at once that because the boy had taken the clover he had been imprisoned, and she understood that Ojo had given her the basket so they would not find the clover in his possession and have proof of his crime. So, turning her head to see that no one noticed her, she took the clover from the basket and dropped it into a golden vase that stood on Dorothy's table. Then she came forward and said to Dorothy: "I wouldn't care to help Ojo's uncle, but I will help Ojo. He did not break the Law--no one can prove he did--and that green-whiskered soldier had no right to arrest him." "Ozma ordered the boy's arrest," said Dorothy, "and of course she knew what she was doing. But if you can prove Ojo is innocent they will set him free at once." "They'll have to prove him guilty, won't they?" asked Scraps. "I s'pose so." "Well, they can't do that," declared the Patchwork Girl. As it was nearly time for Dorothy to dine with Ozma, which she did every evening, she rang for a servant and ordered the Woozy taken to a nice room and given plenty of such food as he liked best. "That's honey-bees," said the Woozy. "You can't eat honey-bees, but you'll be given something just as nice," Dorothy told him. Then she had the Glass Cat taken to another room for the night and the Patchwork Girl she kept in one of her own rooms, for she was much interested in the strange creature and wanted to talk with her again and try to understand her better. [Illustration] [Illustration] OZMA AND HER FRIENDS CHAP. 17 [Illustration] The Shaggy Man had a room of his own in the royal palace, so there he went to change his shaggy suit of clothes for another just as shaggy but not so dusty from travel. He selected a costume of pea-green and pink satin and velvet, with embroidered shags on all the edges and iridescent pearls for ornaments. Then he bathed in an alabaster pool and brushed his shaggy hair and whiskers the wrong way to make them still more shaggy. This accomplished, and arrayed in his splendid shaggy garments, he went to Ozma's banquet hall and found the Scarecrow, the Wizard and Dorothy already assembled there. The Scarecrow had made a quick trip and returned to the Emerald City with his left ear freshly painted. A moment later, while they all stood in waiting, a servant threw open a door, the orchestra struck up a tune and Ozma of Oz entered. Much has been told and written concerning the beauty of person and character of this sweet girl Ruler of the Land of Oz--the richest, the happiest and most delightful fairyland of which we have any knowledge. Yet with all her queenly qualities Ozma was a real girl and enjoyed the things in life that other real girls enjoy. When she sat on her splendid emerald throne in the great Throne Room of her palace and made laws and settled disputes and tried to keep all her subjects happy and contented, she was as dignified and demure as any queen might be; but when she had thrown aside her jeweled robe of state and her sceptre, and had retired to her private apartments, the girl--joyous, light-hearted and free--replaced the sedate Ruler. In the banquet hall to-night were gathered only old and trusted friends, so here Ozma was herself--a mere girl. She greeted Dorothy with a kiss, the Shaggy Man with a smile, the little old Wizard with a friendly handshake and then she pressed the Scarecrow's stuffed arm and cried merrily: "What a lovely left ear! Why, it's a hundred times better than the old one." "I'm glad you like it," replied the Scarecrow, well pleased. "Jinjur did a neat job, didn't she? And my hearing is now perfect. Isn't it wonderful what a little paint will do, if it's properly applied?" "It really _is_ wonderful," she agreed, as they all took their seats; "but the Sawhorse must have made his legs twinkle to have carried you so far in one day. I didn't expect you back before to-morrow, at the earliest." "Well," said the Scarecrow, "I met a charming girl on the road and wanted to see more of her, so I hurried back." Ozma laughed. "I know," she returned; "it's the Patchwork Girl. She is certainly bewildering, if not strictly beautiful." "Have you seen her, then?" the straw man eagerly asked. "Only in my Magic Picture, which shows me all scenes of interest in the Land of Oz." "I fear the picture didn't do her justice," said the Scarecrow. "It seemed to me that nothing could be more gorgeous," declared Ozma. "Whoever made that patchwork quilt, from which Scraps was formed, must have selected the gayest and brightest bits of cloth that ever were woven." "I am glad you like her," said the Scarecrow in a satisfied tone. Although the straw man did not eat, not being made so he could, he often dined with Ozma and her companions, merely for the pleasure of talking with them. He sat at the table and had a napkin and plate, but the servants knew better than to offer him food. After a little while he asked: "Where is the Patchwork Girl now?" "In my room," replied Dorothy. "I've taken a fancy to her; she's so queer and--and--uncommon." "She's half crazy, I think," added the Shaggy Man. "But she is so beautiful!" exclaimed the Scarecrow, as if that fact disarmed all criticism. They all laughed at his enthusiasm, but the Scarecrow was quite serious. Seeing that he was interested in Scraps they forbore to say anything against her. The little band of friends Ozma had gathered around her was so quaintly assorted that much care must be exercised to avoid hurting their feelings or making any one of them unhappy. It was this considerate kindness that held them close friends and enabled them to enjoy one another's society. [Illustration] Another thing they avoided was conversing on unpleasant subjects, and for that reason Ojo and his troubles were not mentioned during the dinner. The Shaggy Man, however, related his adventures with the monstrous plants which had seized and enfolded the travelers, and told how he had robbed Chiss, the giant porcupine, of the quills which it was accustomed to throw at people. Both Dorothy and Ozma were pleased with this exploit and thought it served Chiss right. Then they talked of the Woozy, which was the most remarkable animal any of them had ever before seen--except, perhaps, the live Sawhorse. Ozma had never known that her dominions contained such a thing as a Woozy, there being but one in existence and this being confined in his forest for many years. Dorothy said she believed the Woozy was a good beast, honest and faithful; but she added that she did not care much for the Glass Cat. "Still," said the Shaggy Man, "the Glass Cat is very pretty and if she were not so conceited over her pink brains no one would object to her as a companion." The Wizard had been eating silently until now, when he looked up and remarked: "That Powder of Life which is made by the Crooked Magician is really a wonderful thing. But Dr. Pipt does not know its true value and he uses it in the most foolish ways." "I must see about that," said Ozma, gravely. Then she smiled again and continued in a lighter tone: "It was Dr. Pipt's famous Powder of Life that enabled me to become the Ruler of Oz." "I've never heard that story," said the Shaggy Man, looking at Ozma questioningly. "Well, when I was a baby girl I was stolen by an old Witch named Mombi and transformed into a boy," began the girl Ruler. "I did not know who I was and when I grew big enough to work, the Witch made me wait upon her and carry wood for the fire and hoe in the garden. One day she came back from a journey bringing some of the Powder of Life, which Dr. Pipt had given her. I had made a pumpkin-headed man and set it up in her path to frighten her, for I was fond of fun and hated the Witch. But she knew what the figure was and to test her Powder of Life she sprinkled some of it on the man I had made. It came to life and is now our dear friend Jack Pumpkinhead. That night I ran away with Jack to escape punishment, and I took old Mombi's Powder of Life with me. During our journey we came upon a wooden Sawhorse standing by the road and I used the magic powder to bring it to life. The Sawhorse has been with me ever since. When I got to the Emerald City the good Sorceress, Glinda, knew who I was and restored me to my proper person, when I became the rightful Ruler of this land. So you see had not old Mombi brought home the Powder of Life I might never have run away from her and become Ozma of Oz, nor would we have had Jack Pumpkinhead and the Sawhorse to comfort and amuse us." That story interested the Shaggy Man very much, as well as the others, who had often heard it before. The dinner being now concluded, they all went to Ozma's drawing-room, where they passed a pleasant evening before it came time to retire. [Illustration: GLINDA] [Illustration] OJO IS FORGIVEN CHAP. 18 [Illustration] The next morning the Soldier with the Green Whiskers went to the prison and took Ojo away to the royal palace, where he was summoned to appear before the girl Ruler for judgment. Again the soldier put upon the boy the jeweled handcuffs and white prisoner's robe with the peaked top and holes for the eyes. Ojo was so ashamed, both of his disgrace and the fault he had committed, that he was glad to be covered up in this way, so that people could not see him or know who he was. He followed the Soldier with the Green Whiskers very willingly, anxious that his fate might be decided as soon as possible. The inhabitants of the Emerald City were polite people and never jeered at the unfortunate; but it was so long since they had seen a prisoner that they cast many curious looks toward the boy and many of them hurried away to the royal palace to be present during the trial. When Ojo was escorted into the great Throne Room of the palace he found hundreds of people assembled there. In the magnificent emerald throne, which sparkled with countless jewels, sat Ozma of Oz in her Robe of State, which was embroidered with emeralds and pearls. On her right, but a little lower, was Dorothy, and on her left the Scarecrow. Still lower, but nearly in front of Ozma, sat the wonderful Wizard of Oz and on a small table beside him was the golden vase from Dorothy's room, into which Scraps had dropped the stolen clover. At Ozma's feet crouched two enormous beasts, each the largest and most powerful of its kind. Although these beasts were quite free, no one present was alarmed by them; for the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger were well known and respected in the Emerald City and they always guarded the Ruler when she held high court in the Throne Room. There was still another beast present, but this one Dorothy held in her arms, for it was her constant companion, the little dog Toto. Toto knew the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger and often played and romped with them, for they were good friends. Seated on ivory chairs before Ozma, with a clear space between them and the throne, were many of the nobility of the Emerald City, lords and ladies in beautiful costumes, and officials of the kingdom in the royal uniforms of Oz. Behind these courtiers were others of less importance, filling the great hall to the very doors. At the same moment that the Soldier with the Green Whiskers arrived with Ojo, the Shaggy Man entered from a side door, escorting the Patchwork Girl, the Woozy and the Glass Cat. All these came to the vacant space before the throne and stood facing the Ruler. "Hullo, Ojo," said Scraps; "how are you?" "All right," he replied; but the scene awed the boy and his voice trembled a little with fear. Nothing could awe the Patchwork Girl, and although the Woozy was somewhat uneasy in these splendid surroundings the Glass Cat was delighted with the sumptuousness of the court and the impressiveness of the occasion--pretty big words but quite expressive. At a sign from Ozma the soldier removed Ojo's white robe and the boy stood face to face with the girl who was to decide his punishment. He saw at a glance how lovely and sweet she was, and his heart gave a bound of joy, for he hoped she would be merciful. Ozma sat looking at the prisoner a long time. Then she said gently: "One of the Laws of Oz forbids anyone to pick a six-leaved clover. You are accused of having broken this Law, even after you had been warned not to do so." [Illustration: "_I demand that you set this poor Munchkin Boy free_"] Ojo hung his head and while he hesitated how to reply the Patchwork Girl stepped forward and spoke for him. "All this fuss is about nothing at all," she said, facing Ozma unabashed. "You can't prove he picked the six-leaved clover, so you've no right to accuse him of it. Search him, if you like, but you won't find the clover; look in his basket and you'll find it's not there. He hasn't got it, so I demand that you set this poor Munchkin boy free." The people of Oz listened to this defiance in amazement and wondered at the queer Patchwork Girl who dared talk so boldly to their Ruler. But Ozma sat silent and motionless and it was the little Wizard who answered Scraps. "So the clover hasn't been picked, eh?" he said. "I think it has. I think the boy hid it in his basket, and then gave the basket to you. I also think you dropped the clover into this vase, which stood in Princess Dorothy's room, hoping to get rid of it so it would not prove the boy guilty. You're a stranger here, Miss Patches, and so you don't know that nothing can be hidden from our powerful Ruler's Magic Picture--nor from the watchful eyes of the humble Wizard of Oz. Look, all of you!" With these words he waved his hands toward the vase on the table, which Scraps now noticed for the first time. From the mouth of the vase a plant sprouted, slowly growing before their eyes until it became a beautiful bush, and on the topmost branch appeared the six-leaved clover which Ojo had unfortunately picked. The Patchwork Girl looked at the clover and said: "Oh, so you've found it. Very well; prove he picked it, if you can." Ozma turned to Ojo. "Did you pick the six-leaved clover?" she asked. "Yes," he replied. "I knew it was against the Law, but I wanted to save Unc Nunkie and I was afraid if I asked your consent to pick it you would refuse me." "What caused you to think that?" asked the Ruler. "Why, it seemed to me a foolish law, unjust and unreasonable. Even now I can see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover. And I--I had not seen the Emerald City, then, nor you, and I thought a girl who would make such a silly Law would not be likely to help anyone in trouble." Ozma regarded him musingly, her chin resting upon her hand; but she was not angry. On the contrary she smiled a little at her thoughts and then grew sober again. "I suppose a good many laws seem foolish to those people who do not understand them," she said; "but no law is ever made without some purpose, and that purpose is usually to protect all the people and guard their welfare. As you are a stranger, I will explain this Law which to you seems so foolish. Years ago there were many Witches and Magicians in the Land of Oz, and one of the things they often used in making their magic charms and transformations was a six-leaved clover. These Witches and Magicians caused so much trouble among my people, often using their powers for evil rather than good, that I decided to forbid anyone to practice magic or sorcery except Glinda the Good and her assistant, the Wizard of Oz, both of whom I can trust to use their arts only to benefit my people and to make them happier. Since I issued that Law the Land of Oz has been far more peaceful and quiet; but I learned that some of the Witches and Magicians were still practicing magic on the sly and using the six-leaved clovers to make their potions and charms. Therefore I made another Law forbidding anyone from plucking a six-leaved clover or from gathering other plants and herbs which the Witches boil in their kettles to work magic with. That has almost put an end to wicked sorcery in our land, so you see the Law was not a foolish one, but wise and just; and, in any event, it is wrong to disobey a Law." Ojo knew she was right and felt greatly mortified to realize he had acted and spoken so ridiculously. But he raised his head and looked Ozma in the face, saying: "I am sorry I have acted wrongly and broken your Law. I did it to save Unc Nunkie, and thought I would not be found out. But I am guilty of this act and whatever punishment you think I deserve I will suffer willingly." Ozma smiled more brightly, then, and nodded graciously. "You are forgiven," she said. "For, although you have committed a serious fault, you are now penitent and I think you have been punished enough. Soldier, release Ojo the Lucky and--" "I beg your pardon; I'm Ojo the _Un_lucky," said the boy. "At this moment you are lucky," said she. "Release him, Soldier, and let him go free." The people were glad to hear Ozma's decree and murmured their approval. As the royal audience was now over, they began to leave the Throne Room and soon there were none remaining except Ojo and his friends and Ozma and her favorites. The girl Ruler now asked Ojo to sit down and tell her all his story, which he did, beginning at the time he had left his home in the forest and ending with his arrival at the Emerald City and his arrest. Ozma listened attentively and was thoughtful for some moments after the boy had finished speaking. Then she said: "The Crooked Magician was wrong to make the Glass Cat and the Patchwork Girl, for it was against the Law. And if he had not unlawfully kept the bottle of Liquid of Petrifaction standing on his shelf, the accident to his wife Margolotte and to Unc Nunkie could not have occurred. I can understand, however, that Ojo, who loves his uncle, will be unhappy unless he can save him. Also I feel it is wrong to leave those two victims standing as marble statues, when they ought to be alive. So I propose we allow Dr. Pipt to make the magic charm which will save them, and that we assist Ojo to find the things he is seeking. What do you think, Wizard?" "That is perhaps the best thing to do," replied the Wizard. "But after the Crooked Magician has restored those poor people to life you must take away his magic powers." "I will," promised Ozma. "Now tell me, please, what magic things must you find?" continued the Wizard, addressing Ojo. "The three hairs from the Woozy's tail I have," said the boy. "That is, I have the Woozy, and the hairs are in his tail. The six-leaved clover I--I--" "You may take it and keep it," said Ozma. "That will not be breaking the Law, for it is already picked, and the crime of picking it is forgiven." "Thank you!" cried Ojo gratefully. Then he continued: "The next thing I must find is a gill of water from a dark well." The Wizard shook his head. "That," said he, "will be a hard task, but if you travel far enough you may discover it." "I am willing to travel for years, if it will save Unc Nunkie," declared Ojo, earnestly. "Then you'd better begin your journey at once," advised the Wizard. Dorothy had been listening with interest to this conversation. Now she turned to Ozma and asked: "May I go with Ojo, to help him?" "Would you like to?" returned Ozma. "Yes. I know Oz pretty well, but Ojo doesn't know it at all. I'm sorry for his uncle and poor Margolotte and I'd like to help save them. May I go?" "If you wish to," replied Ozma. "If Dorothy goes, then I must go to take care of her," said the Scarecrow, decidedly. "A dark well can only be discovered in some out-of-the-way place, and there may be dangers there." "You have my permission to accompany Dorothy," said Ozma. "And while you are gone I will take care of the Patchwork Girl." "I'll take care of myself," announced Scraps, "for I'm going with the Scarecrow and Dorothy. I promised Ojo to help him find the things he wants and I'll stick to my promise." "Very well," replied Ozma. "But I see no need for Ojo to take the Glass Cat and the Woozy." "I prefer to remain here," said the cat. "I've nearly been nicked half a dozen times, already, and if they're going into dangers it's best for me to keep away from them." "Let Jellia Jamb keep her till Ojo returns," suggested Dorothy. "We won't need to take the Woozy, either, but he ought to be saved because of the three hairs in his tail." "Better take me along," said the Woozy. "My eyes can flash fire, you know, and I can growl--a little." "I'm sure you'll be safer here," Ozma decided, and the Woozy made no further objection to the plan. After consulting together they decided that Ojo and his party should leave the very next day to search for the gill of water from a dark well, so they now separated to make preparations for the journey. Ozma gave the Munchkin boy a room in the palace for that night and the afternoon he passed with Dorothy--getting acquainted, as she said--and receiving advice from the Shaggy Man as to where they must go. The Shaggy Man had wandered in many parts of Oz, and so had Dorothy, for that matter, yet neither of them knew where a dark well was to be found. "If such a thing is anywhere in the settled parts of Oz," said Dorothy, "we'd prob'ly have heard of it long ago. If it's in the wild parts of the country, no one there would need a dark well. P'raps there isn't such a thing." "Oh, there must be!" returned Ojo, positively; "or else the recipe of Dr. Pipt wouldn't call for it." "That's true," agreed Dorothy; "and, if it's anywhere in the Land of Oz, we're bound to find it." "Well, we're bound to _search_ for it, anyhow," said the Scarecrow. "As for finding it, we must trust to luck." "Don't do that," begged Ojo, earnestly. "I'm called Ojo the Unlucky, you know." [Illustration] TROUBLE WITH THE TOTTENHOTS CHAP. 19 [Illustration] A day's journey from the Emerald City brought the little band of adventurers to the home of Jack Pumpkinhead, which was a house formed from the shell of an immense pumpkin. Jack had made it himself and was very proud of it. There was a door, and several windows, and through the top was stuck a stovepipe that led from a small stove inside. The door was reached by a flight of three steps and there was a good floor on which was arranged some furniture that was quite comfortable. It is certain that Jack Pumpkinhead might have had a much finer house to live in had he wanted it, for Ozma loved the stupid fellow, who had been her earliest companion; but Jack preferred his pumpkin house, as it matched himself very well, and in this he was not so stupid, after all. The body of this remarkable person was made of wood, branches of trees of various sizes having been used for the purpose. This wooden framework was covered by a red shirt--with white spots in it--blue trousers, a yellow vest, a jacket of green-and-gold and stout leather shoes. The neck was a sharpened stick on which the pumpkin head was set, and the eyes, ears, nose and mouth were carved on the skin of the pumpkin, very like a child's jack-o'-lantern. [Illustration] The house of this interesting creation stood in the center of a vast pumpkin-field, where the vines grew in profusion and bore pumpkins of extraordinary size as well as those which were smaller. Some of the pumpkins now ripening on the vines were almost as large as Jack's house, and he told Dorothy he intended to add another pumpkin to his mansion. The travelers were cordially welcomed to this quaint domicile and invited to pass the night there, which they had planned to do. The Patchwork Girl was greatly interested in Jack and examined him admiringly. "You are quite handsome," she said; "but not as really beautiful as the Scarecrow." Jack turned, at this, to examine the Scarecrow critically, and his old friend slyly winked one painted eye at him. [Illustration] "There is no accounting for tastes," remarked the Pumpkinhead, with a sigh. "An old crow once told me I was very fascinating, but of course the bird might have been mistaken. Yet I have noticed that the crows usually avoid the Scarecrow, who is a very honest fellow, in his way, but stuffed. I am not stuffed, you will observe; my body is good solid hickory." "I adore stuffing," said the Patchwork Girl. "Well, as for that, my head is stuffed with pumpkin-seeds," declared Jack. "I use them for brains, and when they are fresh I am intellectual. Just now, I regret to say, my seeds are rattling a bit, so I must soon get another head." "Oh; do you change your head?" asked Ojo. "To be sure. Pumpkins are not permanent, more's the pity, and in time they spoil. That is why I grow such a great field of pumpkins--that I may select a new head whenever necessary." "Who carves the faces on them?" inquired the boy. "I do that myself. I lift off my old head, place it on a table before me, and use the face for a pattern to go by. Sometimes the faces I carve are better than others--more expressive and cheerful, you know--but I think they average very well." Before she had started on the journey Dorothy had packed a knapsack with the things she might need, and this knapsack the Scarecrow carried strapped to his back. The little girl wore a plain gingham dress and a checked sunbonnet, as she knew they were best fitted for travel. Ojo also had brought along his basket, to which Ozma had added a bottle of "Square Meal Tablets" and some fruit. But Jack Pumpkinhead grew a lot of things in his garden besides pumpkins, so he cooked for them a fine vegetable soup and gave Dorothy, Ojo and Toto, the only ones who found it necessary to eat, a pumpkin pie and some green cheese. For beds they must use the sweet dried grasses which Jack had strewn along one side of the room, but that satisfied Dorothy and Ojo very well. Toto, of course, slept beside his little mistress. The Scarecrow, Scraps and the Pumpkinhead were tireless and had no need to sleep, so they sat up and talked together all night; but they stayed outside the house, under the bright stars, and talked in low tones so as not to disturb the sleepers. During the conversation the Scarecrow explained their quest for a dark well, and asked Jack's advice where to find it. The Pumpkinhead considered the matter gravely. "That is going to be a difficult task," said he, "and if I were you I'd take any ordinary well and enclose it, so as to make it dark." "I fear that wouldn't do," replied the Scarecrow. "The well must be naturally dark, and the water must never have seen the light of day, for otherwise the magic charm might not work at all." "How much of the water do you need?" asked Jack. "A gill." "How much is a gill?" "Why--a gill is a gill, of course," answered the Scarecrow, who did not wish to display his ignorance. "I know!" cried Scraps. "Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch--" "No, no; that's wrong," interrupted the Scarecrow. "There are two kinds of gills, I think; one is a girl, and the other is--" "A gillyflower," said Jack. "No; a measure." "How big a measure?" "Well, I'll ask Dorothy." So next morning they asked Dorothy, and she said: "I don't just know how much a gill is, but I've brought along a gold flask that holds a pint. That's more than a gill, I'm sure, and the Crooked Magician may measure it to suit himself. But the thing that's bothering us most, Jack, is to find the well." Jack gazed around the landscape, for he was standing in the doorway of his house. "This is a flat country, so you won't find any dark wells here," said he. "You must go into the mountains, where rocks and caverns are." "And where is that?" asked Ojo. "In the Quadling Country, which lies south of here," replied the Scarecrow. "I've known all along that we must go to the mountains." "So have I," said Dorothy. "But--goodness me!--the Quadling Country is full of dangers," declared Jack. "I've never been there myself, but--" "I have," said the Scarecrow. "I've faced the dreadful Hammerheads, which have no arms and butt you like a goat; and I've faced the Fighting Trees, which bend down their branches to pound and whip you, and had many other adventures there." "It's a wild country," remarked Dorothy, soberly, "and if we go there we're sure to have troubles of our own. But I guess we'll have to go, if we want that gill of water from the dark well." So they said good-bye to the Pumpkinhead and resumed their travels, heading now directly toward the South Country, where mountains and rocks and caverns and forests of great trees abounded. This part of the Land of Oz, while it belonged to Ozma and owed her allegiance, was so wild and secluded that many queer peoples hid in its jungles and lived in their own way, without even a knowledge that they had a Ruler in the Emerald City. If they were left alone, these creatures never troubled the inhabitants of the rest of Oz, but those who invaded their domains encountered many dangers from them. It was a two days' journey from Jack Pumpkinhead's house to the edge of the Quadling Country, for neither Dorothy nor Ojo could walk very fast and they often stopped by the wayside to rest. The first night they slept on the broad fields, among the buttercups and daisies, and the Scarecrow covered the children with a gauze blanket taken from his knapsack, so they would not be chilled by the night air. Toward evening of the second day they reached a sandy plain where walking was difficult; but some distance before them they saw a group of palm trees, with many curious black dots under them; so they trudged bravely on to reach that place by dark and spend the night under the shelter of the trees. [Illustration] The black dots grew larger as they advanced and although the light was dim Dorothy thought they looked like big kettles turned upside down. Just beyond this place a jumble of huge, jagged rocks lay scattered, rising to the mountains behind them. Our travelers preferred to attempt to climb these rocks by daylight, and they realized that for a time this would be their last night on the plains. [Illustration] Twilight had fallen by the time they came to the trees, beneath which were the black, circular objects they had marked from a distance. Dozens of them were scattered around and Dorothy bent near to one, which was about as tall as she was, to examine it more closely. As she did so the top flew open and out popped a small creature, rising its length into the air and then plumping down upon the ground just beside the little girl. Another and another popped out of the circular, pot-like dwelling, while from all the other black objects came popping more creatures--very like jumping-jacks when their boxes are unhooked--until fully a hundred stood gathered around our little group of travelers. By this time Dorothy had discovered they were people, tiny and curiously formed, but still people. Their hair stood straight up, like wires, and was brilliant scarlet in color. Their bodies were bare except for skins fastened around their waists and they wore bracelets on their ankles and wrists, and necklaces, and great pendant earrings. Toto crouched beside his mistress and wailed as if he did not like these strange creatures a bit. Scraps began to mutter something about "hoppity, poppity, jumpity, dump!" but no one paid any attention to her. Ojo kept close to the Scarecrow and the Scarecrow kept close to Dorothy; but the little girl turned to the queer creatures and asked: "Who are you?" They answered this question all together, in a sort of chanting chorus, the words being as follows: "We're the jolly Tottenhots; We do not like the day, But in the night 'tis our delight To gambol, skip and play. "We hate the sun and from it run, The moon is cool and clear, So on this spot each Tottenhot Waits for it to appear. "We're ev'ry one chock full of fun, And full of mischief, too; But if you're gay and with us play We'll do no harm to you." "Glad to meet you, Tottenhots," said the Scarecrow solemnly. "But you mustn't expect us to play with you all night, for we've traveled all day and some of us are tired." "And we never gamble," added the Patchwork Girl. "It's against the Law." These remarks were greeted with shouts of laughter by the impish creatures and one seized the Scarecrow's arm and was astonished to find the straw man whirl around so easily. So the Tottenhot raised the Scarecrow high in the air and tossed him over the heads of the crowd. Some one caught him and tossed him back, and so with shouts of glee they continued throwing the Scarecrow here and there, as if he had been a basket-ball. Presently another imp seized Scraps and began to throw her about, in the same way. They found her a little heavier than the Scarecrow but still light enough to be tossed like a sofa-cushion, and they were enjoying the sport immensely when Dorothy, angry and indignant at the treatment her friends were receiving, rushed among the Tottenhots and began slapping and pushing them, until she had rescued the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl and held them close on either side of her. Perhaps she would not have accomplished this victory so easily had not Toto helped her, barking and snapping at the bare legs of the imps until they were glad to flee from his attack. As for Ojo, some of the creatures had attempted to toss him, also, but finding his body too heavy they threw him to the ground and a row of the imps sat on him and held him from assisting Dorothy in her battle. The little folks were much surprised at being attacked by the girl and the dog, and one or two who had been slapped hardest began to cry. Then suddenly they gave a shout, all together, and disappeared in a flash into their various houses, the tops of which closed with a series of pops that sounded like a bunch of firecrackers being exploded. The adventurers now found themselves alone, and Dorothy asked anxiously: "Is anybody hurt?" "Not me," answered the Scarecrow. "They have given my straw a good shaking up and taken all the lumps out of it. I am now in splendid condition and am really obliged to the Tottenhots for their kind treatment." "I feel much the same way," said Scraps. "My cotton stuffing had sagged a good deal with the day's walking and they've loosened it up until I feel as plump as a sausage. But the play was a little rough and I'd had quite enough of it when you interfered." [Illustration] "Six of them sat on me," said Ojo, "but as they are so little they didn't hurt me much." Just then the roof of the house in front of them opened and a Tottenhot stuck his head out, very cautiously, and looked at the strangers. "Can't you take a joke?" he asked, reproachfully; "haven't you any fun in you at all?" "If I had such a quality," replied the Scarecrow, "your people would have knocked it out of me. But I don't bear grudges. I forgive you." "So do I," added Scraps. "That is, if you behave yourselves after this." "It was just a little rough-house, that's all," said the Tottenhot. "But the question is not if _we_ will behave, but if _you_ will behave? We can't be shut up here all night, because this is our time to play; nor do we care to come out and be chewed up by a savage beast or slapped by an angry girl. That slapping hurts like sixty; some of my folks are crying about it. So here's the proposition: you let us alone and we'll let you alone." "You began it," declared Dorothy. "Well, you ended it, so we won't argue the matter. May we come out again? Or are you still cruel and slappy?" "Tell you what we'll do," said Dorothy. "We're all tired and want to sleep until morning. If you'll let us get into your house, and stay there until daylight, you can play outside all you want to." "That's a bargain!" cried the Tottenhot eagerly, and he gave a queer whistle that brought his people popping out of their houses on all sides. When the house before them was vacant, Dorothy and Ojo leaned over the hole and looked in, but could see nothing because it was so dark. But if the Tottenhots slept there all day the children thought they could sleep there at night, so Ojo lowered himself down and found it was not very deep. "There's a soft cushion all over," said he. "Come on in." Dorothy handed Toto to the boy and then climbed in herself. After her came Scraps and the Scarecrow, who did not wish to sleep but preferred to keep out of the way of the mischievous Tottenhots. There seemed no furniture in the round den, but soft cushions were strewn about the floor and these they found made very comfortable beds. They did not close the hole in the roof but left it open to admit air. It also admitted the shouts and ceaseless laughter of the impish Tottenhots as they played outside, but Dorothy and Ojo, being weary from their journey, were soon fast asleep. [Illustration] Toto kept an eye open, however, and uttered low, threatening growls whenever the racket made by the creatures outside became too boisterous; and the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl sat leaning against the wall and talked in whispers all night long. No one disturbed the travelers until daylight, when in popped the Tottenhot who owned the place and invited them to vacate his premises. [Illustration] [Illustration: LOOK OUT FOR YOOP] THE CAPTIVE YOOP CHAP. 20 [Illustration] As they were preparing to leave, Dorothy asked: "Can you tell us where there is a dark well?" "Never heard of such a thing," said the Tottenhot. "We live our lives in the dark, mostly, and sleep in the daytime; but we've never seen a dark well, or anything like one." "Does anyone live on those mountains beyond here?" asked the Scarecrow. "Lots of people. But you'd better not visit them. We never go there." was the reply. "What are the people like?" Dorothy inquired. "Can't say. We've been told to keep away from the mountain paths, and so we obey. This sandy desert is good enough for us, and we're not disturbed here," declared the Tottenhot. So they left the man snuggling down to sleep in his dusky dwelling, and went out into the sunshine, taking the path that led toward the rocky places. They soon found it hard climbing, for the rocks were uneven and full of sharp points and edges, and now there was no path at all. Clambering here and there among the boulders they kept steadily on, gradually rising higher and higher until finally they came to a great rift in a part of the mountain, where the rock seemed to have split in two and left high walls on either side. "S'pose we go this way," suggested Dorothy; "it's much easier walking than to climb over the hills." "How about that sign?" asked Ojo. "What sign?" she inquired. The Munchkin boy pointed to some words painted on the wall of rock beside them, which Dorothy had not noticed. The words read: "LOOK OUT FOR YOOP." The girl eyed this sign a moment and then turned to the Scarecrow, asking: "Who is Yoop; or what is Yoop?" The straw man shook his head. Then she looked at Toto and the dog said "Woof!" "Only way to find out is to go on," said Scraps. This being quite true, they went on. As they proceeded, the walls of rock on either side grew higher and higher. Presently they came upon another sign which read: "BEWARE THE CAPTIVE YOOP." "Why, as for that," remarked Dorothy, "if Yoop is a captive there's no need to beware of him. Whatever Yoop happens to be, I'd much rather have him a captive than running around loose." "So had I," agreed the Scarecrow, with a nod of his painted head. "Still," said Scraps, reflectively: "Yoop-te-hoop-te-loop-te-goop! Who put noodles in the soup? We may beware but we don't care, And dare go where we scare the Yoop." "Dear me! Aren't you feeling a little queer, just now?" Dorothy asked the Patchwork Girl. "Not queer, but crazy," said Ojo. "When she says those things I'm sure her brains get mixed somehow and work the wrong way." "I don't see why we are told to beware the Yoop unless he is dangerous," observed the Scarecrow in a puzzled tone. "Never mind; we'll find out all about him when we get to where he is," replied the little girl. The narrow canyon turned and twisted this way and that, and the rift was so small that they were able to touch both walls at the same time by stretching out their arms. Toto had run on ahead, frisking playfully, when suddenly he uttered a sharp bark of fear and came running back to them with his tail between his legs, as dogs do when they are frightened. "Ah," said the Scarecrow, who was leading the way, "we must be near Yoop." Just then, as he rounded a sharp turn, the straw man stopped so suddenly that all the others bumped against him. "What is it?" asked Dorothy, standing on tip-toes to look over his shoulder. But then she saw what it was and cried "Oh!" in a tone of astonishment. In one of the rock walls--that at their left--was hollowed a great cavern, in front of which was a row of thick iron bars, the tops and bottoms being firmly fixed in the solid rock. Over this cavern was a big sign, which Dorothy read with much curiosity, speaking the words aloud that all might know what they said: "MISTER YOOP--HIS CAVE The Largest Untamed Giant in Captivity. _Height, 21 Feet._--(And yet he has but 2 feet.) _Weight, 1640 Pounds._--(But he waits all the time.) _Age, 400 Years 'and Up'_ (as they say in the Department Store advertisements). _Temper, Fierce and Ferocious._--(Except when asleep.) _Appetite, Ravenous._--(Prefers Meat People and Orange Marmalade.) STRANGERS APPROACHING THIS CAVE DO SO AT THEIR OWN PERIL! _P. S.--Don't feed the Giant yourself._" [Illustration] "Very well," said Ojo, with a sigh; "let's go back." "It's a long way back," declared Dorothy. "So it is," remarked the Scarecrow, "and it means a tedious climb over those sharp rocks if we can't use this passage. I think it will be best to run by the Giant's cave as fast as we can go. Mister Yoop seems to be asleep just now." But the Giant wasn't asleep. He suddenly appeared at the front of his cavern, seized the iron bars in his great hairy hands and shook them until they rattled in their sockets. Yoop was so tall that our friends had to tip their heads way back to look into his face, and they noticed he was dressed all in pink velvet, with silver buttons and braid. The Giant's boots were of pink leather and had tassels on them and his hat was decorated with an enormous pink ostrich feather, carefully curled. "Yo-ho!" he said in a deep bass voice; "I smell dinner." "I think you are mistaken," replied the Scarecrow. "There is no orange marmalade around here." "Ah, but I eat other things," asserted Mister Yoop. "That is, I eat them when I can get them. But this is a lonely place, and no good meat has passed by my cave for many years; so I'm hungry." "Haven't you eaten anything in many years?" asked Dorothy. "Nothing except six ants and a monkey. I thought the monkey would taste like meat people, but the flavor was different. I hope you will taste better, for you seem plump and tender." "Oh, I'm not going to be eaten," said Dorothy. "Why not?" "I shall keep out of your way," she answered. "How heartless!" wailed the Giant, shaking the bars again. "Consider how many years it is since I've eaten a single plump little girl! They tell me meat is going up, but if I can manage to catch you I'm sure it will soon be going down. And I'll catch you if I can." With this the Giant pushed his big arms, which looked like tree-trunks (except that tree-trunks don't wear pink velvet) between the iron bars, and the arms were so long that they touched the opposite wall of the rock passage. Then he extended them as far as he could reach toward our travelers and found he could almost touch the Scarecrow--but not quite. "Come a little nearer, please," begged the Giant. "I'm a Scarecrow." "A Scarecrow? Ugh! I don't care a straw for a scarecrow. Who is that bright-colored delicacy behind you?" "Me?" asked Scraps. "I'm a Patchwork Girl, and I'm stuffed with cotton." "Dear me," sighed the Giant in a disappointed tone; "that reduces my dinner from four to two--and the dog. I'll save the dog for dessert." Toto growled, keeping a good distance away. "Back up," said the Scarecrow to those behind him. "Let us go back a little way and talk this over." So they turned and went around the bend in the passage, where they were out of sight of the cave and Mister Yoop could not hear them. "My idea," began the Scarecrow, when they had halted, "is to make a dash past the cave, going on a run." "He'd grab us," said Dorothy. "Well, he can't grab but one at a time, and I'll go first. As soon as he grabs me the rest of you can slip past him, out of his reach, and he will soon let me go because I am not fit to eat." They decided to try this plan and Dorothy took Toto in her arms, so as to protect him. She followed just after the Scarecrow. Then came Ojo, with Scraps the last of the four. Their hearts beat a little faster than usual as they again approached the Giant's cave, this time moving swiftly forward. It turned out about the way the Scarecrow had planned. Mister Yoop was quite astonished to see them come flying toward him, and thrusting his arms between the bars he seized the Scarecrow in a firm grip. In the next instant he realized, from the way the straw crunched between his fingers, that he had captured the non-eatable man, but during that instant of delay Dorothy and Ojo had slipped by the Giant and were out of reach. Uttering a howl of rage the monster threw the Scarecrow after them with one hand and grabbed Scraps with the other. The poor Scarecrow went whirling through the air and so cleverly was he aimed that he struck Ojo's back and sent the boy tumbling head over heels, and he tripped Dorothy and sent her, also, sprawling upon the ground. Toto flew out of the little girl's arms and landed some distance ahead, and all were so dazed that it was a moment before they could scramble to their feet again. When they did so they turned to look toward the Giant's cave, and at that moment the ferocious Mister Yoop threw the Patchwork Girl at them. Down went all three again, in a heap, with Scraps on top. The Giant roared so terribly that for a time they were afraid he had broken loose; but he hadn't. So they sat in the road and looked at one another in a rather bewildered way, and then began to feel glad. "We did it!" exclaimed the Scarecrow, with satisfaction. "And now we are free to go on our way." "Mister Yoop is very impolite," declared Scraps. "He jarred me terribly. It's lucky my stitches are so fine and strong, for otherwise such harsh treatment might rip me up the back." "Allow me to apologize for the Giant," said the Scarecrow, raising the Patchwork Girl to her feet and dusting her skirt with his stuffed hands. "Mister Yoop is a perfect stranger to me, but I fear, from the rude manner in which he has acted, that he is no gentleman." Dorothy and Ojo laughed at this statement and Toto barked as if he understood the joke, after which they all felt better and resumed the journey in high spirits. "Of course," said the little girl, when they had walked a way along the passage, "it was lucky for us the Giant was caged; for, if he had happened to be loose, he--he--" "Perhaps, in that case, he wouldn't be hungry any more," said Ojo gravely. [Illustration] [Illustration] HIP HOPPER THE CHAMPION CHAP. 21 [Illustration] They must have had good courage to climb all those rocks, for after getting out of the canyon they encountered more rock hills to be surmounted. Toto could jump from one rock to another quite easily, but the others had to creep and climb with care, so that after a whole day of such work Dorothy and Ojo found themselves very tired. As they gazed upward at the great mass of tumbled rocks that covered the steep incline, Dorothy gave a little groan and said: "That's going to be a ter'ble hard climb, Scarecrow. I wish we could find the dark well without so much trouble." "Suppose," said Ojo, "you wait here and let me do the climbing, for it's on my account we're searching for the dark well. Then, if I don't find anything, I'll come back and join you." "No," replied the little girl, shaking her head positively, "we'll all go together, for that way we can help each other. If you went alone, something might happen to you, Ojo." So they began the climb and found it indeed difficult, for a way. But presently, in creeping over the big crags, they found a path at their feet which wound in and out among the masses of rock and was quite smooth and easy to walk upon. As the path gradually ascended the mountain, although in a roundabout way, they decided to follow it. "This must be the road to the Country of the Hoppers," said the Scarecrow. "Who are the Hoppers?" asked Dorothy. "Some people Jack Pumpkinhead told me about," he replied. "I didn't hear him," replied the girl. "No; you were asleep," explained the Scarecrow. "But he told Scraps and me that the Hoppers and the Horners live on this mountain." "He said _in_ the mountain," declared Scraps; "but of course he meant _on_ it." "Didn't he say what the Hoppers and Horners were like?" inquired Dorothy. "No; he only said they were two separate nations, and that the Horners were the most important." "Well, if we go to their country we'll find out all about 'em," said the girl. "But I've never heard Ozma mention those people, so they can't be _very_ important." "Is this mountain in the Land of Oz?" asked Scraps. "Course it is," answered Dorothy. "It's in the South Country of the Quadlings. When one comes to the edge of Oz, in any direction, there is nothing more to be seen at all. Once you could see sandy desert all around Oz; but now it's diff'rent, and no other people can see us, any more than we can see them." "If the mountain is under Ozma's rule, why doesn't she know about the Hoppers and the Horners?" Ojo asked. "Why, it's a fairyland," explained Dorothy, "and lots of queer people live in places so tucked away that those in the Emerald City never even hear of 'em. In the middle of the country it's diff'rent, but when you get around the edges you're sure to run into strange little corners that surprise you. I know, for I've traveled in Oz a good deal, and so has the Scarecrow." "Yes," admitted the straw man, "I've been considerable of a traveler, in my time, and I like to explore strange places. I find I learn much more by traveling than by staying at home." During this conversation they had been walking up the steep pathway and now found themselves well up on the mountain. They could see nothing around them, for the rocks beside their path were higher than their heads. Nor could they see far in front of them, because the path was so crooked. But suddenly they stopped, because the path ended and there was no place to go. Ahead was a big rock lying against the side of the mountain, and this blocked the way completely. "There wouldn't be a path, though, if it didn't go somewhere," said the Scarecrow, wrinkling his forehead in deep thought. "This is somewhere, isn't it?" asked the Patchwork Girl, laughing at the bewildered looks of the others. "The path is locked, the way is blocked, Yet here we've innocently flocked; And now we're here it's rather queer There's no front door that can be knocked." "Please don't, Scraps," said Ojo. "You make me nervous." "Well," said Dorothy, "I'm glad of a little rest, for that's a drea'ful steep path." As she spoke she leaned against the edge of the big rock that stood in their way. To her surprise it slowly swung backward and showed behind it a dark hole that looked like the mouth of a tunnel. "Why, here's where the path goes to!" she exclaimed. "So it is," answered the Scarecrow. "But the question is, do we want to go where the path does?" "It's underground; right inside the mountain," said Ojo, peering into the dark hole. "Perhaps there's a well there; and, if there is, it's sure to be a dark one." "Why, that's true enough!" cried Dorothy with eagerness. "Let's go in, Scarecrow; 'cause, if others have gone, we're pretty safe to go, too." Toto looked in and barked, but he did not venture to enter until the Scarecrow had bravely gone first. Scraps followed closely after the straw man and then Ojo and Dorothy timidly stepped inside the tunnel. As soon as all of them had passed the big rock, it slowly turned and filled up the opening again; but now they were no longer in the dark, for a soft, rosy light enabled them to see around them quite distinctly. It was only a passage, wide enough for two of them to walk abreast--with Toto in between them--and it had a high, arched roof. They could not see where the light which flooded the place so pleasantly came from, for there were no lamps anywhere visible. The passage ran straight for a little way and then made a bend to the right and another sharp turn to the left, after which it went straight again. But there were no side passages, so they could not lose their way. After proceeding some distance, Toto, who had gone on ahead, began to bark loudly. They ran around a bend to see what was the matter and found a man sitting on the floor of the passage and leaning his back against the wall. He had probably been asleep before Toto's barks aroused him, for he was now rubbing his eyes and staring at the little dog with all his might. There was something about this man that Toto objected to, and when he slowly rose to his foot they saw what it was. He had but one leg, set just below the middle of his round, fat body; but it was a stout leg and had a broad, flat foot at the bottom of it, on which the man seemed to stand very well. He had never had but this one leg, which looked something like a pedestal, and when Toto ran up and made a grab at the man's ankle he hopped first one way and then another in a very active manner, looking so frightened that Scraps laughed aloud. Toto was usually a well behaved dog, but this time he was angry and snapped at the man's leg again and again. This filled the poor fellow with fear, and in hopping out of Toto's reach he suddenly lost his balance and tumbled heel over head upon the floor. When he sat up he kicked Toto on the nose and made the dog howl angrily, but Dorothy now ran forward and caught Toto's collar, holding him back. "Do you surrender?" she asked the man. "Who? Me?" asked the Hopper. "Yes; you," said the little girl. "Am I captured?" he inquired. "Of course. My dog has captured you," she said. "Well," replied the man, "if I'm captured I must surrender, for it's the proper thing to do. I like to do everything proper, for it saves one a lot of trouble." "It does, indeed," said Dorothy. "Please tell us who you are." "I'm Hip Hopper--Hip Hopper, the Champion." "Champion what?" she asked in surprise. "Champion wrestler. I'm a very strong man, and that ferocious animal which you are so kindly holding is the first living thing that has ever conquered me." "And you are a Hopper?" she continued. "Yes. My people live in a great city not far from here. Would you like to visit it?" "I'm not sure," she said with hesitation. "Have you any dark wells in your city?" "I think not. We have wells, you know, but they're all well lighted, and a well lighted well cannot well be a dark well. But there may be such a thing as a very dark well in the Horner Country, which is a black spot on the face of the earth." "Where is the Horner Country?" Ojo inquired. "The other side of the mountain. There's a fence between the Hopper Country and the Horner Country, and a gate in the fence; but you can't pass through just now, because we are at war with the Horners." "That's too bad," said the Scarecrow. "What seems to be the trouble?" "Why, one of them made a very insulting remark about my people. He said we were lacking in understanding, because we had only one leg to a person. I can't see that legs have anything to do with understanding things. The Horners each have two legs, just as you have. That's one leg too many, it seems to me." "No," declared Dorothy, "it's just the right number." "You don't need them," argued the Hopper, obstinately. "You've only one head, and one body, and one nose and mouth. Two legs are quite unnecessary, and they spoil one's shape." "But how can you walk, with only one leg?" asked Ojo. "Walk! Who wants to walk?" exclaimed the man. "Walking is a terribly awkward way to travel. I hop, and so do all my people. It's so much more graceful and agreeable than walking." "I don't agree with you," said the Scarecrow. "But tell me, is there any way to get to the Horner Country without going through the city of the Hoppers?" "Yes; there is another path from the rocky lowlands, outside the mountain, that leads straight to the entrance of the Horner Country. But it's a long way around, so you'd better come with me. Perhaps they will allow you to go through the gate; but we expect to conquer them this afternoon, if we get time, and then you may go and come as you please." They thought it best to take the Hopper's advice, and asked him to lead the way. This he did in a series of hops, and he moved so swiftly in this strange manner that those with two legs had to run to keep up with him. THE JOKING HORNERS CHAP. 22 [Illustration] It was not long before they left the passage and came to a great cave, so high that it must have reached nearly to the top of the mountain within which it lay. It was a magnificent cave, illumined by the soft, invisible light, so that everything in it could be plainly seen. The walls were of polished marble, white with veins of delicate colors running through it, and the roof was arched and carved in designs both fantastic and beautiful. Built beneath this vast dome was a pretty village--not very large, for there seemed not more than fifty houses altogether--and the dwellings were of marble and artistically designed. No grass nor flowers nor trees grew in this cave, so the yards surrounding the houses were smooth and bare and had low walls around them to mark their boundaries. In the streets and the yards of the houses were many people, all having one leg growing below their bodies and all hopping here and there whenever they moved. Even the children stood firmly upon their single legs and never lost their balance. "All hail, Champion!" cried a man in the first group of Hoppers they met; "whom have you captured?" "No one," replied the Champion in a gloomy voice; "these strangers have captured me." "Then," said another, "we will rescue you, and capture them, for we are greater in number." "No," answered the Champion, "I can't allow it. I've surrendered, and it isn't polite to capture those you've surrendered to." "Never mind that," said Dorothy. "We will give you your liberty and set you free." "Really?" asked the Champion in joyous tones. "Yes," said the little girl; "your people may need you to help conquer the Horners." At this all the Hoppers looked downcast and sad. Several more had joined the group by this time and quite a crowd of curious men, women and children surrounded the strangers. "This war with our neighbors is a terrible thing," remarked one of the women. "Some one is almost sure to get hurt." "Why do you say that, madam?" inquired the Scarecrow. "Because the horns of our enemies are sharp, and in battle they will try to stick those horns into our warriors," she replied. "How many horns do the Horners have?" asked Dorothy. "Each has one horn in the center of his forehead," was the answer. "Oh, then they're unicorns," declared the Scarecrow. "No; they're Horners. We never go to war with them if we can help it, on account of their dangerous horns; but this insult was so great and so unprovoked that our brave men decided to fight, in order to be revenged," said the woman. "What weapons do you fight with?" the Scarecrow asked. "We have no weapons," explained the Champion. "Whenever we fight the Horners, our plan is to push them back, for our arms are longer than theirs." "Then you are better armed," said Scraps. "Yes; but they have those terrible horns, and unless we are careful they prick us with the points," returned the Champion with a shudder. "That makes a war with them dangerous, and a dangerous war cannot be a pleasant one." "I see very clearly," remarked the Scarecrow, "that you are going to have trouble in conquering those Horners--unless we help you." "Oh!" cried the Hoppers in a chorus; "can you help us? Please do! We will be greatly obliged! It would please us very much!" and by these exclamations the Scarecrow knew that his speech had met with favor. "How far is it to the Horner Country?" he asked. "Why, it's just the other side of the fence," they answered, and the Champion added: "Come with me, please, and I'll show you the Horners." So they followed the Champion and several others through the streets and just beyond the village came to a very high picket fence, built all of marble, which seemed to divide the great cave into two equal parts. But the part inhabited by the Horners was in no way as grand in appearance as that of the Hoppers. Instead of being marble, the walls and roof were of dull gray rock and the square houses were plainly made of the same material. But in extent the city was much larger than that of the Hoppers and the streets were thronged with numerous people who busied themselves in various ways. Looking through the open pickets of the fence our friends watched the Horners, who did not know they were being watched by strangers, and found them very unusual in appearance. They were little folks in size and had bodies round as balls and short legs and arms. Their heads were round, too, and they had long, pointed ears and a horn set in the center of the forehead. The horns did not seem very terrible, for they were not more than six inches long; but they were ivory white and sharp pointed, and no wonder the Hoppers feared them. The skins of the Horners were light brown, but they wore snow-white robes and were bare-footed. Dorothy thought the most striking thing about them was their hair, which grew in three distinct colors on each and every head--red, yellow and green. The red was at the bottom and sometimes hung over their eyes; then came a broad circle of yellow and the green was at the top and formed a brush-shaped top-knot. None of the Horners was yet aware of the presence of strangers, who watched the little brown people for a time and then went to the big gate in the center of the dividing fence. It was locked on both sides and over the latch was a sign reading: "WAR IS DECLARED" "Can't we go through?" asked Dorothy. "Not now," answered the Champion. "I think," said the Scarecrow, "that if I could talk with those Horners they would apologize to you, and then there would be no need to fight." "Can't you talk from this side," asked the Champion. "Not so well," replied the Scarecrow. "Do you suppose you could throw me over that fence? It is high, but I am very light." "We can try it," said the Hopper. "I am perhaps the strongest man in my country, so I'll undertake to do the throwing. But I won't promise you will land on your feet." "No matter about that," returned the Scarecrow. "Just toss me over and I'll be satisfied." So the Champion picked up the Scarecrow and balanced him a moment, to see how much he weighed, and then with all his strength tossed him high into the air. Perhaps if the Scarecrow had been a trifle heavier he would have been easier to throw and would have gone a greater distance; but, as it was, instead of going over the fence he landed just on top of it, and one of the sharp pickets caught him in the middle of his back and held him fast prisoner. Had he been face downward the Scarecrow might have managed to free himself, but lying on his back on the picket his hands waved in the air of the Horner Country while his feet kicked the air of the Hopper Country; so there he was. "Are you hurt?" called the Patchwork Girl anxiously. "Course not," said Dorothy. "But if he wiggles that way he may tear his clothes. How can we get him down, Mr. Champion?" The Champion shook his head. "I don't know," he confessed. "If he could scare Horners as well as he does crows, it might be a good idea to leave him there." "This is terrible," said Ojo, almost ready to cry. "I s'pose it's because I am Ojo the Unlucky that everyone who tries to help me gets into trouble." "You are lucky to have anyone to help you," declared Dorothy. "But don't worry. We'll rescue the Scarecrow, somehow." "I know how," announced Scraps. "Here, Mr. Champion; just throw me up to the Scarecrow. I'm nearly as light as he is, and when I'm on top the fence I'll pull our friend off the picket and toss him down to you." [Illustration] "All right," said the Champion, and he picked up the Patchwork Girl and threw her in the same manner he had the Scarecrow. He must have used more strength this time, however, for Scraps sailed far over the top of the fence and, without being able to grab the Scarecrow at all, tumbled to the ground in the Horner Country, where her stuffed body knocked over two men and a woman and made a crowd that had collected there run like rabbits to get away from her. [Illustration] Seeing the next moment that she was harmless, the people slowly returned and gathered around the Patchwork Girl, regarding her with astonishment. One of them wore a jeweled star in his hair, just above his horn, and this seemed a person of importance. He spoke for the rest of his people, who treated him with great respect. "Who are you, Unknown Being?" he asked. "Scraps," she said, rising to her feet and patting her cotton wadding smooth where it had bunched up. "And where did you come from?" he continued. "Over the fence. Don't be silly. There's no other place I _could_ have come from," she replied. He looked at her thoughtfully. "You are not a Hopper," said he, "for you have two legs. They're not very well shaped, but they are two in number. And that strange creature on top the fence--why doesn't he stop kicking?--must be your brother, or father, or son, for he also has two legs." "You must have been to visit the Wise Donkey," said Scraps, laughing so merrily that the crowd smiled with her, in sympathy. "But that reminds me, Captain--or King--" "I am Chief of the Horners, and my name is Jak." "Of course; Little Jack Horner; I might have known it. But the reason I volplaned over the fence was so I could have a talk with you about the Hoppers." "What about the Hoppers?" asked the Chief, frowning. "You've insulted them, and you'd better beg their pardon," said Scraps. "If you don't, they'll probably hop over here and conquer you." "We're not afraid--as long as the gate is locked," declared the Chief. "And we didn't insult them at all. One of us made a joke that the stupid Hoppers couldn't see." The Chief smiled as he said this and the smile made his face look quite jolly. "What was the joke?" asked Scraps. "A Horner said they have less understanding than we, because they've only one leg. Ha, ha! You see the point, don't you? If you stand on your legs, and your legs are under you, then--ha, ha, ha!--then your legs are your under-standing. Hee, hee, hee! Ho, ho! My, but that's a fine joke. And the stupid Hoppers couldn't see it! They couldn't see that with only one leg they must have less under-standing than we who have two legs. Ha, ha, ha! Hee, hee! Ho, ho!" The Chief wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes with the bottom hem of his white robe, and all the other Horners wiped their eyes on their robes, for they had laughed just as heartily as their Chief at the absurd joke. "Then," said Scraps, "their understanding of the understanding you meant led to the misunderstanding." "Exactly; and so there's no need for us to apologize," returned the Chief. "No need for an apology, perhaps, but much need for an explanation," said Scraps decidedly. "You don't want war, do you?" "Not if we can help it," admitted Jak Horner. "The question is, who's going to explain the joke to the Horners? You know it spoils any joke to be obliged to explain it, and this is the best joke I ever heard." "Who made the joke?" asked Scraps. "Diksey Horner. He is working in the mines, just now, but he'll be home before long. Suppose we wait and talk with him about it? Maybe he'll be willing to explain his joke to the Hoppers." "All right," said Scraps. "I'll wait, if Diksey isn't too long." "No, he's short; he's shorter than I am. Ha, ha, ha! Say! that's a better joke than Diksey's. He won't be too long, because he's short. Hee, hee, ho!" The other Horners who were standing by roared with laughter and seemed to like their Chief's joke as much as he did. Scraps thought it was odd that they could be so easily amused, but decided there could be little harm in people who laughed so merrily. PEACE IS DECLARED CHAP. 23 [Illustration] "Come with me to my dwelling and I'll introduce you to my daughters," said the Chief. "We're bringing them up according to a book of rules that was written by one of our leading old bachelors, and everyone says they're a remarkable lot of girls." So Scraps accompanied him along the street to a house that seemed on the outside exceptionally grimy and dingy. The streets of this city were not paved nor had any attempt been made to beautify the houses or their surroundings, and having noticed this condition Scraps was astonished when the Chief ushered her into his home. Here was nothing grimy or faded, indeed. On the contrary, the room was of dazzling brilliance and beauty, for it was lined throughout with an exquisite metal that resembled translucent frosted silver. The surface of this metal was highly ornamented in raised designs representing men, animals, flowers and trees, and from the metal itself was radiated the soft light which flooded the room. All the furniture was made of the same glorious metal, and Scraps asked what it was. "That's radium," answered the Chief. "We Horners spend all our time digging radium from the mines under this mountain, and we use it to decorate our homes and make them pretty and cosy. It is a medicine, too, and no one can ever be sick who lives near radium." "Have you plenty of it?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "More than we can use. All the houses in this city are decorated with it, just the same as mine is." "Why don't you use it on your streets, then, and the outside of your houses, to make them as pretty as they are within?" she inquired. "Outside? Who cares for the outside of anything?" asked the Chief. "We Horners don't live on the outside of our homes; we live inside. Many people are like those stupid Hoppers, who love to make an outside show. I suppose you strangers thought their city more beautiful than ours, because you judged from appearances and they have handsome marble houses and marble streets; but if you entered one of their stiff dwellings you would find it bare and uncomfortable, as all their show is on the outside. They have an idea that what is not seen by others is not important, but with us the rooms we live in are our chief delight and care, and we pay no attention to outside show." "Seems to me," said Scraps, musingly, "it would be better to make it all pretty--inside and out." "Seems? Why, you're all seams, my girl!" said the Chief; and then he laughed heartily at his latest joke and a chorus of small voices echoed the chorus with "tee-hee-hee! ha, ha!" Scraps turned around and found a row of girls seated in radium chairs ranged along one wall of the room. There were nineteen of them, by actual count, and they were of all sizes from a tiny child to one almost a grown woman. All were neatly dressed in spotless white robes and had brown skins, horns on their foreheads and three-colored hair. "These," said the Chief, "are my sweet daughters. My dears, I introduce to you Miss Scraps Patchwork, a lady who is traveling in foreign parts to increase her store of wisdom." The nineteen Horner girls all arose and made a polite courtesy, after which they resumed their seats and rearranged their robes properly. "Why do they sit so still, and all in a row?" asked Scraps. "Because it is ladylike and proper," replied the Chief. "But some are just children, poor things! Don't they ever run around and play and laugh, and have a good time?" "No, indeed," said the Chief. "That would be improper in young ladies, as well as in those who will sometime become young ladies. My daughters are being brought up according to the rules and regulations laid down by a leading bachelor who has given the subject much study and is himself a man of taste and culture. Politeness is his great hobby, and he claims that if a child is allowed to do an impolite thing one cannot expect the grown person to do anything better." "Is it impolite to romp and shout and be jolly?" asked Scraps. "Well, sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't," replied the Horner, after considering the question. "By curbing such inclinations in my daughters we keep on the safe side. Once in a while I make a good joke, as you have heard, and then I permit my daughters to laugh decorously; but they are never allowed to make a joke themselves." "That old bachelor who made the rules ought to be skinned alive!" declared Scraps, and would have said more on the subject had not the door opened to admit a little Horner man whom the Chief introduced as Diksey. "What's up, Chief?" asked Diksey, winking nineteen times at the nineteen girls, who demurely cast down their eyes because their father was looking. The Chief told the man that his joke had not been understood by the dull Hoppers, who had become so angry that they had declared war. So the only way to avoid a terrible battle was to explain the joke so they could understand it. "All right," replied Diksey, who seemed a good-natured man; "I'll go at once to the fence and explain. I don't want any war with the Hoppers, for wars between nations always cause hard feelings." So the Chief and Diksey and Scraps left the house and went back to the marble picket fence. The Scarecrow was still stuck on the top of his picket but had now ceased to struggle. On the other side of the fence were Dorothy and Ojo, looking between the pickets; and there, also, were the Champion and many other Hoppers. Diksey went close to the fence and said: "My good Hoppers, I wish to explain that what I said about you was a joke. You have but one leg each, and we have two legs each. Our legs are under us, whether one or two, and we stand on them. So, when I said you had less understanding than we, I did not mean that you had less understanding, you understand, but that you had less standundering, so to speak. Do you understand that?" The Hoppers thought it over carefully. Then one said: "That is clear enough; but where does the joke come in?" Dorothy laughed, for she couldn't help it, although all the others were solemn enough. "I'll tell you where the joke comes in," she said, and took the Hoppers away to a distance, where the Horners could not hear them. "You know," she then explained, "those neighbors of yours are not very bright, poor things, and what they think is a joke isn't a joke at all--it's true, don't you see?" "True that we have less understanding?" asked the Champion. "Yes; it's true because you don't understand such a poor joke; if you did, you'd be no wiser than they are." "Ah, yes; of course," they answered, looking very wise. "So I'll tell you what to do," continued Dorothy. "Laugh at their poor joke and tell 'em it's pretty good for a Horner. Then they won't dare say you have less understanding, because you understand as much as they do." The Hoppers looked at one another questioningly and blinked their eyes and tried to think what it all meant; but they couldn't figure it out. "What do you think, Champion?" asked one of them. "I think it is dangerous to think of this thing any more than we can help," he replied. "Let us do as this girl says and laugh with the Horners, so as to make them believe we see the joke. Then there will be peace again and no need to fight." They readily agreed to this and returned to the fence laughing as loud and as hard as they could, although they didn't feel like laughing a bit. The Horners were much surprised. "That's a fine joke--for a Horner--and we are much pleased with it," said the Champion, speaking between the pickets. "But please don't do it again." "I won't," promised Diksey. "If I think of another such joke I'll try to forget it." "Good!" cried the Chief Horner. "The war is over and peace is declared." There was much joyful shouting on both sides the fence and the gate was unlocked and thrown wide open, so that Scraps was able to rejoin her friends. "What about the Scarecrow?" she asked Dorothy. "We must get him down, somehow or other," was the reply. "Perhaps the Horners can find a way," suggested Ojo. So they all went through the gate and Dorothy asked the Chief Horner how they could get the Scarecrow off the fence. The Chief didn't know how, but Diksey said: "A ladder's the thing." "Have you one?" asked Dorothy. "To be sure. We use ladders in our mines," said he. Then he ran away to get the ladder, and while he was gone the Horners gathered around and welcomed the strangers to their country, for through them a great war had been avoided. In a little while Diksey came back with a tall ladder which he placed against the fence. Ojo at once climbed to the top of the ladder and Dorothy went about halfway up and Scraps stood at the foot of it. Toto ran around it and barked. Then Ojo pulled the Scarecrow away from the picket and passed him down to Dorothy, who in turn lowered him to the Patchwork Girl. As soon as he was on his feet and standing on solid ground the Scarecrow said: "Much obliged. I feel much better. I'm not stuck on that picket any more." The Horners began to laugh, thinking this was a joke, but the Scarecrow shook himself and patted his straw a little and said to Dorothy: "Is there much of a hole in my back?" The little girl examined him carefully. "There's quite a hole," she said. "But I've got a needle and thread in the knapsack and I'll sew you up again." "Do so," he begged earnestly, and again the Horners laughed, to the Scarecrow's great annoyance. While Dorothy was sewing up the hole in the straw man's back Scraps examined the other parts of him. "One of his legs is ripped, too!" she exclaimed. "Oho!" cried little Diksey; "that's bad. Give him the needle and thread and let him mend his ways." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Chief, and the other Horners at once roared with laughter. "What's funny?" inquired the Scarecrow sternly. "Don't you see?" asked Diksey, who had laughed even harder than the others. "That's a joke. It's by odds the best joke I ever made. You walk with your legs, and so that's the way you walk, and your legs are the ways. See? So, when you mend your legs, you mend your ways. Ho, ho, ho! hee, hee! I'd no idea I could make such a fine joke!" "Just wonderful!" echoed the Chief. "How do you manage to do it, Diksey?" [Illustration] "I don't know," said Diksey modestly. "Perhaps it's the radium, but I rather think it's my splendid intellect." "If you don't quit it," the Scarecrow told him, "there'll be a worse war than the one you've escaped from." Ojo had been deep in thought, and now he asked the Chief: "Is there a dark well in any part of your country?" "A dark well? None that ever I heard of," was the answer. "Oh, yes," said Diksey, who overheard the boy's question. "There's a very dark well down in my radium mine." "Is there any water in it?" Ojo eagerly asked. "Can't say; I've never looked to see. But we can find out." So, as soon as the Scarecrow was mended, they decided to go with Diksey to the mine. When Dorothy had patted the straw man into shape again he declared he felt as good as new and equal to further adventures. "Still," said he, "I prefer not to do picket duty again. High life doesn't seem to agree with my constitution." And then they hurried away to escape the laughter of the Horners, who thought this was another joke. [Illustration] [Illustration] OJO FINDS THE DARK WELL CHAP. 24 [Illustration] They now followed Diksey to the farther end of the great cave, beyond the Horner city, where there were several round, dark holes leading into the ground in a slanting direction. Diksey went to one of these holes and said: "Here is the mine in which lies the dark well you are seeking. Follow me and step carefully and I'll lead you to the place." He went in first and after him came Ojo, and then Dorothy, with the Scarecrow behind her. The Patchwork Girl entered last of all, for Toto kept close beside his little mistress. A few steps beyond the mouth of the opening it was pitch dark. "You won't lose your way, though," said the Horner, "for there's only one way to go. The mine's mine and I know every step of the way. How's that for a joke, eh? The mine's mine." Then he chuckled gleefully as they followed him silently down the steep slant. The hole was just big enough to permit them to walk upright, although the Scarecrow, being much the taller of the party, often had to bend his head to keep from hitting the top. The floor of the tunnel was difficult to walk upon because it had been worn smooth as glass, and pretty soon Scraps, who was some distance behind the others, slipped and fell head foremost. At once she began to slide downward, so swiftly that when she came to the Scarecrow she knocked him off his feet and sent him tumbling against Dorothy, who tripped up Ojo. The boy fell against the Horner, so that all went tumbling down the slide in a regular mix-up, unable to see where they were going because of the darkness. Fortunately, when they reached the bottom the Scarecrow and Scraps were in front, and the others bumped against them, so that no one was hurt. They found themselves in a vast cave which was dimly lighted by the tiny grains of radium that lay scattered among the loose rocks. "Now," said Diksey, when they had all regained their feet, "I will show you where the dark well is. This is a big place, but if we hold fast to each other we won't get lost." They took hold of hands and the Horner led them into a dark corner, where he halted. "Be careful," said he warningly. "The well is at your feet." "All right," replied Ojo, and kneeling down he felt in the well with his hand and found that it contained a quantity of water. "Where's the gold flask, Dorothy?" he asked, and the little girl handed him the flask, which she had brought with her. Ojo knelt again and by feeling carefully in the dark managed to fill the flask with the unseen water that was in the well. Then he screwed the top of the flask firmly in place and put the precious water in his pocket. "All right!" he said again, in a glad voice; "now we can go back." They returned to the mouth of the tunnel and began to creep cautiously up the incline. This time they made Scraps stay behind, for fear she would slip again; but they all managed to get up in safety and the Munchkin boy was very happy when he stood in the Horner city and realized that the water from the dark well, which he and his friends had traveled so far to secure, was safe in his jacket pocket. [Illustration] THEY BRIBE THE LAZY QUADLING CHAP. 25 [Illustration: Every time I see a river I have chills] "Now," said Dorothy, as they stood on the mountain path, having left behind them the cave in which dwelt the Hoppers and the Horners, "I think we must find a road into the Country of the Winkies, for there is where Ojo wants to go next." "Is there such a road?" asked the Scarecrow. "I don't know," she replied. "I s'pose we can go back the way we came, to Jack Pumpkinhead's house, and then turn into the Winkie Country; but that seems like running 'round a haystack, doesn't it?" "Yes," said the Scarecrow. "What is the next thing Ojo must get?" "A yellow butterfly," answered the boy. "That means the Winkie Country, all right, for it's the yellow country of Oz," remarked Dorothy. "I think, Scarecrow, we ought to take him to the Tin Woodman, for he's the Emp'ror of the Winkies and will help us to find what Ojo wants." "Of course," replied the Scarecrow, brightening at the suggestion. "The Tin Woodman will do anything we ask him, for he's one of my dearest friends. I believe we can take a crosscut into his country and so get to his castle a day sooner than if we travel back the way we came." "I think so, too," said the girl; "and that means we must keep to the left." They were obliged to go down the mountain before they found any path that led in the direction they wanted to go, but among the tumbled rocks at the foot of the mountain was a faint trail which they decided to follow. Two or three hours' walk along this trail brought them to a clear, level country, where there were a few farms and some scattered houses. But they knew they were still in the Country of the Quadlings, because everything had a bright red color. Not that the trees and grasses were red, but the fences and houses were painted that color and all the wild-flowers that bloomed by the wayside had red blossoms. This part of the Quadling Country seemed peaceful and prosperous, if rather lonely, and the road was now more distinct and easier to follow. But just as they were congratulating themselves upon the progress they had made they came upon a broad river which swept along between high banks, and here the road ended and there was no bridge of any sort to allow them to cross. "This is queer," mused Dorothy, looking at the water reflectively. "Why should there be any road, if the river stops everyone walking along it?" "Wow!" said Toto, gazing earnestly into her face. "That's the best answer you'll get," declared the Scarecrow, with his comical smile, "for no one knows any more than Toto about this road." Said Scraps: "Ev'ry time I see a river, I have chills that make me shiver, For I never can forget All the water's very wet. If my patches get a soak It will be a sorry joke; So to swim I'll never try Till I find the water dry." "Try to control yourself, Scraps," said Ojo; "you're getting crazy again. No one intends to swim that river." "No," decided Dorothy, "we couldn't swim it if we tried. It's too big a river, and the water moves awful fast." "There ought to be a ferryman with a boat," said the Scarecrow; "but I don't see any." "Couldn't we make a raft?" suggested Ojo. "There's nothing to make one of," answered Dorothy. "Wow!" said Toto again, and Dorothy saw he was looking along the bank of the river. "Why, he sees a house over there!" cried the little girl. "I wonder we didn't notice it ourselves. Let's go and ask the people how to get 'cross the river." A quarter of a mile along the bank stood a small, round house, painted bright red, and as it was on their side of the river they hurried toward it. A chubby little man, dressed all in red, came out to greet them, and with him were two children, also in red costumes. The man's eyes were big and staring as he examined the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl, and the children shyly hid behind him and peeked timidly at Toto. "Do you live here, my good man?" asked the Scarecrow. "I think I do, Most Mighty Magician," replied the Quadling, bowing low; "but whether I'm awake or dreaming I can't be positive, so I'm not sure where I live. If you'll kindly pinch me I'll find out all about it." "You're awake," said Dorothy, "and this is no magician, but just the Scarecrow." "But he's alive," protested the man, "and he oughtn't to be, you know. And that other dreadful person--the girl who is all patches--seems to be alive, too." "Very much so," declared Scraps, making a face at him. "But that isn't your affair, you know." "I've a right to be surprised, haven't I?" asked the man meekly. "I'm not sure; but anyhow you've no right to say I'm dreadful. The Scarecrow, who is a gentleman of great wisdom, thinks I'm beautiful," retorted Scraps. "Never mind all that," said Dorothy. "Tell us, good Quadling, how we can get across the river." "I don't know," replied the Quadling. "Don't you ever cross it?" asked the girl. "Never." "Don't travelers cross it?" "Not to my knowledge," said he. They were much surprised to hear this, and the man added: "It's a pretty big river, and the current is strong. I know a man who lives on the opposite bank, for I've seen him there a good many years; but we've never spoken because neither of us has ever crossed over." "That's queer," said the Scarecrow. "Don't you own a boat?" The man shook his head. "Nor a raft?" "No." "Where does this river go to?" asked Dorothy. "That way," answered the man, pointing with one hand, "it goes into the Country of the Winkies, which is ruled by the Tin Emperor, who must be a mighty magician because he's all made of tin, and yet he's alive. And that way," pointing with the other hand, "the river runs between two mountains where dangerous people dwell." The Scarecrow looked at the water before them. "The current flows toward the Winkie Country," said he; "and so, if we had a boat, or a raft, the river would float us there more quickly and more easily than we could walk." "That is true," agreed Dorothy; and then they all looked thoughtful and wondered what could be done. "Why can't the man make us a raft?" asked Ojo. "Will you?" inquired Dorothy, turning to the Quadling. The chubby man shook his head. "I'm too lazy," he said. "My wife says I'm the laziest man in all Oz, and she is a truthful woman. I hate work of any kind, and making a raft is hard work." "I'll give you my em'rald ring," promised the girl. "No; I don't care for emeralds. If it were a ruby, which is the color I like best, I might work a little while." "I've got some Square Meal Tablets," said the Scarecrow. "Each one is the same as a dish of soup, a fried fish, a mutton pot-pie, lobster salad, charlotte russe and lemon jelly--all made into one little tablet that you can swallow without trouble." "Without trouble!" exclaimed the Quadling, much interested; "then those tablets would be fine for a lazy man. It's such hard work to chew when you eat." "I'll give you six of those tablets if you'll help us make a raft," promised the Scarecrow. "They're a combination of food which people who eat are very fond of. I never eat, you know, being straw; but some of my friends eat regularly. What do you say to my offer, Quadling?" "I'll do it," decided the man. "I'll help, and you can do most of the work. But my wife has gone fishing for red eels to-day, so some of you will have to mind the children." Scraps promised to do that, and the children were not so shy when the Patchwork Girl sat down to play with them. They grew to like Toto, too, and the little dog allowed them to pat him on his head, which gave the little ones much joy. There were a number of fallen trees near the house and the Quadling got his axe and chopped them into logs of equal length. He took his wife's clothesline to bind these logs together, so that they would form a raft, and Ojo found some strips of wood and nailed them along the tops of the logs, to render them more firm. The Scarecrow and Dorothy helped roll the logs together and carry the strips of wood, but it took so long to make the raft that evening came just as it was finished, and with evening the Quadling's wife returned from her fishing. The woman proved to be cross and bad-tempered, perhaps because she had only caught one red eel during all the day. When she found that her husband had used her clothesline, and the logs she had wanted for firewood, and the boards she had intended to mend the shed with, and a lot of gold nails, she became very angry. Scraps wanted to shake the woman, to make her behave, but Dorothy talked to her in a gentle tone and told the Quadling's wife she was a Princess of Oz and a friend of Ozma and that when she got back to the Emerald City she would send them a lot of things to repay them for the raft, including a new clothesline. This promise pleased the woman and she soon became more pleasant, saying they could stay the night at her house and begin their voyage on the river next morning. This they did, spending a pleasant evening with the Quadling family and being entertained with such hospitality as the poor people were able to offer them. The man groaned a good deal and said he had overworked himself by chopping the logs, but the Scarecrow gave him two more tablets than he had promised, which seemed to comfort the lazy fellow. THE TRICK RIVER CHAP. 26 [Illustration] Next morning they pushed the raft into the water and all got aboard. The Quadling man had to hold the log craft fast while they took their places, and the flow of the river was so powerful that it nearly tore the raft from his hands. As soon as they were all seated upon the logs he let go and away it floated and the adventurers had begun their voyage toward the Winkie Country. The little house of the Quadlings was out of sight almost before they had cried their good-byes, and the Scarecrow said in a pleased voice: "It won't take us long to get to the Winkie Country, at this rate." They had floated several miles down the stream and were enjoying the ride when suddenly the raft slowed up, stopped short, and then began to float back the way it had come. "Why, what's wrong?" asked Dorothy, in astonishment; but they were all just as bewildered as she was and at first no one could answer the question. Soon, however, they realized the truth: that the current of the river had reversed and the water was now flowing in the opposite direction--toward the mountains. They began to recognize the scenes they had passed, and by and by they came in sight of the little house of the Quadlings again. The man was standing on the river bank and he called to them: "How do you do? Glad to see you again. I forgot to tell you that the river changes its direction every little while. Sometimes it flows one way, and sometimes the other." They had no time to answer him, for the raft was swept past the house and a long distance on the other side of it. "We're going just the way we don't want to go," said Dorothy, "and I guess the best thing we can do is to get to land before we're carried any farther." But they could not get to land. They had no oars, nor even a pole to guide the raft with. The logs which bore them floated in the middle of the stream and were held fast in that position by the strong current. So they sat still and waited and, even while they were wondering what could be done, the raft slowed down, stopped, and began drifting the other way--in the direction it had first followed. After a time they repassed the Quadling house and the man was still standing on the bank. He cried out to them: "Good day! Glad to see you again. I expect I shall see you a good many times, as you go by, unless you happen to swim ashore." By that time they had left him behind and were headed once more straight toward the Winkie Country. "This is pretty hard luck," said Ojo in a discouraged voice. "The Trick River keeps changing, it seems, and here we must float back and forward forever, unless we manage in some way to get ashore." "Can you swim?" asked Dorothy. "No; I'm Ojo the Unlucky." "Neither can I. Toto can swim a little, but that won't help us to get to shore." "I don't know whether I could swim, or not," remarked Scraps; "but if I tried it I'd surely ruin my lovely patches." "My straw would get soggy in the water and I would sink," said the Scarecrow. So there seemed no way out of their dilemma and being helpless they simply sat still. Ojo, who was on the front of the raft, looked over into the water and thought he saw some large fishes swimming about. He found a loose end of the clothesline which fastened the logs together, and taking a gold nail from his pocket he bent it nearly double, to form a hook, and tied it to the end of the line. Having baited the hook with some bread which he broke from his loaf, he dropped the line into the water and almost instantly it was seized by a great fish. They knew it was a great fish, because it pulled so hard on the line that it dragged the raft forward even faster than the current of the river had carried it. The fish was frightened, and it was a strong swimmer. As the other end of the clothesline was bound around the logs he could not get it away, and as he had greedily swallowed the gold hook at the first bite he could not get rid of that, either. When they reached the place where the current had before changed, the fish was still swimming ahead in its wild attempt to escape. The raft slowed down, yet it did not stop, because the fish would not let it. It continued to move in the same direction it had been going. As the current reversed and rushed backward on its course it failed to drag the raft with it. Slowly, inch by inch, they floated on, and the fish tugged and tugged and kept them going. "I hope he won't give up," said Ojo anxiously. "If the fish can hold out until the current changes again, we'll be all right." The fish did not give up, but held the raft bravely on its course, till at last the water in the river shifted again and floated them the way they wanted to go. But now the captive fish found its strength failing. Seeking a refuge, it began to drag the raft toward the shore. As they did not wish to land in this place the boy cut the rope with his pocket-knife and set the fish free, just in time to prevent the raft from grounding. [Illustration] The next time the river backed up the Scarecrow managed to seize the branch of a tree that overhung the water and they all assisted him to hold fast and prevent the raft from being carried backward. While they waited here, Ojo spied a long broken branch lying upon the bank, so he leaped ashore and got it. When he had stripped off the side shoots he believed he could use the branch as a pole, to guide the raft in case of emergency. They clung to the tree until they found the water flowing the right way, when they let go and permitted the raft to resume its voyage. In spite of these pauses they were really making good progress toward the Winkie Country and having found a way to conquer the adverse current their spirits rose considerably. They could see little of the country through which they were passing, because of the high banks, and they met with no boats or other craft upon the surface of the river. Once more the trick river reversed its current, but this time the Scarecrow was on guard and used the pole to push the raft toward a big rock which lay in the water. He believed the rock would prevent their floating backward with the current, and so it did. They clung to this anchorage until the water resumed its proper direction, when they allowed the raft to drift on. Floating around a bend they saw ahead a high bank of water, extending across the entire river, and toward this they were being irresistibly carried. There being no way to arrest the progress of the raft they clung fast to the logs and let the river sweep them on. Swiftly the raft climbed the bank of water and slid down on the other side, plunging its edge deep into the water and drenching them all with spray. As again the raft righted and drifted on, Dorothy and Ojo laughed at the ducking they had received; but Scraps was much dismayed and the Scarecrow took out his handkerchief and wiped the water off the Patchwork Girl's patches as well as he was able to. The sun soon dried her and the colors of her patches proved good, for they did not run together nor did they fade. After passing the wall of water the current did not change or flow backward any more but continued to sweep them steadily forward. The banks of the river grew lower, too, permitting them to see more of the country, and presently they discovered yellow buttercups and dandelions growing amongst the grass, from which evidence they knew they had reached the Winkie Country. "Don't you think we ought to land?" Dorothy asked the Scarecrow. "Pretty soon," he replied. "The Tin Woodman's castle is in the southern part of the Winkie Country, and so it can't be a great way from here." [Illustration] Fearing they might drift too far, Dorothy and Ojo now stood up and raised the Scarecrow in their arms, as high as they could, thus allowing him a good view of the country. For a time he saw nothing he recognized, but finally he cried: "There it is! There it is!" "What?" asked Dorothy. "The Tin Woodman's tin castle. I can see its turrets glittering in the sun. It's quite a way off, but we'd better land as quickly as we can." They let him down and began to urge the raft toward the shore by means of the pole. It obeyed very well, for the current was more sluggish now, and soon they had reached the bank and landed safely. The Winkie Country was really beautiful, and across the fields they could see afar the silvery sheen of the tin castle. With light hearts they hurried toward it, being fully rested by their long ride on the river. By and by they began to cross an immense field of splendid yellow lilies, the delicate fragrance of which was very delightful. "How beautiful they are!" cried Dorothy, stopping to admire the perfection of these exquisite flowers. "Yes," said the Scarecrow, reflectively, "but we must be careful not to crush or injure any of these lilies." "Why not?" asked Ojo. "The Tin Woodman is very kind-hearted," was the reply, "and he hates to see any living thing hurt in any way." "Are flowers alive?" asked Scraps. "Yes, of course. And these flowers belong to the Tin Woodman. So, in order not to offend him, we must not tread on a single blossom." "Once," said Dorothy, "the Tin Woodman stepped on a beetle and killed the little creature. That made him very unhappy and he cried until his tears rusted his joints, so he couldn't move 'em." "What did he do then?" asked Ojo. "Put oil on them, until the joints worked smooth again." "Oh!" exclaimed the boy, as if a great discovery had flashed across his mind. But he did not tell anybody what the discovery was and kept the idea to himself. It was a long walk, but a pleasant one, and they did not mind it a bit. Late in the afternoon they drew near to the wonderful tin castle of the Emperor of the Winkies, and Ojo and Scraps, who had never seen it before, were filled with amazement. Tin abounded in the Winkie Country and the Winkies were said to be the most skillful tinsmiths in all the world. So the Tin Woodman had employed them in building his magnificent castle, which was all of tin, from the ground to the tallest turret, and so brightly polished that it glittered in the sun's rays more gorgeously than silver. Around the grounds of the castle ran a tin wall, with tin gates; but the gates stood wide open because the Emperor had no enemies to disturb him. When they entered the spacious grounds our travelers found more to admire. Tin fountains sent sprays of clear water far into the air and there were many beds of tin flowers, all as perfectly formed as any natural flowers might be. There were tin trees, too, and here and there shady bowers of tin, with tin benches and chairs to sit upon. Also, on the sides of the pathway leading up to the front door of the castle, were rows of tin statuary, very cleverly executed. Among these Ojo recognized statues of Dorothy, Toto, the Scarecrow, the Wizard, the Shaggy Man, Jack Pumpkinhead and Ozma, all standing upon neat pedestals of tin. Toto was well acquainted with the residence of the Tin Woodman and, being assured a joyful welcome, he ran ahead and barked so loudly at the front door that the Tin Woodman heard him and came out in person to see if it were really his old friend Toto. Next moment the tin man had clasped the Scarecrow in a warm embrace and then turned to hug Dorothy. But now his eye was arrested by the strange sight of the Patchwork Girl, and he gazed upon her in mingled wonder and admiration. THE TIN WOODMAN OBJECTS CHAP. 27 [Illustration] The Tin Woodman was one of the most important personages in all Oz. Though Emperor of the Winkies, he owed allegiance to Ozma, who ruled all the land, and the girl and the tin man were warm personal friends. He was something of a dandy and kept his tin body brilliantly polished and his tin joints well oiled. Also he was very courteous in manner and so kind and gentle that everyone loved him. The Emperor greeted Ojo and Scraps with cordial hospitality and ushered the entire party into his handsome tin parlor, where all the furniture and pictures were made of tin. The walls were paneled with tin and from the tin ceiling hung tin chandeliers. The Tin Woodman wanted to know, first of all, where Dorothy had found the Patchwork Girl, so between them the visitors told the story of how Scraps was made, as well as the accident to Margolotte and Unc Nunkie and how Ojo had set out upon a journey to procure the things needed for the Crooked Magician's magic charm. Then Dorothy told of their adventures in the Quadling Country and how at last they succeeded in getting the water from a dark well. While the little girl was relating these adventures the Tin Woodman sat in an easy chair listening with intense interest, while the others sat grouped around him. Ojo, however, had kept his eyes fixed upon the body of the tin Emperor, and now he noticed that under the joint of his left knee a tiny drop of oil was forming. He watched this drop of oil with a fast-beating heart, and feeling in his pocket brought out a tiny vial of crystal, which he held secreted in his hand. Presently the Tin Woodman changed his position, and at once Ojo, to the astonishment of all, dropped to the floor and held his crystal vial under the Emperor's knee joint. Just then the drop of oil fell, and the boy caught it in his bottle and immediately corked it tight. Then, with a red face and embarrassed manner, he rose to confront the others. "What in the world were you doing?" asked the Tin Woodman. "I caught a drop of oil that fell from your knee-joint," confessed Ojo. "A drop of oil!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman. "Dear me, how careless my valet must have been in oiling me this morning. I'm afraid I shall have to scold the fellow, for I can't be dropping oil wherever I go." "Never mind," said Dorothy. "Ojo seems glad to have the oil, for some reason." "Yes," declared the Munchkin boy, "I am glad. For one of the things the Crooked Magician sent me to get was a drop of oil from a live man's body. I had no idea, at first, that there was such a thing; but it's now safe in the little crystal vial." [Illustration] "You are very welcome to it, indeed," said the Tin Woodman. "Have you now secured all the things you were in search of?" "Not quite all," answered Ojo. "There were five things I had to get, and I have found four of them. I have the three hairs in the tip of a Woozy's tail, a six-leaved clover, a gill of water from a dark well and a drop of oil from a live man's body. The last thing is the easiest of all to get, and I'm sure that my dear Unc Nunkie--and good Margolotte, as well--will soon be restored to life." The Munchkin boy said this with much pride and pleasure. "Good!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman; "I congratulate you. But what is the fifth and last thing you need, in order to complete the magic charm?" "The left wing of a yellow butterfly," said Ojo. "In this yellow country, and with your kind assistance, that ought to be very easy to find." The Tin Woodman stared at him in amazement. "Surely you are joking!" he said. "No," replied Ojo, much surprised; "I am in earnest." "But do you think for a moment that I would permit you, or anyone else, to pull the left wing from a yellow butterfly?" demanded the Tin Woodman sternly. "Why not, sir?" "Why not? You ask me why not? It would be cruel--one of the most cruel and heartless deeds I ever heard of," asserted the Tin Woodman. "The butterflies are among the prettiest of all created things, and they are very sensitive to pain. To tear a wing from one would cause it exquisite torture and it would soon die in great agony. I would not permit such a wicked deed under any circumstances!" Ojo was astounded at hearing this. Dorothy, too, looked grave and disconcerted, but she knew in her heart that the Tin Woodman was right. The Scarecrow nodded his head in approval of his friend's speech, so it was evident that he agreed with the Emperor's decision. Scraps looked from one to another in perplexity. "Who cares for a butterfly?" she asked. "Don't you?" inquired the Tin Woodman. "Not the snap of a finger, for I have no heart," said the Patchwork Girl. "But I want to help Ojo, who is my friend, to rescue the uncle whom he loves, and I'd kill a dozen useless butterflies to enable him to do that." The Tin Woodman sighed regretfully. "You have kind instincts," he said, "and with a heart you would indeed be a fine creature. I cannot blame you for your heartless remark, as you cannot understand the feelings of those who possess hearts. I, for instance, have a very neat and responsive heart which the wonderful Wizard of Oz once gave me, and so I shall never--never--_never_ permit a poor yellow butterfly to be tortured by anyone." "The yellow country of the Winkies," said Ojo sadly, "is the only place in Oz where a yellow butterfly can be found." "I'm glad of that," said the Tin Woodman. "As I rule the Winkie Country, I can protect my butterflies." "Unless I get the wing--just one left wing--" said Ojo miserably, "I can't save Unc Nunkie." "Then he must remain a marble statue forever," declared the Tin Emperor, firmly. Ojo wiped his eyes, for he could not hold back the tears. "I'll tell you what to do," said Scraps. "We'll take a whole yellow butterfly, alive and well, to the Crooked Magician, and let him pull the left wing off." "No you won't," said the Tin Woodman. "You can't have one of my dear little butterflies to treat in that way." "Then what in the world shall we do?" asked Dorothy. They all became silent and thoughtful. No one spoke for a long time. Then the Tin Woodman suddenly roused himself and said: "We must all go back to the Emerald City and ask Ozma's advice. She's a wise little girl, our Ruler, and she may find a way to help Ojo save his Unc Nunkie." So the following morning the party started on the journey to the Emerald City, which they reached in due time without any important adventure. It was a sad journey for Ojo, for without the wing of the yellow butterfly he saw no way to save Unc Nunkie--unless he waited six years for the Crooked Magician to make a new lot of the Powder of Life. The boy was utterly discouraged, and as he walked along he groaned aloud. "Is anything hurting you?" inquired the Tin Woodman in a kindly tone, for the Emperor was with the party. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky," replied the boy. "I might have known I would fail in anything I tried to do." "Why are you Ojo the Unlucky?" asked the tin man. "Because I was born on a Friday." "Friday is not unlucky," declared the Emperor. "It's just one of seven days. Do you suppose all the world becomes unlucky one-seventh of the time?" "It was the thirteenth day of the month," said Ojo. "Thirteen! Ah, that is indeed a lucky number," replied the Tin Woodman. "All my good luck seems to happen on the thirteenth. I suppose most people never notice the good luck that comes to them with the number 13, and yet if the least bit of bad luck falls on that day, they blame it to the number, and not to the proper cause." "Thirteen's my lucky number, too," remarked the Scarecrow. "And mine," said Scraps. "I've just thirteen patches on my head." "But," continued Ojo, "I'm left-handed." "Many of our greatest men are that way," asserted the Emperor. "To be left-handed is usually to be two-handed; the right-handed people are usually one-handed." "And I've a wart under my right arm," said Ojo. "How lucky!" cried the Tin Woodman. "If it were on the end of your nose it might be unlucky, but under your arm it is luckily out of the way." "For all those reasons," said the Munchkin boy, "I have been called Ojo the Unlucky." "Then we must turn over a new leaf and call you henceforth Ojo the Lucky," declared the tin man. "Every reason you have given is absurd. But I have noticed that those who continually dread ill luck and fear it will overtake them, have no time to take advantage of any good fortune that comes their way. Make up your mind to be Ojo the Lucky." "How can I?" asked the boy, "when all my attempts to save my dear uncle have failed?" "Never give up, Ojo," advised Dorothy. "No one ever knows what's going to happen next." Ojo did not reply, but he was so dejected that even their arrival at the Emerald City failed to interest him. The people joyfully cheered the appearance of the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow and Dorothy, who were all three general favorites, and on entering the royal palace word came to them from Ozma that she would at once grant them an audience. Dorothy told the girl Ruler how successful they had been in their quest until they came to the item of the yellow butterfly, which the Tin Woodman positively refused to sacrifice to the magic potion. [Illustration] "He is quite right," said Ozma, who did not seem a bit surprised. "Had Ojo told me that one of the things he sought was the wing of a yellow butterfly I would have informed him, before he started out, that he could never secure it. Then you would have been saved the troubles and annoyances of your long journey." "I didn't mind the journey at all," said Dorothy; "it was fun." "As it has turned out," remarked Ojo, "I can never get the things the Crooked Magician sent me for; and so, unless I wait the six years for him to make the Powder of Life, Unc Nunkie cannot be saved." Ozma smiled. "Dr. Pipt will make no more Powder of Life, I promise you," said she. "I have sent for him and had him brought to this palace, where he now is, and his four kettles have been destroyed and his book of recipes burned up. I have also had brought here the marble statues of your uncle and of Margolotte, which are standing in the next room." They were all greatly astonished at this announcement. "Oh, let me see Unc Nunkie! Let me see him at once, please!" cried Ojo eagerly. "Wait a moment," replied Ozma, "for I have something more to say. Nothing that happens in the Land of Oz escapes the notice of our wise Sorceress, Glinda the Good. She knew all about the magic-making of Dr. Pipt, and how he had brought the Glass Cat and the Patchwork Girl to life, and the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and of Ojo's quest and his journey with Dorothy. Glinda also knew that Ojo would fail to find all the things he sought, so she sent for our Wizard and instructed him what to do. Something is going to happen in this palace, presently, and that 'something' will, I am sure, please you all. And now," continued the girl Ruler, rising from her chair, "you may follow me into the next room." [Illustration] [Illustration] THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ CHAP. 28 [Illustration] When Ojo entered the room he ran quickly to the statue of Unc Nunkie and kissed the marble face affectionately. "I did my best, Unc," he said, with a sob, "but it was no use!" Then he drew back and looked around the room, and the sight of the assembled company quite amazed him. Aside from the marble statues of Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, the Glass Cat was there, curled up on a rug; and the Woozy was there, sitting on its square hind legs and looking on the scene with solemn interest; and there was the Shaggy Man, in a suit of shaggy pea-green satin, and at a table sat the little Wizard, looking quite important and as if he knew much more than he cared to tell. Last of all, Dr. Pipt was there, and the Crooked Magician sat humped up in a chair, seeming very dejected but keeping his eyes fixed on the lifeless form of his wife Margolotte, whom he fondly loved but whom he now feared was lost to him forever. Ozma took a chair which Jellia Jamb wheeled forward for the Ruler, and back of her stood the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and Dorothy, as well as the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger. The Wizard now arose and made a low bow to Ozma and another less deferent bow to the assembled company. "Ladies and gentlemen and beasts," he said, "I beg to announce that our Gracious Ruler has permitted me to obey the commands of the great Sorceress, Glinda the Good, whose humble Assistant I am proud to be. We have discovered that the Crooked Magician has been indulging in his magical arts contrary to Law, and therefore, by Royal Edict, I hereby deprive him of all power to work magic in the future. He is no longer a crooked magician, but a simple Munchkin; he is no longer even crooked, but a man like other men." As he pronounced these words the Wizard waved his hand toward Dr. Pipt and instantly every crooked limb straightened out and became perfect. The former magician, with a cry of joy, sprang to his feet, looked at himself in wonder, and then fell back in his chair and watched the Wizard with fascinated interest. [Illustration] "The Glass Cat, which Dr. Pipt lawlessly made," continued the Wizard, "is a pretty cat, but its pink brains made it so conceited that it was a disagreeable companion to everyone. So the other day I took away the pink brains and replaced them with transparent ones, and now the Glass Cat is so modest and well behaved that Ozma has decided to keep her in the palace as a pet." "I thank you," said the cat, in a soft voice. "The Woozy has proved himself a good Woozy and a faithful friend," the Wizard went on, "so we will send him to the Royal Menagerie, where he will have good care and plenty to eat all his life." "Much obliged," said the Woozy. "That beats being fenced up in a lonely forest and starved." "As for the Patchwork Girl," resumed the Wizard, "she is so remarkable in appearance, and so clever and good tempered, that our Gracious Ruler intends to preserve her carefully, as one of the curiosities of the curious Land of Oz. Scraps may live in the palace, or wherever she pleases, and be nobody's servant but her own." "That's all right," said Scraps. "We have all been interested in Ojo," the little Wizard continued, "because his love for his unfortunate uncle has led him bravely to face all sorts of dangers, in order that he might rescue him. The Munchkin boy has a loyal and generous heart and has done his best to restore Unc Nunkie to life. He has failed, but there are others more powerful than the Crooked Magician, and there are more ways than Dr. Pipt knew of to destroy the charm of the Liquid of Petrifaction. Glinda the Good has told me of one way, and you shall now learn how great is the knowledge and power of our peerless Sorceress." [Illustration] As he said this the Wizard advanced to the statue of Margolotte and made a magic pass, at the same time muttering a magic word that none could hear distinctly. At once the woman moved, turned her head wonderingly this way and that, to note all who stood before her, and seeing Dr. Pipt, ran forward and threw herself into her husband's outstretched arms. Then the Wizard made the magic pass and spoke the magic word before the statue of Unc Nunkie. The old Munchkin immediately came to life and with a low bow to the Wizard said: "Thanks." But now Ojo rushed up and threw his arms joyfully about his uncle, and the old man hugged his little nephew tenderly and stroked his hair and wiped away the boy's tears with a handkerchief, for Ojo was crying from pure happiness. Ozma came forward to congratulate them. "I have given to you, my dear Ojo and Unc Nunkie, a nice house just outside the walls of the Emerald City," she said, "and there you shall make your future home and be under my protection." "Didn't I say you were Ojo the Lucky?" asked the Tin Woodman, as everyone crowded around to shake Ojo's hand. "Yes; and it is true!" replied Ojo, gratefully. [Illustration] THE END The Land of Oz The title page of this book says that it is "an account of the further adventures of the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, and also the experiences of the Highly Magnified Woggle-Bug, Jack Pumpkinhead, the Animated Saw-Horse and the Gump." Also in this book Mr. Baum first presents Princess Ozma of Oz, Mombi, the witch; General Jinjur, and Dr. Nikidik, inventor of the famous wishing pills. In the country of the Gillikins lives a boy named Tip, who has been bewitched by old Mombi. Tip makes Jack Pumpkinhead from a pumpkin, a frame of sticks and some old clothes; Jack is brought to life through one of the witch's mysterious possessions, and then Tip and Jack run away. Soon they meet the Animated Saw-Horse, on whom they ride, and then the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman. Thereafter one adventure follows fast upon another until the travelers, by the aid of the wonderful Gump, reach the palace of Glinda the Good, who lifts from Tip the spell of the old witch--with a most astonishing result. "The Land of Oz" was the first of Mr. Baum's books to be illustrated by John R. Neill, now a noted artist. Mr. Neill's wonderful success in picturing the peculiar creations of the author led to a permanent alliance between these two favorites of the children, and all of Mr. Baum's later books have been adorned with Mr. Neill's pictures. In the Land of Oz are about one hundred and fifty black-and-white illustrations and sixteen charming full-page pictures in colors. Ozma of Oz As one little girl said, this is a "_real Ozzy_" book. It tells "more about Little Dorothy," and introduces the Yellow Hen, Tiktok, the Hungry Tiger, the Nome King, and many other remarkable personages. Our old friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, play prominent parts. There is a frightful storm at sea, during which Dorothy and Billina, the Yellow Hen, are cast ashore. Here, after escaping the Wheelers, they come across the mechanical man, Tiktok, and the three proceed through the Land of Ev to the palace of a wicked princess, where they are all imprisoned. They are rescued by Ozma, the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman. All then proceed to the realm of the Nome King to effect the release of the Royal Family of Ev, who have been enchanted by that cross old monarch. This done, after many trials and difficulties, the adventurers return to the Emerald City, where at a great feast the Hungry Tiger loses his appetite! Billina is one of Mr. Baum's most delightful characters. All readers will enjoy her wit and humor, which is backed up with much sound sense. The Hungry Tiger is a worthy companion to our old friend, the Cowardly Lion. For Ozma of Oz, Mr. Neill made forty-one full page colored pictures, twenty-two half pages in color, and more than fifty text illustrations, besides special end-sheets and other decorations. It is one of the most gorgeous of children's books. Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz First thing--bang! And an earthquake drops Dorothy and Zeb, her boy companion, through the earth's crust plumb into the Glass City. Here they soon meet the Wonderful Wizard of Oz, who also has fallen into this remarkable town. In company with Jim, the Cab Horse, Eureka, the Discontented Kitten, and the Nine Tiny Piglets, Dorothy and her friends are condemned to die, but escape into a tunnel through which they pass into the Valley of Voices. In their efforts to reach either the surface of the earth or the Land of Oz, where they would be helped by the powerful Princess Ozma, they meet many dangers and have numerous startling encounters with strange beings. Finally they are rescued by Ozma and are safe in the Emerald City. Here there is a great reunion, attended by the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger and many other of our old friends of Oz. Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz is embellished with sixteen full-page inserts after paintings by John R. Neill. These pictures are reproduced in full color by the most improved methods and are highly artistic and beautiful. In addition, there are many black-and-white illustrations, chapter headings, tail-pieces and decorations. The cover has an inlay printed in four colors and gold. The Road to Oz This is a novelty in bookmaking for children. As the scene shifts from one part to another of Mr. Baum's unique fairyland the tints of the paper used for printing change from color to color in accordance with the hue of the Country described. This color scheme, in connection with Mr. Neill's delightful and characteristic illustrations--over one hundred--make a truly wonderful book. Among the new characters introduced are Button-Bright, the Shaggy Man, King Dox and Johnny Doit. The Road to Oz is a marvelous road, along which Dorothy and her companions find many curious and strange inhabitants. They finally reach Oz and visit the Castle of Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman, now become Emperor of the Winkies, by whom they are escorted to the farm of Jack Pumpkinhead and to the Emerald City. Here Princess Ozma gives a banquet, at which the guests are beyond doubt the most amazing collection ever assembled under one roof, including Santa Claus, the Queen of Merryland, Para Bruin, the rubber bear; the King of the Quadlings, the Candy Man, the Queen of Ev, Jellia Jamb, General Jinjur, the Soldier with the Green Whiskers; Polychrome, the Rainbow's Daughter, the Incubator Baby and John Dough. Transcriber's Note: The alternative spelling for Tik-tok as "Tiktok" used in the advertisements at the end of the book; and the spelling of "UNK" in the first chapter heading illustration have been retained as they appear in the original publication. Changes have been made as follows: Page 68 Hyphen added to "bed-quilt" in "bed-quilt and intended to be". Page 145 "advise" to "advice" in "Shaggy Man's advice" Page 245 "solemly" to "solemnly" in "said the Scarecrow solemnly" Page 260 Closing quotation mark added to "let's go back." Page 279 Fullstop to comma in "Can't you talk from this side," Page 294 "Hoppers" to "Horners" in "and again the Horners laughed" Page 309 Closing quotation mark added to "... I could swim, or not," 
52017	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 52017-h.htm or 52017-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52017/52017-h/52017-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52017/52017-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/boysfortuneorstr00alge Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [Illustration: "HE HAD FALLEN ASLEEP."] A BOY'S FORTUNE Or, The Strange Adventures of Ben Baker by HORATIO ALGER, JR. Author of "Adrift in the City," "Grit," "Frank and Fearless," "Dan, the Detective," "Plucky Paul Palmer," etc. The John C. Winston Co. Philadelphia Chicago Toronto Copyright, 1898, by Henry T. Coates & Co. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. OLIVER HITCHCOCK'S LUNCH-ROOM, 1 II. A LODGING IN ST. MARK'S PLACE, 10 III. THE MERCHANT'S SECRET, 19 IV. THE MOCK PHILANTHROPIST, 28 V. A YOUNG DUDE, 37 VI. BEN GETS INTO TROUBLE, 45 VII. A STRANGE ADVENTURE, 54 VIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, 67 IX. CLARENCE IS PUZZLED, 72 X. AT THE OFFICE OF MR. CODICIL, 81 XI. THE HOME OF POVERTY, 90 XII. A SURPRISING ANNOUNCEMENT, 99 XIII. A FAREWELL CALL, 108 XIV. WHAT BEN'S FRIENDS THOUGHT, 117 XV. FILIPPO NOVARRO, 126 XVI. ON BOARD THE PARTHIA, 134 XVII. THE BEAUFORTS IN TROUBLE, 143 XVIII. MRS. FLANAGAN IS DRIVEN FROM THE FIELD, 152 XIX. BRIGHTER PROSPECTS, 162 XX. THE NEW HOME, 171 XXI. THE COLLAPSE OF AN ELDERLY DUDE, 181 XXII. THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE, 190 XXIII. ON THE BORDERS OF THE LAKE OF GENEVA, 200 XXIV. THE MAISON DE FOUS, 208 XXV. IN A TRAP, 218 XXVI. INTRODUCES TWO CELEBRITIES, 227 XXVII. A MIDNIGHT ESCAPE, 236 XXVIII. BEN'S FLIGHT, 245 XXIX. BEN IS MISSED, 249 XXX. M. BOURDON'S LITTLE SCHEME, 254 XXXI. A WANDERER IN FRANCE, 262 XXXII. A STRANGE MEETING, 267 XXXIII. AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY, 271 XXXIV. ROSE MAKES AN ENEMY, 279 XXXV. A WOMAN'S JEALOUSY, 287 XXXVI. ROSE COMES INTO A FORTUNE, 296 XXXVII. BEN MEETS HIS COUSIN, 305 XXXVIII. M. BOURDON HAS A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR, 310 XXXIX. BEN AND HIS UNCLE, 314 XL. CONCLUSION, 319 A BOY'S FORTUNE; OR, THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF BEN BAKER. CHAPTER I. OLIVER HITCHCOCK'S LUNCH-ROOM. "Wake up there! This is no place to sleep." The speaker was a policeman, the scene was City Hall Park, and the person addressed was a boy of perhaps sixteen, who was reclining on one of the park benches, with a bundle at his side. The officer accompanied his admonition with a shaking which served to arouse the young sleeper. "Is it morning?" asked the boy, drowsily, not yet realizing his situation. "No, it isn't. Don't you know where you are?" "I know now," said the boy, looking about him. "Come, get up, Johnny! This is no place for you," said the officer, not unkindly, for he was a family man, and had a boy of his own not far from the age of the young wayfarer. The boy got up, and looked about him undecidedly. Clearly he did not know where to go. "Are you a stranger in the city?" asked the policeman. "Yes, sir. I only got here this afternoon." "Then you have no place to sleep?" "No." "Haven't you got money enough to go to a hotel? There is Leggett's Hotel, just down Park Row," pointing eastward. "I have a little money, but I can't afford to go to a hotel." "You can go to the Newsboys' Lodging House for six cents." "Where is it?" The officer told him. "I feel hungry. I suppose there isn't any place where I can get supper so late as this?" "Oh, yes! There's one close by. Do you see a light over there?" The officer pointed to a basement opposite the post-office, at the corner of Beekman street and Park Row. "Yes, I see it," answered the boy. "Is it a good place?" "I should say so. Why, that's Oll Hitchcock's. You can't get a better cup of coffee or sandwich anywhere in New York. I often get lunch there myself, when I don't have time to go home." "Thank you for telling me. I'll go over." Ben Baker, for that is the name of our young hero, walked across the street, and descended the steps into the well-known restaurant or lunch-room of Oliver Hitchcock. Open by night as well as by day, there is hardly an hour of the twenty-four in which it is not fairly well patronized, while at times it is thronged. It is a favorite resort for men of all classes--printers, journalists, newsmen--who drop in in the early morning on their way to or from the offices of the great morning papers for their regular supplies--politicians and business men of all kinds. More than once in Oliver Hitchcock's old saloon, farther up the same street, Horace Greeley, the elder Bennett, and Raymond, of the _Times_, could be found at the plain tables, unprovided with cloths, but bearing appetizing dishes. When Ben entered the restaurant at half-past eleven he was surprised to find most of the tables occupied. Coming from the country, where ten o'clock found nearly every one in bed, he was much surprised to find so many persons up and engaged in supping. "People in New York seem to sit up all night," he thought. He took a vacant seat, and the waiter soon coming up to him, stood in silent expectation of an order. "Give me a cup of coffee and a sandwich," said Ben. "What kind?" "Ham." The waiter sped on his errand, and soon set before our hero a cup of fragrant coffee, steaming hot, and a sandwich made of tender meat and fresh bread, which tasted delicious to the hungry boy--so delicious that he resolved to forego the intended piece of pie and ordered another. While he was eating the second sandwich, he observed that a young man, sitting just opposite, was eyeing him attentively. He was tall, dark-complexioned, slender, and had a kindly face. "You seem to relish your supper, Johnny," he said. "Yes, I do, but my name isn't Johnny." The young man smiled. "Excuse me," he said, "but in New York we call boys by that name, if we don't know their real names. I suppose you have not been here long?" "No; I only arrived this afternoon." "Come to make your fortune, eh?" "Well, I don't know. I should like to, but if I can make a living it is all I expect. Besides, I have another object," added the boy, slowly. "Were you ever here before?" "No, sir." "You are up rather late. You don't sit up so late in the country, do you?" "Oh, no, I am in bed by nine o'clock generally." "We don't go to bed early here. I myself haven't been in bed before midnight for three years." "Do you like to sit up so late?" asked Ben. "I didn't at first. Now I am used to it. My business keeps me up late." Seeing that Ben looked curious, he added: "I am a reporter on a morning paper." "Do you like it?" asked Ben, doubtfully. "Oh, yes. It isn't a bad business." "What paper do you write for?" asked Ben, with considerable respect for a man who wrote for the papers. "I used to work on the _Sun_. Now I'm on the _Herald_. It suits me very well while I am a young man, but I should like a different position when I am older." "Is it hard work?" "Sometimes. I am liable to be sent off at five minutes' notice to any part of the city. Then I am expected to keep my eyes open, and make note of anything that comes in my way. There was a big fire last night about one o'clock, up town. I heard of it as I was going up in the horse-cars, so I hurried to the spot, and instead of going to bed I got all the information I could, hurried back to the office and wrote it up. I got extra pay for it. Besides, it shows interest, and may help me to promotion." "Have you got through for to-night?" asked Ben. "Yes; I feel tired, being up so late last night. When I leave here I shall go home and to bed. By the way, where are you staying?" "Nowhere," answered Ben, in some embarrassment. "You are not going to sit up all night, are you?" "No. I suppose I must go somewhere." "There is a hotel close by--Leggett's." "So a policeman told me, but I haven't much money, and I had better not go to a hotel. He said there was a Newsboys' Lodging House, where I could get lodging for six cents." "I am afraid you couldn't get in at this late hour." Ben looked perplexed. He felt sleepy, and needed rest. "Then I suppose I shall have to go to the hotel," he answered. "Do you know how much they charge?" "Not exactly. It depends on the room. I can direct you to a cheaper lodging even than you could get at the Newsboys' Lodging House." "I wish you would," said Ben, looking up hopefully. "Then come home with me. My room-mate is away for a few days, and I have room for you." "Thank you, sir, if it won't inconvenience you." "Not at all." Ben had read of adventurers that lie in wait for unsuspecting travellers and "rope them in," but he entertained no suspicion of the young man who had so kindly offered him a bed. The mere fact that he was a newspaper man seemed to Ben a guarantee of respectability. As Hugh Manton (the reporter) and he went up to the counter to pay the amount of their checks, a stout, handsomely-dressed man, of portly form and medium stature, entered the restaurant. As his eye fell upon Ben he started and muttered to himself: "That boy in New York! What does he want here?" CHAPTER II. A LODGING IN ST. MARK'S PLACE. Hugh Manton, whose calling had trained him to quick observation, did not fail to notice that the stout gentleman was in some way moved by the sight of his young companion. This surprised him not a little, for in the portly gentleman he recognized a wealthy retail merchant whose store was located on the upper part of Broadway. "Can there be any connection between this country boy and the rich Mr. Walton?" he asked himself, curiously. He resolved to take an early opportunity to question Ben. When their bills were paid they went out of the restaurant. It was twelve o'clock by the clock on the City Hall when they emerged from the lunch-room. A Third Avenue horse-car was just passing. "Follow me!" said the reporter, as he jumped aboard. Ben did so. "My room is on St. Mark's place," he said. "I suppose you don't know where that is?" "No; I have never been in New York before." "It must be nearly two miles from the City Hall Park. It is the eastern part of Eighth street." "Fare!" said the conductor. Ben put his hand into his pocket. "No," said his companion, "I have the change." "Thank you!" said Ben, "but you ought not to pay for me." "Oh, you shall take your turn some time." They sat down in the car, and, both being tired, sat silent. After riding fifteen to twenty minutes they came in sight of a large brown-colored building, set between Third and Fourth avenues, just beyond the termination of the Bowery. "We will get out here," said Hugh Manton. "That building is the Cooper Institute. Of course you have heard of it? We turn to the right, and will soon reach my den." Time was when St. Mark's place had some pretension to gentility, but now it is given up to lodging and boarding-houses. In front of a brick house, between Second and First avenues, the reporter paused. "This is where I live," he said. He opened the door with a latch-key, and they entered a dark hall, for at eleven o'clock the light was extinguished. "Follow me," he said to Ben. "Take hold of the banister, and feel your way. I am generally the last in," he said, "unless some one of my fellow-lodgers is out having a good time. One more flight of stairs. So, here we are." The rear room on the third floor was his. Opening a door, he quickly lighted a gas-jet on one side of the room. "There, my young friend," said the reporter, "you can undress as soon as you please, and jump into that bed nearest the window. It isn't luxurious, but will serve your turn." "Thank you," said Ben. "I feel very tired. I shan't lie awake long to consider what kind of a bed I am in. Do you get up early?" "Sometimes I get up as early as nine o'clock." Ben laughed. "Do you call that early?" he said. "Six o'clock isn't extra early in the country." "My young friend--by the way, what's your name?" "Ben Baker." "Well, Ben, let me tell you that nine o'clock is a very early hour for a reporter. We'll rise at nine, and go out to breakfast together." "I think I can sleep till then," said Ben, "for I am as tired as I ever was after a hard day's work on the farm." * * * * * "Wake up, Ben." It was the next morning and the words were spoken by Hugh Manton, as he gave a gentle shake to the still sleeping boy. Ben opened his eyes and looked about him in a confused way. Finally recollection came to him. "I thought I was in that park down town," he said, with a smile. "Do you know where you are now?" "Yes." "Have you slept well, youngster?" "I have had a bully sleep." "And you feel ready for breakfast?" "I think I can eat some." The two new acquaintances dressed and went down stairs. Ben was about to take his bundle, but the reporter stopped him. "Leave it here," he said, "for the present. Blodgett won't be back for three or four days, and you can stay here till he returns. You won't want to be lugging that bundle all over town." "You are very kind," said Ben, gratefully. "Why shouldn't I be? I came to the city myself a poor country youth, and I had a hard struggle as first till I reached my present pinnacle of wealth," he concluded, with a smile. "Are reporters well paid?" asked Ben, innocently. "That depends! Whatever they earn, it is seldom that one gets fifty dollars ahead. That is because, as a rule, they are improvident, and sometimes dissipated. I am not as well paid as some, but I make a little writing sketches for the weekly story papers. I pick up two or three hundred a year that way. Then I take better care of my money than some. I laid up five hundred dollars last year, and nearly as much the year before." "You will soon be rich," said Ben, to whom five hundred dollars seemed a large sum of money. The reporter smiled. "It takes considerable money to make a man rich in New York," he said. "However, I know it makes me feel very comfortable to think I have a thousand dollars in the bank." "I should think it would," said Ben, seriously. "Here we are!" said the reporter, pausing in front of a restaurant on Ninth street, facing the side of the great retail store established by the late A. T. Stewart. "We can get a comfortable breakfast inside for a low price." They entered, and sat down at one of the small tables. Hugh Manton ordered a beefsteak and a cup of coffee. This, with bread and butter, cost twenty cents. Ben duplicated the order. The meat was not of the best quality, but it was as good as could be afforded at the price, and Ben ate with the zest of a healthy boy of his age. "By the way, Ben," said the reporter, with apparent carelessness, though he scanned the face of his young companion attentively as he spoke, "are you acquainted with a clothing merchant of this city named Nicholas Walton?" Ben started in irrepressible astonishment. "What makes you ask?" he said. "Did you know he was my uncle?" It was Hugh Manton's turn to be astonished. "Your uncle!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to say Nicholas Walton is your uncle?" "Yes, I do. My mother is his sister." "Is it possible? He has the reputation of being very rich, while you----" "While I am very poor. Yes, that is true." "Are you going to call upon him?" "Yes. I thought, being my uncle, he might give me a place in his store." "Did you write him that you were coming?" "No--that is, not lately. I wrote three months ago, and he wrote back that I had better stay where I was." "What were you doing?" "I was working on a farm. I was paid three dollars a week." "Did you live on the farm?" "No; I lived with my mother." "She is living, then?" "Yes," said Ben, and his face lighted up with love for his absent mother. "I should think Mr. Walton would do something for his own sister." "So he does. He sends her twenty-five dollars a month. She lives in a small house belonging to my grandfather. My uncle is part owner, but he lets mother live in it." "I suppose you don't like the country, or you wouldn't have come to the city." "I have a taste for business, and no taste for farming. My uncle came to New York a poor boy, and he has succeeded. I don't see why I can't." "It doesn't always follow," said the reporter, thoughtfully. "Still I think you have it in you to succeed. You look bold, persevering and resolute." "I mean to succeed!" said Ben, firmly. "I am not afraid of work." "Shall you call on your uncle this morning?" "Yes; I want to find out as soon as I can what I am to depend upon." "Very well! Just make my room your home. I shall not be back myself till midnight, or later, but here is a latch-key which will admit you to my room whenever you like. I have Blodgett's with me, which I can use myself." CHAPTER III. THE MERCHANT'S SECRET. Five years before Ben's arrival in the city Nicholas Walton kept a moderate sized store on Grand street. He was doing a good business, but he was not satisfied. He wished to take a store on Broadway, and make his name prominent among business men. In this wish his wife entirely sympathized with him. She boasted aristocratic lineage, but when Mr. Walton married her she was living in genteel poverty, while her mother was forced, very much against her will, to take lodgers. It was a great piece of good luck for Theodosia Granville to marry a prosperous young merchant like Nicholas Walton, but she chose to consider that all the indebtedness was on the other side, and was fond of talking about the sacrifice she made in marrying a man of no family. They had two children, Emiline and Clarence Plantagenet Walton, the latter about three months older than his cousin Ben. Both were haughty and arrogant in temper and disposition, and as a matter of course neither was a favorite with their young associates, though each had flatterers whose interest was served by subserviency. At that time Ben's father was living and practicing as a physician in the little town of Sunderland, fifty miles distant in the country. There was comparatively little intercourse between the families, though there was not yet that difference in their worldly circumstances that afterward arose. One day, just as the clerks were getting ready to close up, Nicholas Walton was surprised by the sudden appearance of his brother-in-law, Dr. Baker. "What brings you to town, James?" he asked. "Business of great importance," answered Baker. "Indeed!" said Walton, curiously. "I will tell you all about it, but not here." "Do you go back to Sunderland to-night?" "No; I think of trespassing upon your hospitality." "Certainly. I shall be glad to have you stay with me. My wife and children are out of town--visiting a sister of hers in Hartford--but the servants will see that we are comfortable." "All the better. Of course I should have been glad to see Mrs. Walton and the children, but now you can give me more attention." "I wonder whether he wants to borrow money," thought the merchant, with some uneasiness. "If he does, I shall refuse as civilly as I can. I don't propose to be a prey to impecunious relatives. I need all the money I can command to further my own schemes. In three or four years, if things go well, I shall be able to move to Broadway, and then our family can take a higher social position. My wife would like to have me move at once, but I don't choose to do anything rashly. The time has not yet come for so important a step." "We will go now," said Mr. Walton. "The clerks will close up. If you will walk as far as the Bowery, we will board a Fourth avenue car." "Do you still live on Twelfth street, Nicholas?" "Yes. Mrs. Walton urges me to take a house on Madison avenue, but I must not go too fast." "You are prospering, I take it, Nicholas?" "He is feeling his way toward a loan, I am afraid," thought the merchant. "Yes, I am making headway," he admitted, warily, "but I have to be very cautious. Oftentimes I am short of money, I assure you. In fact, I am hampered by my small capital." "My neighbors in Sunderland would be surprised to hear that," said Dr. Baker, smiling. "They look upon you as one of the merchant princes of New York." "Do they?" said Walton, looking gratified. "Some day I hope to be what they think I am now." "You will be, if you are not too much in haste." "So I hope. And you, I hope you are prospering?" said the merchant, guardedly. "I have no cause for complaint," said his brother-in-law, "especially now." "What does he mean by 'especially now?'" thought the merchant. "I am glad to hear it," he said, aloud. Arrived at the house in Twelfth street--it was a plain brick house of three stories--dinner was found to be awaiting, and as they sat down at once, there was no opportunity for a private conversation. When the cloth was removed, and they were left to themselves, Walton invited his brother-in-law's confidence by saying, suggestively: "So business of importance brought you to New York, doctor?" "Yes, business of great importance!" "I suppose it seems great to him," thought Walton. "Well," he said aloud, "you have aroused my curiosity. It is only fair to gratify it." "That is what I propose to do. Let me say, then, that this day has made a great change in me." "I don't see any change," said Walton, puzzled. "Yet it has; I awoke this morning a poor man. To-night I am rich." "You--haven't been speculating?" said Walton, curiously. "No; I had no money to speculate with. But to-day a fortune has come to me." "A fortune! How much?" "One hundred thousand dollars!" answered the physician. "A hundred thousand dollars!" ejaculated Nicholas Walton, staring at his brother-in-law in amazement. "Yes." "Explain yourself--that is, if you are not joking." "Fortunately it is not a joke. As to the explanation, here it is: Some years ago I was called, when a young practitioner in New York (I began here, you know), to attend a wealthy West Indian planter, boarding at the New York Hotel. He was critically sick, and required constant attention. I had little to do, and devoted myself to him. He was convinced that he owed his life to me. He paid me handsomely then, and requested me to keep him apprised of my whereabouts. I have done so. Yesterday I received a letter, requesting me to come to New York, and call at a certain room in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I did so. I found a Cuban gentleman, who, first apprising me that my former patient was dead, added, to my amazement, that he had left me in his will one hundred thousand dollars. Furthermore, he had the amount with him in negotiable securities, and transferred them at once to my hands." "And you have them with you?" "Yes." "It was strangely informal." "True, but this gentleman was about to sail for Europe, to be absent five years--he sailed this afternoon--and he wished to be rid of his commission." "It is like a romance," said the merchant, slowly. "Yes, it's like a romance. I don't mind telling you," added the doctor, in a lower tone, "that it relieves me very much. Conscious, as I am, that my life hangs on a thread, it makes me easy about the future of my wife and child." "Your life hangs on a thread? What do you mean?" "I mean," said the physician, seriously, "that our family is subject to heart disease. My grandfather died at a minute's notice; so did my father; so, in all probability, shall I. No insurance company, knowing this, would insure me, and, till this windfall came, I was subject at times to great anxiety." "Does your wife--my sister--know that you have received this money?" asked Walton, slowly. "No; she merely knows that I received a letter from New York." "And you are really liable to die suddenly?" "Yes; I shall probably drop dead some day. My father died at my present age. Any sudden excitement----" "Good heavens! what is the matter with you?" exclaimed Walton, springing to his feet, excitedly. "What do you mean?" asked the physician, startled. "Your face is livid; you look like a corpse. Great heavens! has your time come?" Doctor Baker rose to his feet in terrible agitation; his face changed; he put his hand on his heart, swayed himself for a moment, and then fell lifeless. Walton had supplied the sudden excitement, and brought upon him the family doom. Nicholas Walton, half-terrified, half-triumphant, gazed at his victim. He knelt down, and tearing open the vest of his visitor, placed his hand upon his heart. It had ceased to beat. "Now for the securities!" he murmured hoarsely. They were found. A brief examination showed that they were negotiable by bearer. He carefully locked them up in his desk, and then, ringing the bell hastily, summoned a physician. One came, but could afford no help. "Now," he said to himself, with inward exultation, "this fortune is mine, and I can realize the dream of my life! No one will ever be the wiser." CHAPTER IV. THE MOCK PHILANTHROPIST. Nicholas Walton, much sooner than he had anticipated, was able to realize the dream of his life. He engaged a larger store on Broadway, within three months of the death of his brother-in-law. The latter was supposed to have died a poor man. In settling up his estate it was found that he left only the modest cottage in which he had lived. Mrs. Baker's anxiety, however, was alleviated by the following letter from her brother Nicholas: "MY DEAR SISTER:--I sympathize with you sincerely in your sad and sudden loss. I am afraid my poor brother-in-law has not been able to leave you comfortably provided for. I cannot do as much as I would like, but I will send you a monthly sum of twenty-five dollars, which, as you have no rent to pay, will perhaps keep you comfortable. If I can at any time feel justified in so doing, I will increase this allowance." "Nicholas is very kind," said Mrs. Baker, to her friends. "He has done this without any appeal from me." She really felt grateful for his kindness, as she termed it, having no suspicion of the terrible secret that haunted her brother day and night, making him an unhappy man in spite of his outward prosperity. But he had no intention of making restitution; his remorse did not go so far as this. "As to taking a hundred thousand dollars from my business," he said, in answer to conscience, "it would cripple me seriously. Besides, my sister doesn't want it; it would do her no good. She and her children can live comfortably on what I send her." He tried to persuade himself that he was liberal in his provision for his sister; but even his effrontery could not go so far as this. In reality, Mrs. Baker would have found great difficulty in keeping her expenses within three hundred dollars a year if Ben had not managed to pick up a dollar or two a week by working at odd jobs, running errands, or assisting some of the neighboring farmers. But the small town of Sunderland did not satisfy the ambitious boy. There was no kind of business which he could learn at home that offered him a satisfactory career. "Mother," he said, about three months before my story begins, "don't you think my uncle would give me a place in his store?" "You don't want to leave home, Ben, do you?" "I don't want to leave you, mother; but you know how it is. There is nothing to do in Sunderland." "I am sure you pick up considerable money in the course of a year, Ben." "But what does it all amount to, mother?" "It is a great help to me," said Mrs. Baker. "I don't mean that. It isn't getting me ahead. I can't do any more now than I could a year ago. If I learned my uncle's business I might get ahead, as he has." "You may be right, Ben; but how could I spare you? I should feel so lonely." "You have Alice, mother. She is ten years old, and is a good deal of company to you." So the discussion continued. Finally, as might have been expected, Ben obtained from his mother a reluctant consent to his writing to his uncle. He did not have to wait long for the answer; but when it came, it was cold and unsatisfactory. It read thus: "NEPHEW BENJAMIN:--Your letter has come to hand, asking me to give you a place in my store. I think you are much better off in the country. Besides that, I do not think you ought to leave your mother. You say there is no chance for you in Sunderland; but you are mistaken. You can work for some farmer, and gradually acquire a knowledge of the business, and in time I may help you buy a farm, or at any rate hire one, if I am satisfied with your conduct. As to the city, you had better keep away from it. I am sure your mother will agree with me. "Your uncle, "NICHOLAS WALTON." "Your uncle seems to me to write very sensibly," said Mrs. Baker. "The city is full of temptations." "If I go to the city I shall work too hard to be troubled in that way, mother." "Your uncle makes a very kind offer, I think." "It doesn't bind him to much," said Ben. "He says he may help me to buy or hire a farm, if I learn farming." "That would be a gift worth having, Ben," said his mother, who thought chiefly of keeping Ben at home. "I shall never make a farmer, mother; I don't like it well enough. It is a very useful and honorable business, I know, but I have a taste for business; and if Uncle Nicholas won't help me to a start, I must see what I can do for myself after a time." Nicholas Walton congratulated himself when his letter to Ben remained unanswered. "That will settle the matter," he said to himself. "I would rather keep the boy in the country. I couldn't have him in my establishment. I should never see him without thinking of his father's sudden death before my eyes," and the rich merchant shuddered in spite of himself. "Besides," and a shade of apprehension swept over his face, "I am in constant fear lest he should hear of the large sum of money which came into his father's hands just before his death. While he stays in Sunderland, there is little chance of any such knowledge coming to him; if he is in the city, there is a greater chance of it. Who knows; the man who paid Doctor Baker the money may turn up. It was his intention to go to Europe for five years. That period has nearly passed already. If this discovery should ever be made, I am ruined. I might even be accused of murdering him, though, happily, that could not be proved. But there would be a blot on my name, and my reputation would suffer." For three months Ben made no sign, and his uncle concluded that he had given up his plan of coming to New York in search of employment. But one evening--it was the one on which our story commenced--on his way back from a call upon some friends in Brooklyn, Nicholas Walton stepped into Hitchcock's lunch-room, knowing it well by reputation, and was startled by seeing the nephew whose appearance he so much dreaded. It was his first impulse to speak to him, and harshly demand his reason for disobeying the positive command to remain at home; but this might be followed by an appeal for help (it was clear that Mr. Walton did not understand his nephew) and that might be awkward. "No," thought the merchant; "I won't speak to him till he comes to the store, as no doubt he intends to. Then I will give him a piece of my mind." We now come back to Ben and his new found friend, the reporter. "If you don't object, I will walk down town with you, Mr. Manton," said Ben, as they left the restaurant where they had breakfasted. "I shall be glad of your company, Ben," said Manton, cordially. "I will point out to you the chief landmarks, and places of interest, as we go along." "I wish you would," said Ben. "I know very little of the city." "That is a defect you will soon remedy," said his friend. "By the way," said Ben, with a sudden thought, "how was it that you asked me if I knew Mr. Walton?" "Because I saw that Mr. Walton knew you." "You saw that he knew me?" repeated Ben, puzzled. "Yes. Do you remember a stout gentleman who came into Hitchcock's just as we were going out?" "No; I did not observe him." "It was Nicholas Walton. When his glance first rested upon you he started and looked disturbed." "He did not approve of my coming to New York," explained Ben. "Then you think he recognized me?" "I am sure of it." "I wonder he did not speak to me!" said Ben, thoughtfully. "Probably for the reason you have assigned--because he did not approve of your coming. Do you expect to call upon him?" "Yes; I am going to ask if he won't give me a place in his store. He employs a large number, I suppose?" "Yes; not less than a hundred, I should think, in various ways inside the store, besides scores of seamstresses outside. He has a very large establishment, and is accounted a very rich man." "So I have always heard," said Ben. "He wanted me to stay in Sunderland and become a farmer." "And you don't fancy the advice?" "No. I should never make a farmer. If I had any taste for it, I might have followed my uncle's advice." "Have you ever seen Mr. Walton's store?" asked the reporter, presently. "No." "Here it is," and he pointed to a spacious store, with great plate-glass windows, in which was displayed suits of clothes in profusion. "Then, Mr. Manton, I believe I will leave you and go in. I want to find out as soon as possible whether my uncle will help me, or whether I must depend upon myself." "Good luck to you, Ben, then! I will expect to see you to-night." And Hugh Manton kept on his way down town, to see what work had been laid out for him at the office. CHAPTER V. A YOUNG DUDE. Ben entered the great store, gazing not without admiration at the long counters loaded with piles of clothing. "My uncle must be a very rich man," he said to himself. "Surely he can find a place for me in so large a store." "Do you wish to buy a suit?" asked a spruce young man, coming forward to meet our hero. "No; I would like to see Mr. Walton," answered Ben. The young man surveyed Ben's country garb with a smile of depreciation. He was apt to judge others by their clothes, being conscious, perhaps, that they were his own chief claim to consideration. "I don't think Mr. Walton will see you, youngster," he said. "Why not?" demanded Ben, looking him calmly in the eye. "His time is of too much value to waste on country kids." "Mr. Walton is my uncle," said Ben, quietly. "Your uncle!" repeated the clerk, in considerable surprise. "Oh, well, that alters the case. Just go through the store and you will find Mr. Walton in his office." Ben followed directions, and found the office without further inquiry. Through the open door he saw a short man, of fifty or thereabouts, sitting at a desk. There was another person in the office--a boy, somewhere near his own age--dressed in the fashion, with a gold watch-chain across his vest, a showy pin in his scarf, and the air of a young coxcomb. This was Clarence Plantagenet Walton, the only son of the merchant, and of course Ben's cousin. The two, however, had not met since both were very young boys, and neither would have recognized the other. Ben overheard a fragment of the conversation between his uncle and cousin. "You spend too much money, Plantagenet. It is less than a week since I gave you ten dollars." "The fellows I go with are all rich, and spend plenty of money. You wouldn't want them to look upon me as mean, pa?" "The boys of the present day are altogether too extravagant," said his father, frowning. "Why, when I was a boy, I didn't spend ten dollars in three months." "You were not in fashionable society like me, pa," said Clarence Plantagenet, consequentially. "Much good it does you!" muttered Mr. Walton. "What do you want money for particularly to-day?" "I am going with Percy Van Dyke to a base-ball match this afternoon. Percy lives in a splendid house on Fifth avenue, and his family is one of the first. I suppose we shall get home late, and I want to give him a little supper at Delmonico's." "The Van Dykes stand very high," said Mr. Walton, complacently. "I am very glad to have you associate with such a high-toned family. I suppose I must let you have the money." He drew out a ten-dollar bill and tendered it to Clarence. "Five dollars more, if you please, pa," said the elegant youth. "Suppers at Delmonico's are expensive, and I don't want to economize with such a fellow as Percy." "Very well; here are five dollars more, but don't be foolishly extravagant." Clarence was about to leave the office, well satisfied, when he espied Ben. "Who do you want to see, boy?" he demanded, curtly. "I should like to speak with my uncle," answered Ben. "Then don't hang around my father's office. If your uncle is employed in this establishment, you can ask one of the floor-walkers to point him out." Ben eyed the arrogant boy in some amusement, and answered, demurely: "My uncle is Mr. Nicholas Walton, and you, I suppose, are my cousin Clarence." Clarence Plantagenet recoiled in disgust. "I don't understand you," he said. "You must be crazy." Ben was not obliged to vindicate his sanity, for his uncle, who had hitherto remained silent, now spoke. "You can come in, if you are Benjamin Baker, of Sunderland." "Thank you, Uncle Nicholas," said Ben. "Is he my cousin?" asked Plantagenet of his father, in evident discomposure. "Yes, I presume so. His mother is my sister." "Did you send for him, pa?" "No." "Then why is he here?" "I expect him to explain that to me," said Mr. Walton, coldly. "Benjamin, what brings you to New York?" "I want to get a position here, so that I may learn business. I thought you might find me a place in your store, Uncle Nicholas." "Did I not write you to stay in Sunderland?" asked Mr. Walton, coldly. "Yes." "Then why have you disobeyed me?" continued the merchant, with a frown. "Because I have no taste for farming, and there is no other employment there." "A boy like you is not qualified to judge what is best for him," said Mr. Walton, harshly. "Did I not promise, if you learned farming, that when you got older I would set you up on a farm of your own?" "I never should succeed as a farmer, for I don't like it," answered Ben. "What fault have you to find with it?" demanded the merchant, testily. "None whatever, uncle, except that I am not suited for it." "You don't look to me suited for anything else," said Clarence Plantagenet, insolently. "I don't think you know me well enough to judge what I am fit for," answered Ben, calmly. "You might make a good blacksmith, perhaps," continued Clarence, in the same offensive tone. "Isn't there any opening in that line in the country?" "There might be. The business is not to my taste, though it may be to yours." "To my taste!" ejaculated the horrified Plantagenet. "What have I to do with such a dirty business as that?" "Stop this foolish discussion, Plantagenet," said his father. "You had better go to meet your friend, Van Dyke, and I will settle matters with your cousin here." "Pack him back to the country, pa!" said Clarence. "That is the best place for him." So saying, the young "dude" sauntered out of the office and left the store, several of the clerks who wished to stand well with their employer bowing deferentially to him. Plantagenet barely acknowledged their bows by a supercilious nod. He did not look upon them as his social equals. "I am inclined to agree with my son," said the merchant, after Plantagenet had left the office. "I think the country is the best place for you." "Then, Uncle Nicholas, you won't give me a place in your store?" asked Ben, his face showing his disappointment. "I will do nothing to encourage you in a step which I consider so ill-advised as coming to the city." "Then I must bid you good-morning," said Ben, soberly. "Stay!" said his uncle. "I am willing to make up to you the expense of your trip to the city, on condition that you go back to-day." He put his hand into his pocket as he spoke. "Thank you, Uncle Nicholas," said Ben. "I thank you for your offer, but I won't accept it; I shall not go back to Sunderland." "You won't go back!" gasped the merchant. "What will you do, then?" "Look elsewhere for a place," said Ben. "You are a foolish, headstrong boy. I wash my hands of you. You need not expect any help from me. You must make your own way." "I mean to," answered Ben, quietly, as he bowed and walked out of the office. "This is very annoying," said Mr. Walton to himself. "He is an obstinate boy. However, his eyes will soon be opened to his folly, and he will have to go back, after all. Perhaps it is as well for him to try, and fail. He will be more manageable afterward." CHAPTER VI. BEN GETS INTO TROUBLE. Ben went out of his uncle's store in a serious frame of mind. He knew that his uncle was opposed to his leaving his country home and coming to New York, but he had hoped that he would nevertheless be willing to extend to him a helping hand, especially as it would cost him so little. He found himself now in a critical position. He had in his pocket a dollar and twenty-seven cents, and this constituted his entire worldly capital. It was enough to carry him back to Sunderland, but, if he had been willing to do that, it would have been for his interest to accept his uncle's offer to refund to him what his trip would cost. But Ben was not easily discouraged. His motto was: "If at first you don't succeed, Try, try again!" "I won't go back to Sunderland unless I am obliged to," he said to himself. "There are other stores besides my uncle's in this large city, and more ways of making a living than one. I won't give up till I have tried my best." So he walked along Broadway in a leisurely way, keeping his eyes wide open, and interested, in spite of his critical circumstances, in the crowds and bustle of that brilliant thoroughfare. Presently he came to a shop window on which was posted the notice-- "BOY WANTED." "Here's a chance for me," he thought, hopefully. "I'll apply for the place. I can't be any more than refused." He entered. It was a store appropriated to "Gentlemen's Furnishing Goods." A tall young man, with his auburn hair parted in the middle, glanced at him languidly. "I see you want a boy," said Ben, plunging at once into business. "Humph! Are you the boy?" "I am a boy, and would like a place," answered Ben. The clerk picked his teeth languidly with a wooden toothpick which he had brought from the cheap restaurant where he had taken his breakfast. "Are you from the country?" "Yes, sir." "How long have you been in the city?" "I arrived yesterday." "Then you don't know your way round New York?" "No; but I would soon learn." "That wouldn't suit us. Besides, you don't live with your parents." "My father is dead; my mother lives in the country." "You won't suit us, then. However, you can go back and speak to Mr. Talbot. There he is, in the rear of the store." Ben had at first supposed that the young man with whom he was speaking was the proprietor. He did not dream that he was a clerk, working for nine dollars a week. He made application to Mr. Talbot, a middle-aged gentleman, not half so consequential as his clerk, but was asked essentially the same questions as before. "I am afraid I must refuse you," said Mr. Talbot, kindly. "We require a boy who is used to the city streets, and we prefer that he should live with his parents. I am sorry for your disappointment." "Thank you, sir," said Ben; but it was in rather a subdued tone. His prospects did not seem quite so good as a little while before. Coming out into the street, Ben saw quite a crowd of boys and young men, who were following a tall lady, just in advance, and showing signs of amusement. It only took a glance to discover the cause of their mirth. The lady wore a sack, evidently just purchased, on which was a card, bearing in large, distinct characters, the words: "CHEAP FOR CASH." This it was that had excited the amusement of the crowd. Ben was also amused, but he sympathized with the lady; and, stepping forward promptly, touched her on the arm. She looked back in surprise, and then for the first time became aware of the crowd that was following her. She was a lady probably nearing forty, and had a shrewd, kindly look. "What does it all mean?" she asked. "There is something on your sack, madam. Allow me to remove it." And Ben plucked off the ticket, which he handed to the lady. "I am not surprised at the amusement of the boys," said the lady, smiling. "The ticket should have been removed. I am very much obliged to you, my young friend." "You are quite welcome," said Ben, bowing and falling back. The lady smiled, and passed on. She would have remained had she known that by his act of kindness her young acquaintance had involved himself in trouble. No sooner had the lady disappeared than the disappointed young ruffians who had been making sport of her turned angrily upon our hero. "Ain't you smart?" sneered one. "You're a little too fresh, country!" said another. Ben turned from one to another in surprise. He didn't understand in what way he had offended. "What is the matter?" he asked. "What have I done?" "What made you tell the lady what she had on her back?" demanded a third. "I thought she ought to know," answered Ben. "Oh, you did!" sneered the first. "What you wanted was a reward. I'm glad she didn't give you a cent." "You judge me by yourself," said Ben, provoked. "I can be polite without being paid for it." "Say that again!" said Mike Rafferty, a freckle-faced young rowdy, squaring off in a scientific manner. "All right; I do say it again!" returned Ben, angrily. "Take that, then!" said the fellow, as he struck at Ben. Our hero dodged, and returned the compliment. At that moment a policeman came round the corner, just in time to see Ben's demonstration. "So you're fightin' agin, you young rascal!" exclaimed the valiant officer. "I've got ye this time!" and he seized Ben by the shoulder. Ben turned, and, it must be confessed, was startled to find himself, for the first time in his life, in the hands of the law. "That boy attacked me, sir," he said. "It's a lie!" exclaimed Mike Rafferty. "Isn't it b'yes?" "Yes, it's a lie!" chimed in his companions, whose sympathies, of course, were with Mike. "Jist what I thought meself," said the astute officer. "Say, cop, ye didn't see me hit him?" said Mike. "Don't ye call me cop!" said the policeman, with insulted dignity. "I mean captain," amended Mike, craftily. "What's all the fuss about?" interrogated the officer. "I axed him was he from the country, and he got mad and hit me," said Mike. "Say, b'yes, ain't it so?" "Yes, that's so," answered the boys, in chorus. "Then you must come with me, you young rascal!" said the officer. "Where?" asked Ben, with sinking heart. "To the station-house. I'll tache ye to fight in the streets. You must go along, too, and make complaint," he added, addressing Mike Rafferty. "All right, captain. Come along, b'yes," said Mike, with a wink of enjoyment at his companions. Ben felt not a little humiliated at walking along Broadway in the clutch of a policeman. He felt bewildered, too, it had come upon him so quickly. It really seemed as if misfortunes were crowding upon him. First, his uncle had practically disowned him, he had been rebuffed in his attempt to obtain employment, and now he was arrested, and on his way to the station-house, charged with fighting and disorderly conduct in the streets. To make matters worse and heighten his humiliation, as he was walking along, shrinking from observation, he met his cousin, Clarence Plantagenet, in company with another boy, somewhat older, dressed also in the height of the fashion. Clarence regarded Ben in amazement, and turned away his head in a disgust which he did not attempt to conceal. "He will tell Uncle Nicholas," thought our unfortunate hero, "and he will think I have been doing something disgraceful." "Come along, ye young rapscallion!" said the policeman, roughly, "I'll soon attind to your case." CHAPTER VII. A STRANGE ADVENTURE. Under different circumstances Ben might have been interested in his first view of a police station. But, standing before the bar in the custody of a policeman, he felt too much troubled in mind to notice his surroundings. As another prisoner was under examination, fifteen minutes elapsed before Ben's turn came. "What is the charge against this boy?" asked the sergeant. "I caught him fightin' in the streets," said the officer. "He was hittin' that b'ye yonder," indicating Mike Rafferty. Mike, who looked emphatically like a hard case, tried to appear like a respectable, well-behaved boy, who had been set upon by a young ruffian. "What's your name?" asked the sergeant, addressing Mike. "Mike Rafferty, yer honor," answered Mike, thinking it best to be as respectable as possible. "Did this boy strike you?" "Yes, and he did, your honor, and if you don't believe me just ax any of them b'yes," indicating his companions. "Tommy Burke, didn't you see him hit me?" "That will do. What did he hit you for?" "Faith, and I don't know," said Mike, shrugging his shoulders. "Did you hit him first?" "No, I didn't do nothing to him," answered Mike, virtuously. "I think you have been here before," said the sergeant, whose memory was good. "I don't remember it," said Mike, cautiously, not thinking it politic to contradict the sergeant. "Officer, do you know anything of the boy you have brought in?" "Oh, yes, I've known him a long time. He's wan of the gang," answered the policeman, glibly. Just then a gentleman came forward, whom, much to Ben's delight, he remembered as the keeper of a dry-goods store in Sunderland. Bowing to the sergeant, he said, respectfully: "I know this boy, and I know that the policeman is under a great mistake. Will you allow me to say what I know about him?" "Go on, sir." "So far from his being a member of any city gang, he lives in the country, and it is extremely doubtful if the policeman ever saw him before. He only came to the city yesterday." "He's wan of the gang," persisted the officer, sullenly. "I've seen him ivery day for the last three months." "Mr. Sergeant," said the former speaker, "this officer is guilty of willful falsehood. I know the boy as well as I know my own son, and I know that he has passed the last three months in the country." "The boy is discharged," said the officer. He added, sharply: "Officer Flynn, I expect the truth from you in future. The boy you have arrested is much more respectable in appearance than his accuser, and, under the circumstances, I cannot attach any credit to your charge against him. Be more careful in future." With sullen reluctance, the officer, who is a type of a considerable number on the force, but not of all, released Ben. Our hero walked up to the gentleman whose testimony had been of so much value to him, and warmly thanked him. "I was in a bad scrape," he said, "and I don't know how I would have come out of it if you had not spoken for me." "I chanced to see you in charge, and followed as soon as I could," said Mr. Woodbury. "What luck are you meeting with in New York, Ben?" "Not much, yet; but don't say anything to mother about your meeting me here, or she may be worried. I shall make every effort to get something to do here. If I can't, I may be obliged to go home." "Well, Ben, I wish you good luck. I must now leave you, as I have several business calls to make." Ben emerged from the station-house feeling that he had made a lucky escape. The boys who had followed him (Mike and his friends) had vanished, on finding that things did not turn out as they expected, fearing that they might get into trouble themselves. "I see," said Ben to himself, "that I must keep my eyes wide open in New York. I used to think that an innocent person need not fear the police, but I don't find it exactly so." He strolled back to Broadway, and mingled once more with the busy crowds. The same thought came to him, as to so many in his position, "Everybody seems to have something to do except me. Why am I alone idle?" When Ben reached the Metropolitan Hotel he paused for a moment at the entrance. As he stood there a gentleman passed out hurriedly. As his eyes fell upon Ben his face lighted up, and a sudden plan presented itself to his mind. "Boy," he said, "do you live in New York?" "I expect to, if I can find anything to do." "Where do you come from?" "Sunderland." "Where is that?" "In Connecticut." "How far away is it?" "About forty miles." "What relatives have you living?" "A mother and sister in the country." As the gentleman did not inquire whether he had relatives in New York, Ben did not see fit to volunteer information, particularly as he did not care to claim relationship with an uncle and cousin who were evidently ashamed of him. "You are in search of a position, are you?" asked the gentleman. "Yes, sir." "And you are not particular what you do?" "No, sir, as long as it is honest." "Yes, I think he will do," soliloquized the gentleman, regarding Ben intently. "He is the same size and shape, and has a similar expression. It will be easy to mistake him for Philip." Ben only caught part of this soliloquy, and of course he did not understand it. "Of course, of course," said the gentleman, hastily, answering Ben's words after a while. "Well, I think I can give you something to do. Do you write a fair hand?" "Yes, sir, pretty fair." "Come up stairs with me," said the gentleman, abruptly. "I am staying at this hotel." "Is it safe?" thought Ben; but the thought that he was a poor boy, and was little likely to attract the attention of adventurers, reassured him, and without hesitation he followed his new, and, as it appeared, rather eccentric acquaintance. They took the elevator and got out at the fourth landing. His new friend nodded, and Ben followed him along the hall. The gentleman drew a key from his pocket and opened the door of a room near at hand. "Come in," he said. The room was a double one, consisting of a parlor and bedchamber. There were two trunks in the bedroom. "Sit down," said the gentleman. Ben seated himself. "What is your name?" "Benjamin Baker." "I engage you as my private secretary." "Do you think I will suit?" asked Ben, considerably amazed. "You won't have much to do," was the answer. "You are also to pass for my nephew." "I wonder whether I am awake or dreaming," he asked himself. "I shall call you Philip Grafton," continued the stranger. "Why can't I keep my own name?" asked Ben, uneasily. "It is unnecessary to state. My secretary must be Philip Grafton," said the gentleman, firmly. "Don't you like the name?" "Yes, sir; it is a good name. Many would prefer it to mine, but I don't like to sail under false colors." "It is a whim of mine," said the gentleman, "but I don't think you will be sorry for acceding to it. Now, as to compensation, I propose to pay you fifty dollars a month and board--that is, of course, you will live with me." "Fifty dollars a month!" repeated Ben, opening his eyes in amazement. "Yes; isn't it satisfactory?" "I don't see how I can possibly earn fifty dollars a month." "That is my lookout. As long as I am satisfied, you needn't worry about that." "I am afraid you will be disappointed in me, sir." "I hope not. Do as I tell you, and I shall be satisfied." "When am I to go to work?" asked Ben. "You will enter upon your duties at once. I suppose you have no objection?" "Am I to live at the hotel with you, sir?" "Yes." "Then I will go and get my clothes." "Ah, yes; I didn't think of that. You won't need to get them." "Won't need to get my clothes?" repeated Ben in amazement. He began to think his employer was out of his head. "I have clothes for you here--in that trunk. This key fits it. Open it." Wondering much, Ben took the key, and, fitting it in the lock of the smaller trunk, lifted the lid. He found it full of shirts, under-garments, handkerchiefs, etc., of fine texture. "You will find underneath two suits of clothes," said his employer. "Take them out." Ben followed directions. "Now take off your own clothes--all of them--and dress yourself from the contents of the trunk." Ben hesitated. He could not at all understand what was happening to him. "Of course," said the gentleman, "your present clothing won't do for my private secretary. The contents of this trunk are yours, if the clothes fit you." Ben proceeded to remove his clothing, and in a few minutes he was newly rigged from top to toe. Every article fitted admirably. "Now look at yourself in the mirror," said the gentleman, evidently pleased with the transformation. Ben looked in the mirror, and was delighted with the change in his appearance. His outer suit was of fine French cloth, all his under-garments were of costly fabric, and he found himself transformed from a country boy in badly-cut garments of coarse cloth to a finely-dressed young gentleman. "How do you like it?" asked the gentleman, smiling. "Very much," said Ben, sincerely. "So do I," answered the gentleman. "Where shall I put my old clothes?" asked Ben. "Make a bundle of them and give them to some poor boy. You won't need them." Ben resolved, instead, to send them home by express. They might come in use some time. "Now," said the gentleman, "there is one thing more. Have you a pocket-book?" "Yes, sir." "Here is a little money in advance. You will need to carry some about with you." He took from his own pocket-book fifteen dollars in bills and handed them to Ben. "I wonder if I am dreaming," thought our hero. "This may be like the fairy gold I have read of." As a matter of fact, however, they were bank-notes on the Park Bank of New York, and Ben soon had occasion to test their genuineness. "We will go down to lunch now," said Richard Grafton, for that was the name of the gentleman, as Ben discovered. Ben entered the large dining-room and took a seat next his employer. Though new to hotel life he copied what he saw other guests do, and no one suspected that the handsomely-dressed boy had not all his life been used to luxury. When the meal was over, Mr. Grafton said: "You can go where you please this afternoon, but be on hand at six o'clock. We shall go to some theatre this evening." Mr. Grafton left the hotel. Ben took an opportunity to examine the hotel register soon after. He discovered that Mr. Grafton had arrived the day before. This was the entry: "RICHARD GRAFTON, London, England." Underneath, to his amazement, he read another name: "MASTER PHILIP GRAFTON, London, England." "I suppose that means me," he said to himself. "What does it all mean? How did Mr. Grafton know that I would be here? He had never seen me. And how did he find clothes to fit me so exactly?" There was certainly a mystery, but it was fraught with so much to the advantage of our hero that he resolved to cease asking questions and accept the gifts of fortune. CHAPTER VIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING AT THE GRAND OPERA HOUSE. When Clarence Plantagenet saw his poor country cousin marching up Broadway escorted by a policeman he was very much surprised, but on the whole he was not displeased. "Do you know that boy?" asked his companion. "No, certainly not," answered Clarence, coloring. "I thought you looked as if you did." "He looks like a boy I met in the country last summer," was the evasive answer. "Poor devil! I wonder what he has been doing." "Stealing, very likely," said Clarence, shrugging his shoulders. "He doesn't look like a thief." "Appearances are deceitful," said Clarence, oracularly. At the supper-table, where Clarence met his father for the first time since he had called at his office, he said: "Oh, papa, what do you think? That country boy I saw in your office has got into trouble." "Do you mean your cousin Benjamin?" "I suppose he is my cousin," said Clarence, reluctantly, "but I don't care about knowing him for a relation. I saw him on Broadway in charge of a policeman." "Are you sure of this?" said Mr. Walton, much surprised. "Yes; I knew him well enough by his clothes." Clarence then gave an account of his meeting Ben. "Did you speak to him?" asked his father. "Mercy, no! Percy Van Dyke was with me. I wouldn't for a hundred dollars have him know that I had a cousin arrested, and such a countryfied-looking cousin, too." "I think Benjamin would be a good-looking boy if he were well dressed," said Mr. Walton. "I don't," said Clarence, decidedly. "I am sorry to hear he has got into trouble," said Mr. Walton, who was not so mean as his son. "I think I ought to do something to help him." "Better leave him to his fate, pa. No doubt he is a bad boy." "I can't understand why he should be. My sister is poor but an excellent woman, and his father was an exemplary man." "I don't think we have any call to trouble ourselves about this boy," said Clarence. "He has disgraced us, and we couldn't do anything without having it all come out." "By the way, Clarence, I have two tickets to the Grand Opera House this evening; would you like to go?" "Just the thing, pa; I was wondering what we should do to pass the time." "Edwin Booth is to appear as Cardinal Richelieu. It is one of his best characters. It will be a rare treat." "Percy Van Dyke is to be there with his sister," said Clarence. "That is the reason why he wouldn't take supper with me at Delmonico's this evening." "You will have a chance to see your friends between the acts," said Mr. Walton. "I am perfectly willing you should become intimate with the Van Dykes. By the way, bring your friend around and introduce him to me." "Yes, pa." Mr. Walton had been the architect of his own fortune, while the Van Dykes were descended from an old Dutch family, and had held for over a century a high social position. Now that the merchant had money, he thirsted for social recognition--something money will not always buy. Eight o'clock found father and son in choice orchestra seats in the Grand Opera House, and they began to look about them. Suddenly Mr. Walton said, sharply: "What was all that rubbish you were telling me about your cousin being arrested?" "It was perfectly true, pa," answered Clarence, looking at his father in surprise. "What do you say to that, then?" Following the direction of his father's finger, Clarence's eyes rested upon his despised country cousin, elegantly dressed, sitting two rows to the front, and a little to the right, with his eyes fixed upon the curtain, which was then rising. "That looks very much as if your cousin had been arrested!" said his father, with a sneer. "I can't understand it," ejaculated Clarence. "It can't be my cousin. It must be some other boy that looks like him." Just then Ben chanced to turn round. Observing his uncle's eyes fixed upon him, he bowed politely and turned once more to the stage. CHAPTER IX. CLARENCE IS PUZZLED. Clarence Plantagenet was so puzzled by the appearance of his cousin at a fashionable theatre at a time when he supposed him to be enjoying the hospitality of the police authorities that he paid little attention to the stage performance. He had a large share of curiosity, and resolved to gratify it, even if it were necessary to speak to Ben himself. At the end of the second act, Ben, feeling thirsty, and having noticed that ice-water could be obtained in the lobby, left his seat and walked up the aisle. Clarence, observing this, rose also, and followed him. He came to the water-fount just as Ben had quenched his thirst. He was surprised anew when he observed how elegantly his cousin was dressed. He was fastidious as to his own dress, but was obliged to confess that Ben surpassed him in this respect. Ben was conscious of the same thing, and, under the circumstances, it gratified him. Another thing also was evident to Clarence, though he admitted it with reluctance, that Ben was a strikingly handsome boy. He had appeared somewhat to disadvantage in his country-made suit, but all signs of rusticity had now disappeared. "Good evening," said Clarence, with a good deal more politeness than he had displayed at the office. "Good evening," said Ben, politely. "I am surprised to see you here," continued Clarence. "Yes," answered Ben. "I didn't expect to see you here." "Oh, I come here often. I thought you would spend the evening in an entirely different place," said Clarence, significantly. "You are kind to think of me at all," said Ben, smiling. Clarence was puzzled. He began to think that he must have been mistaken in the person when he supposed he saw Ben in the custody of an officer. Now he came to think of it, the boy under arrest had shown no signs of recognition. We know that it was because Ben was far from wishing to attract the attention of any one who knew him. "Have you passed the day pleasantly?" inquired Clarence, thinking he might lead up to the subject on which he desired light. "Quite pleasantly," answered Ben. "New York is a beautiful city." "I was afraid you had got into a scrape," said Clarence. "As I was walking along Broadway, soon after you left father's office, I saw a boy just like you in charge of a policeman." "Poor fellow! I hope he got off. Did you stop and speak to him?" "No; I was so surprised that I stood still and stared till it was too late." "I am not at all anxious to make the acquaintance of the police," said Ben, not sorry to have put his cousin off the scent. "You have changed your dress," said Clarence, wishing to satisfy his curiosity in another direction. "Yes," answered Ben, with studied indifference. "You have a good seat to-night." "Yes; I have an excellent view of the play." "The orchestra seats are high-priced. I thought you were short of money." "I was, but I am earning a good income now, and----" "You haven't got a place, have you?" ejaculated his cousin, in surprise. "Yes, I have." "Is it in a store?" "No; I am private secretary to a gentleman living at the Metropolitan Hotel." "Private secretary!" exclaimed Clarence, in continued surprise. "You can't be fit for such a position. How did you get it?" "I am not sure whether I shall suit," said Ben, "but the gentleman applied to me, and I accepted." "I never heard of anything so strange. How much pay do you get?" "Fifty dollars a month and board." "It can't be possible!" "That is what I say to myself," responded Ben, good-naturedly. "I am afraid that my employer will find out that he is paying me too much money." "Are you staying at the Metropolitan, too?" "Yes, for the present." "I will call on you before long." "Thank you." "My aristocratic cousin seems disposed to be very polite to me now," thought Ben. "I am glad I put him off the track about the arrest." "Excuse me," he said. "I believe the curtain is rising." "Who is that fine-looking boy you were just speaking to?" asked Percy Van Dyke, who came up at this moment. "It is a cousin of mine," answered Clarence, not unwillingly. "I should like to know what tailor he employs. He is finely dressed, and a handsome fellow, besides." "Of course, being a cousin of mine," said Clarence, with a smirk. "How does it happen I have never met your cousin before?" "He has only recently come to the city. He is staying at the Metropolitan just at present." Wonders will never cease. Here was Clarence Plantagenet Walton, the son of a wealthy merchant, actually acknowledging with complacency his relationship to a country cousin whom earlier in the day he had snubbed. He did not have another chance to speak to Ben that evening, as his cousin remained in his seat till the close of the performance, and in the throng at the close he lost sight of him. As he and his father were walking home, Clarence said: "I saw Ben in the lobby, between the acts." "What did he say?" asked the merchant, who was himself not without curiosity. "I must have been mistaken about his being in charge of a policeman," said Clarence. "I thought you were." "But the boy I saw looked precisely like Ben." "What did your cousin say?" "He has had a stroke of good luck. He has been engaged as private secretary to a gentleman staying at the Metropolitan Hotel." "Is this true, Clarence?" "So Ben says; and he says, also, that he is to receive fifty dollars a month." "He can't be fitted for any such position with his country education." "So I told him." "And what did he say?" "He agreed with me. He said he was afraid his employer would find out that he was paying him too much." "The boy is candid. If all this is true, he is strangely lucky." "Did you notice how stylishly he was dressed, pa?" "I observed that he was dressed a good deal better than when he called at my office to-day." "Even Percy Van Dyke noticed it, and asked me who he was." "Did you tell him?" "Yes, I said he was a cousin of mine, who was staying at the Metropolitan. He wanted to find out who was Ben's tailor." "Your cousin seems a very smart boy. Perhaps he was right in thinking that he would be better off in the city." "I never saw such a change in a boy in my life. I told him I would call on him at the hotel." "Do so, Clarence. I confess I have a curiosity to learn how he has managed to get such a position." Certainly this had been a day of strange vicissitudes to Ben. He had been in the depths of humiliation and at the summit of joy. He had come to the city in the morning, a poor country boy. In the evening he had attended a performance at a fashionable theatre as elegantly dressed as any of his own age in the audience. Mr. Grafton's room contained two beds, a large and a small one. The latter was appropriated to Ben. Our hero was very tired, and Mr. Grafton was obliged to call him the next morning. "Wake up, my boy," he said; "it is half-past eight." "Half-past eight! Why, I got up at half-past six in the country." "Dress yourself and we will go down to breakfast. Afterward I have to make a business call, and you must go with me." CHAPTER X. AT THE OFFICE OF MR. CODICIL. In one of the large business buildings appropriated chiefly to offices, within a stone's throw of Printing-House Square, were the commodious offices of Nathan Codicil, a prominent lawyer, whose business related chiefly to the estates of wealthy clients. Mr. Codicil himself was a dignified-looking gentleman, of grave aspect, whose whitening locks seemed to indicate that he had reached the age of threescore. He was a cautious, careful, trustworthy man, whose reputation was deservedly high. Mr. Grafton and Ben, stepping out of the elevator, paused before the door of Mr. Codicil's office for a moment, when the former opened the door and entered. "You may sit down here, Philip, while I go in and speak to Mr. Codicil," said Mr. Grafton, indicating a chair near the door. "I wish he wouldn't call me Philip," thought Ben. "I like my own name much better." He did not complain aloud, however, for he felt that his salary was liberal enough to compensate him for some slight sacrifice of feeling. "Good morning, Mr. Grafton," said the lawyer, advancing to meet his visitor. "Good morning, Mr. Codicil; I am glad to find you in, for I've made quite an effort to reach your office at an early hour. You observe I have brought the boy with me." The sharp eyes of the lawyer had not failed to note the presence of Ben. "You observe that he is in excellent health, despite all reports to the contrary." "So it appears," said the lawyer. "He seems to have lost all resemblance to the family." "Do you think so?" said Grafton, carelessly. "Opinions differ about that. For my own part, I can see the resemblance plainly." "How old is he now?" "Sixteen." "I have not seen him since he was four years of age." "Twelve years effect many changes." "Very true." "And now, Mr. Codicil, as I have another engagement very soon, if you can conveniently attend to our little business at once--" "Certainly, sir." Mr. Codicil prepared a receipt which he requested Mr. Grafton to sign. He then opened a check-book and filled a check for a large amount, which he handed to his visitor. The latter pocketed it with evident satisfaction. "I hope, Mr. Codicil, you are not disappointed to know that the boy is still alive?" he said. "Heaven knows that I wish no harm to the lad!" said the lawyer, warmly. "Yet, when I consider how his poor cousins are compelled to struggle for a living, I cannot help regretting the injustice of old John Portland's will, which maintains one grandchild in luxury, while three others, having equal natural claims, should be thrown on the cold mercies of the world." "Yes, to be sure!" said Richard Grafton, carelessly. "Still a man's last will and testament must be respected. A man can do as he likes with his own." "True, in the eyes of the law. Morally, there would be no harm in your young ward doing something for his poor cousins. They would like to meet him and make his acquaintance." "I am afraid it won't be possible. We remain in the city but a short time," said Mr. Grafton, hastily. "Where do you go?" "I have not quite decided whether to take a trip to the Pacific coast or to return to Europe. Of course I shall apprise you promptly when I have made my decision." "Your ward is an American. Is it right to rear him in Europe, leaving him without any adequate knowledge of his own country?" "He will have advantages abroad which he would not have in his own country. However, I will consider what you have said, and I may arrange to spend a part of each year in America." "I would like to speak to Philip," said Mr. Codicil. Richard Grafton hesitated, but only for a moment. He was playing a bold game for a large stake. It would not do to be timid. "Come here, Philip," he said, "Mr. Codicil wishes to speak to you." Ben rose and advanced to meet the lawyer. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir," he said. "And I am pleased to meet you, my boy. You look well!" "Yes, sir; I always enjoy good health." Mr. Codicil looked a little surprised, but he regarded with approval the boy's bright face and manly figure. "He is certainly a very attractive boy," thought the lawyer. "I haven't much confidence in his guardian, but the boy doesn't appear to be spoiled." "Come, Philip. I am afraid I must hurry you away," said Mr. Grafton, "as I have another visit to pay." Ben shook hands with the lawyer and went out of his office. "I cannot help distrusting that man," said Mr. Codicil, as the door closed. "I believe him to be a trickster. I wish the boy were under better influences." Ben had been at such a distance from the inner office that he had not heard or understood the conversation between his employer and Mr. Codicil, yet it seemed to him singular that he should have received so much attention from the lawyer. "I suppose Mr. Grafton was speaking to him about me," said he to himself. When they reached the street Mr. Grafton said: "Philip, I shall not require your company any longer this morning. If you have any plans of your own you are quite at liberty to follow them. Have you all the money you need?" "Yes, sir; you gave me fifteen dollars yesterday." "I remember. Very well; you can go where you please. We will meet at the hotel at one o'clock." "Would you object, Mr. Grafton, to my sending five dollars to my mother? I shall have enough left for myself." "Do as you like. You may send ten dollars if you like. When you are out of money you have only to apply to me." "You are very kind, sir," said Ben, gratefully. "It is on account of your first month's wages, you know." Then he paused a moment, regarding Ben with some apparent solicitude. "By the way," he said, "I must guard you against saying too much about me or your relation with me. I have a great dislike to have myself or my affairs talked about." "I will remember, sir." "You need not mention that I have desired you to bear a different name from your own." "I will not mention it, sir, if you object." "With me it is a matter of sentiment," said Mr. Grafton in a low voice. "I had a dear son named Philip. He died, and left me alone in the world. You resemble him. It is pleasant to me to call some one by his name, yet I cannot bear to excite the curiosity of a cold, unsympathizing world, and be forced to make to them an explanation which will harrow up my feelings and recall to me my bitter loss." "I quite understand you, Mr. Grafton," said Ben, with quiet sympathy. "Though I would prefer to be called by my own name, I am glad if I can help make up to you for your loss." "Enough, my boy! I felt that I had judged you aright. Now go where you please. Only try to be back at the hotel at one o'clock." As Ben walked away Richard Grafton said to himself, in a tone of self-congratulation: "I might have sought far and wide without finding a boy that would suit my purpose as well as this one. Codicil, as shrewd as he thinks himself, was quite taken in. I confess I looked forward to the interview with dread. Had I allowed the boy to be closely questioned all would have come out, and I would have lost the handsome income which I receive as his guardian. While the real Philip Grafton sleeps in his foreign grave, his substitute will answer my purpose, and insure me ease and comfort. But it won't do to remain in New York. There are too many chances of discovery. I must put the sea between me and the lynx-eyed sharpness of old Codicil." Mr. Grafton's urgent business engagement was at the Park Bank, where he got his check cashed. He next proceeded to the office of the Cunard Steamship Company, and engaged passage for the next Saturday for Richard Grafton and Master Philip Grafton. CHAPTER XI. THE HOME OF POVERTY. The time has come to introduce some new characters, who will play a part in my story. Five minutes' walk from Bleecker street, in a tall, shabby tenement house, divided, as the custom is, into suites of three rooms, or rather two, one being a common room, and the other being subdivided into two small, narrow chambers, lived Rose and Adeline Beaufort, respectively nineteen and seventeen years of age, and their young brother Harry, a boy of thirteen. It is five o'clock in the afternoon when we look in upon them. "Rose," said her sister, "you look very tired. Can't you leave off for an hour and rest?" Rose was bending over a vest which she was making. Her drooping figure and the lines on her face bespoke fatigue, yet her fingers swiftly plied the needle, and she seemed anxiously intent upon her task. She shook her head in answer to her sister's words. "No, Addie," she said; "it won't do for me to stop. You know how little I earn at the most. I can't make more than one vest in a day, and I get but thirty-five cents apiece." "I know it, Rose," replied Adeline, with a sigh; "it is a great deal of work to do for that paltry sum. If I were able to help you we might get along better, even at such wages. I feel that I am very useless, and a burden on you and Harry." "You mustn't think anything of the kind, Addie," said Rose, quickly, looking affectionately at her sister. "You know you are not strong enough to work." "And so you have to work the harder, Rose." "Never mind, Addie; I am strong, and I enjoy working for you." "But still I am so useless." "You chase us up, and we can work all the better." "I earn nothing. I wonder if I shall always be so weak and useless?" "No. Don't you remember the doctor said you would in all probability outgrow your weakness and be as strong as I am? All that is needed is patience." "Ah, it is not so easy to be always patient--when I think, too, of how differently we should have been situated if grandfather had treated us justly." A shadow came over the face of Rose. "Yes; I don't like to think of that. Why should he have left all his property to our cousin Philip and none to us?" "But if Philip should die it would all be ours, so Mr. Codicil says." "I don't want anything to happen to the poor boy." "Nor I, Rose. But don't you think he might do something for us?" "So he would, very probably, if he were left to himself; but you know he is under the guardianship of that uncle of his, Richard Grafton, who is said to be intensely selfish and wholly unprincipled. He means to live as handsomely as he can at Philip's expense." "Did grandfather appoint him guardian?" "I believe so. Richard Grafton is very artful, and he led grandfather to believe him fitted to be an excellent guardian for the boy." "I suppose he is in Europe?" "No; I heard from Mr. Codicil, yesterday, that he was in New York." "Is Philip with him?" "Yes. He was to take the boy to Mr. Codicil's office to-day. There was a report some time since--I did not mention it to you for fear of exciting you--that Philip was dead. Mr. Codicil wrote to Mr. Grafton to make inquiry. In answer, he has come to New York, bringing Philip with him. While the boy lives, he receives an annual income of six thousand dollars for the boy's expenses, and to compensate him for his guardianship. You see, therefore, that Philip's death would make a great difference to him." "And to us," sighed Adeline. "Addie," said Rose, gravely, "don't allow yourself to wish for the death of our young cousin. It would be wicked." "I know it, Rose; but when I consider how hard you work, and how confined Harry is as a cash-boy, I am strongly tempted." "Then put away the temptation, and trust to a good Providence to take good care of us. God will not fail us." "I wish I had your faith, Rose," said her younger sister. "So you would, Addie, if you had my strength," said Rose, in an affectionate tone. "It is harder for you to be idle than for me to work." "You are right there, Rose. I only wish I could work. Do you know where Philip and his guardian are staying?" "Yes; Mr. Codicil told me they were staying at the Metropolitan Hotel." "Did you ever see Philip?" "Not since he was a little boy. I would not know him." "Do you suppose he knows anything about us?" "Probably Mr. Grafton never mentions us. Yet he must know that he has cousins living, but he may not know how hard we have to struggle for a livelihood." "I wish we could get a chance to speak to him. He might feel disposed to help us." "Probably his power is not great. He is only sixteen, and I presume has little command of money." "How do you think it would do for Harry to carry him a letter, asking him to call upon us?" "His guardian would intercept it." "It might be delivered to him privately." "There is something in what you say," returned Rose, thoughtfully. "He is our cousin, and we are his only living relatives. It would only be proper for him to call upon us." "The sooner we communicate with him the better, then," said Adeline, whose temperament was quick and impulsive. "Suppose I write a letter and get Harry to carry it to the hotel when he comes home." "As you please, Addie. I would write it, but I want to finish this vest to-night." "I will write it. I want to be of some little use." She rose, and with languid step drew near the table. Procuring writing materials, she penned a brief note, which she handed to Rose, when completed, with the inquiry, "How will that do?" Rose cast her eyes rapidly over the brief note, which read as follows: "DEAR COUSIN PHILIP:--No doubt you are aware that you have three cousins in this city--my sister Rose, my brother Harry, who will hand you this note, and myself. We have not seen you for many years. Will it be too much to ask you to call on us? We are in humble quarters, but shall be glad to welcome you to our poor home. "Your cousin, "ADELINE BEAUFORT." In a line below, the address was given. "That will do very nicely, Addie," said Rose. "I am glad you did not hint at our need of assistance." "If he comes to see us, he can see that for himself. I hope something may come of it," continued the younger sister. "Don't count too much on it, or your disappointment will be the more keen." "Harry can carry it around after supper." "Philip may be at supper." "Then he can wait. I wish he would come home." As if in answer to her wish the door was hastily opened, and a bright, ruddy-faced boy entered. "Welcome back, Harry," said Rose, with a smile. "How have you passed the day?" "Running round as usual, Rose. It's no joke to be a cash-boy." "I wish I could run round, Harry," sighed Addie. "So do I. That would be jolly. How are you feeling to-day, Addie?" "About the same. Are you very tired?" "Oh, no; only about the same as usual." "Because I would like to have you do an errand for me." "Of course I will," said Harry, cheerfully. "What is it?" "I want you to take this note to the Metropolitan Hotel." "Who do you know there?" asked Harry, in surprise. An explanation was given. "I want you to be very particular to give the note to Philip without his guardian's knowledge. Can you manage it?" "I'll try. I'll go the first thing after supper." CHAPTER XII. A SURPRISING ANNOUNCEMENT. Harry Beaufort entered the Metropolitan Hotel with the confidence of a city boy who knew that hotels are places of general resort, and that his entrance would not attract attention. He walked slowly through to the rear, looking about him guardedly to see if he could discover anybody who answered to his idea of Philip Grafton. Had he seen Ben, he would doubtless have supposed that he was the cousin of whom he was in search; but Ben had come in about five o'clock and had gone out again with his friend, the reporter, who had called for him. Thus Harry looked in vain, and was disposed to think that he would have to leave the hotel with his errand unaccomplished. This he didn't like to do. He concluded, therefore, to go up to the desk and inquire of the clerk. "Is there a boy staying here named Philip Grafton?" asked Harry. "Yes, my boy. Do you want to see him?" returned the clerk. "Yes, sir, if you please." "He went out half an hour since," said a bell-boy, who chanced to be near. "You can leave any message," said the clerk. "I have a note for him," said Harry, in a doubtful tone. "I will give it to him when he comes in." Harry hesitated. He had been told to put the note into Philip's own hand. But there was no knowing when Philip would come in. "I guess it'll do to leave it," he thought. "Please give it into his own hands," he said; and the clerk carelessly assented. Harry left the hotel, and five minutes later Richard Grafton, or Major Richard Grafton, as he called himself, entered and walked up to the clerk's desk. "Any letters or cards for me?" he asked. "There's a note for your nephew," said the clerk, producing the one just left. "Ha!" said the major, pricking up his ears suspiciously. "Very well, I will take it and give it to him." Of course the clerk presumed that this was all right, and passed it over. Major Grafton took the note carelessly and sauntered into the reading-room, where he deliberately opened it. "I must see who is writing to Philip," he said to himself. "It may be necessary to suppress the note." As he read the note, the contents of which are already familiar to the reader, his brow darkened with anger and anxiety. "It is fortunate that this came into my hands," he reflected. "It would have puzzled the boy, and had he gone to see these people the murder would have been out and probably my plans would have ended in disaster. There is something about the boy that leads me to doubt whether he would second my plans if he suspected what they were. I must devise some means for throwing these people off the scent and keeping the boy in the dark. What shall I do?" After a little reflection, Major Grafton decided to remove at once to a different hotel. He resolved to do it that very night, lest there should be another attempt made to communicate with his young secretary. He must wait, however, till Ben returned. Half an hour later Ben entered, and found the major walking impatiently up and down the office. "I thought you would never come back," he said, impatiently. "I am sorry if I inconvenienced you, sir," Ben said. "I didn't know you wished me back early." "Come up stairs with me and pack. We are going to leave the hotel." "Where are we going?" asked Ben in surprise. "You will know very soon," answered the major. Major Grafton notified the clerk that he wished a hack in fifteen minutes, as he was about to leave the hotel. "Very well, major. Are you going to leave the city?" "Not at once. I may spend a few days at the house of a friend," answered Grafton, evasively. "Shall we forward any letters?" "No; I will call here for them." In fifteen minutes a porter called at the door of Major Grafton's room and took down the two trunks. A hack was in waiting. "Where to, sir?" asked the driver. "You may drive to the Windsor Hotel," was the answer. The Windsor Hotel, on Fifth avenue, is over two miles farther up town than the Metropolitan. Leaning back in his comfortable seat, Ben enjoyed the ride, and was pleased with the quiet, aristocratic appearance of the Windsor. A good suite of rooms was secured, and he found himself even more luxuriously accommodated than at the Metropolitan. "I wonder why we have changed our hotel," he thought. As if aware what was passing through his mind, Major Grafton said: "This hotel is much more conveniently located for my business than the other." "It seems a very nice hotel," said Ben. "There is none better in New York." "I wonder what his business is," passed through Ben's mind, but he was afraid of offending by the inquiry. Another thing puzzled him. He was ostensibly Major Grafton's private secretary, and as such was paid a liberal salary, but thus far he had not been called upon to render any service. There was nothing in this to complain of, to be sure. If Major Grafton chose to pay him for doing nothing, that was his lookout. Meanwhile he would be able to save up at least half of his salary, and transmit it to his mother. When they were fairly installed in their new home Major Grafton said: "I have a call to make, and shall be absent till late. I suppose you can take care of yourself?" "Oh, yes, sir. If there is anything you wish me to do----" "Not this evening. I have not got my affairs settled yet. That is all the better for you, as you can spend your time as you choose." About an hour later, as Ben was in the billiard-room, looking with interest at a game, his cousin, Clarence Plantagenet, and Percy Van Dyke entered. "How are you?" said Clarence, graciously. "Percy, this is my cousin, Ben Baker." "Glad to see you, I'm sure," said Percy. "Won't you join us in a little game?" "No, thank you," answered Ben. "I don't play billiards." "Then you ought to learn." "I thought you said you were staying at the Metropolitan," said Plantagenet. "So I was, but we have moved to the Windsor." "Have you a good room?" "Tip-top!" "Does that mean on the top floor?" asked Percy, laughing. "Not exactly. We are on the third floor." "Come, Percy, here's a table. Let us have a game." They began to play, and Ben sat down in a comfortable arm-chair and looked on. Though neither of the boys was an expert, they played a fair game, and Ben was interested in watching it. "It's wonderful how he's improved," thought Clarence. "When I saw him in pa's office I thought he was awkward and gawky; now he looks just like one of us. He's had great luck in falling in with this Major Grafton. Really, I think we can afford to recognize him as a relation." When the boys had played a couple of games, they prepared to go. "By the way, Ben," said Clarence, "the governor told me to invite you to dinner on Sunday. Have you any other engagement?" "Not that I know of. I will come if I can." "That's right. Ta-ta, old fellow." "He treats me a good deal better than he did when we first met," thought Ben. "There's a great deal of virtue in good clothes, I expect." Ben was asleep before Major Grafton came home. In the morning, when he awoke, he found that the major was already dressing. "By the way, Philip," said his employer, quietly, "we sail for Europe this afternoon at three." "Sail for Europe!" ejaculated Ben, overwhelmed with surprise. "Yes. See that your trunk is packed by eleven." CHAPTER XIII. A FAREWELL CALL. Ben was startled by Major Grafton's abrupt proposal. To go to Europe would be delightful, he admitted to himself, but to start at a few hours' notice was naturally exciting. What would his mother and sister say? "I suppose there isn't time for me to go home and see my mother before sailing?" he ventured to say, interrogatively. "As we are to sail at three o'clock this afternoon, you can judge for yourself about that," said the major, coolly. "Don't you want to go?" "Oh, yes, sir. There is nothing I should like better. I should like to have said good-by to my mother, but----" "Unfortunately, you can't. I am glad you take so sensible a view of the matter. I will depend on you to be ready." "How long shall we probably be gone?" asked Ben. "I can tell you better some weeks hence, Philip. By the way," he added, after a moment's thought, "if any letters should come here addressed to you, don't open them till I come back." Ben looked at the major in surprise. Why should he not open any letters that came for him? He was not likely, he thought, to receive any except from Sunderland. "I will explain," continued the major. "There are some people in the city that are continually writing begging letters to me. They use every method to annoy me, and might go so far as to write to you and ask your intercession." "I understand," said Ben, unsuspiciously. "I thought you would," returned the major, evidently relieved. "Of course if you get any letter from home you will open that." "Thank you, sir." After breakfast Major Grafton left the hotel without saying where he was going, and Ben addressed himself first to packing his trunk, and then going down to the reading-room. There he sat down and wrote a letter to his mother, which ran thus: "DEAR MOTHER:--I can imagine how much you will be surprised when I tell you that when this letter reaches you I shall be on my way to Europe. Major Grafton, my employer, only told me an hour since, and we sail this afternoon at three. I should be glad to come home and bid you and my little sister good-by, but there is no time. I know you will miss me, but it is a splendid chance for me to go, and I shall be receiving a liberal salary, out of which I can send you money from time to time. I know I shall enjoy myself, for I have always had a longing to go to Europe, though I did not dream that I should have the chance so soon. I will write to you as soon as we get on the other side. "Your loving son, BEN. "P. S.--We sail on the Parthia." It may be readily understood that this letter made a great sensation in Sunderland. Mrs. Baker hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. It was hard to part from Ben for an uncertain period. On the other hand, all her friends congratulated her on Ben's great success in securing so good a position and salary. It was certainly a remarkable stroke of good fortune. Ben was about to write another letter to Clarence, explaining why he could not accept the invitation for dinner on Sunday, but a glance at the clock showed him that he would have a chance to go to his uncle's store, and that seemed, on the whole, more polite. He jumped on board a Broadway car at Twenty-third street, and half an hour later got out in front of his uncle's large business establishment. He entered with quite a different feeling from that attending his first visit, when, in his country attire, poor and without prospects, he came to make an appeal to his rich uncle. Handsome clothes are apt to secure outward respect, and one of the salesmen came forward, obsequiously, and asked: "What can I show you, young gentleman?" "Nothing, thank you," answered Ben, politely. "Is my uncle in?" "Your uncle?" "Mr. Walton." "Oh, yes; you will find him in his office." "Thank you." Nicholas Walton looked up as Ben entered his presence, and did not immediately recognize the handsomely-dressed boy who stood before him. He concluded that it was one of Clarence's high-toned acquaintances. "Did you wish to see Clarence?" he asked affably. "I am sorry to say that he has not been in this morning." "I should like to see him, Uncle Nicholas; but I also wished to see you." "Oh, it's Ben!" said Mr. Walton, in a slightly changed tone. "Yes, uncle; I met my cousin at the Windsor last evening." "He told me so. You are staying there, he says." "For a very short time. My cousin was kind enough to invite me to dinner on Sunday." "Yes; we shall be glad to have you dine with us." "I am sorry I cannot come. I am to sail for Europe this afternoon." "You sail for Europe!" repeated his uncle, in amazement. "Yes, uncle. I knew nothing of it till this morning." "It is indeed surprising. To what part do you go?" "I believe we sail for Liverpool in the Parthia. More than that I know nothing." "You are certainly strangely fortunate," said the merchant, musingly. "Does this Major Grafton appear to be wealthy?" "I judge that he is." "Does he pay you well?" "He gives me fifty dollars per month." "And what do you do?" "I am his private secretary, but thus far I have not been called upon to do much. I suppose I shall have more to do when I get to Europe." "He seems to be eccentric as well as rich. Perhaps he will want to adopt you. I advise you to try to please him." "I shall certainly do that, though I don't think he will adopt me." "Clarence will be sorry not to have seen you. He has taken a trip to Long Branch this morning with Percy Van Dyke." "I saw Percy last evening." "This country nephew of mine gets into fashionable society remarkably quick," thought the merchant. "There must be something in the boy, or he would not make his way so readily." "We are all going to Long Branch next week," said Mr. Walton, aloud. "We are to stay at the West End. If you had remained here you could have tried to persuade Major Grafton to spend part of the season at the Branch." "I shall be satisfied with Europe," said Ben, smiling. "You have reason to be satisfied. Clarence will envy you when he hears that you are going." "It didn't look as if he were likely to envy me for anything when I met him here the other day," thought Ben. "Please remember me to my cousin," said Ben, and shaking his uncle's extended hand he left the store. He was passing through the store when he felt a touch on his shoulder. Turning, he recognized the tall lady he had met just after his last visit. "Are you not the boy who told me I had a ticket on my shawl?" she inquired. "Yes, madam," replied Ben, smiling. "I recognize your face, but otherwise you look very different." "You mean I am better dressed." "Yes; I thought you a country boy when I met you." "So I am, but I am trying to be mistaken for a city boy." "I am relieved to meet you, for some one told me you had got into some trouble with the unmannerly boys who were following me." "I am much obliged to you for your solicitude in my behalf," said Ben, not caring to acknowledge the fact of the arrest. "I had hoped to be of service to you, but I see you don't appear to need it. I am here buying a suit of clothes for a poor boy in whom I am interested. Let me give you my card, and if you ever need a friend, come and see me." The card bore the name of "Jane Wilmot, 300 Madison avenue." Ben thanked Miss Wilmot and left his uncle's store. CHAPTER XIV. WHAT BEN'S FRIENDS THOUGHT. "Did you see Philip?" asked Adeline, eagerly, when her young brother returned from his visit to the Metropolitan Hotel. "No," answered Harry. "He was out." "And you brought back the note, then?" said his sister, disappointed. "No; the clerk said he would give it to him; so I left it with him." Adeline looked anxious. "I am afraid his guardian will get hold of it," she said, turning to Rose. "Even if he does, there is nothing in it that you need regret writing." "It would never reach Philip." "Probably you are right. In that case we must make another effort when there seems a good chance." It was decided that Harry should call the next day, at his dinner hour, and ascertain whether the note had been delivered. He did so, but only to learn that the note had been given to Major Grafton, and that both he and Philip had left the hotel. "Do you know where they went," asked Harry, eagerly. "No; the major did not say. He will probably send here for letters, and then I can mention that you called." Harry assented, not being able to explain that this would not answer his purpose. When he reported his information at home, Adeline said, quickly: "He left because he does not want us to communicate with Philip." "Probably," said Rose. "This shows," she added, "that he is afraid Philip would be inclined to do something for us. I am glad to have my faith strengthened in the boy, at all events. If he were willing to live in luxury while he knew we were struggling with poverty I could not regard him as a cousin." The next morning Mr. Codicil read in the morning papers, among the passengers who had sailed for Europe the day before, the names of Major Grafton and Philip. "The fellow has lost no time," he said to himself. "The boy is bright and attractive, but he stands a chance of being spoiled under such a guardian. I wish I had questioned him, and tried to learn something of him. I might have given him some idea of the injustice which has been practiced toward his poor cousins. I do not care so much that he profits by it as that that worthless uncle of his should live in luxury at their expense. I am afraid they are having a hard time." How hard a time the sisters were having--how stern and exacting was the toil which her sister's helplessness imposed upon Rose--Mr. Codicil really had little idea. If he had, he would certainly have done something to assist them, for he was a kind-hearted man; but whenever Rose called upon him she was neatly dressed, and did not bear outward marks of the poverty with which she had to contend. So far as Nicholas Walton was concerned, he was glad, upon the whole, to learn that his nephew had gone to Europe. He could not see Ben without his conscience reproaching him with the wrong he had done him, and was still doing him and his mother, by retaining possession of a sum of money which would have given them opulence in exchange for the poverty which was not removed by the small allowance he sent them. "Perhaps Major Grafton will adopt the boy," he said to himself, "and then he won't need his father's money." As if this would gloss over or excuse the base fraud of which he had been guilty. He had knowingly and intentionally been the occasion of his brother-in-law's sudden death, and was as much his murderer as if he had plunged a knife into his breast, though his crime was less brutal and revolting. While these thoughts were passing through his mind, Clarence entered the office. "Clarence, your cousin has been here to see you," said Mr. Walton. "What did he have to say, pa?" "He came to bid you good-by." "To bid me good-by? What for? Where is he going?" "He is to sail for Europe this afternoon." "To sail for Europe!" repeated Clarence, in amazement. "He didn't say anything about it last evening." "Because he did not know it. He was only told this morning." "He's a lucky beggar!" said Clarence, enviously. "I've been longing to go to Europe this ever so long. Percy Van Dyke spent last summer in Switzerland. It annoys me to hear him talk of the splendid times he had. Here is my country cousin going, while I have to stay at home." "Don't worry, Clarence," said his father, encouragingly. "You shall go in time. If your friend Percy should be going again, and will accept you as a companion, I will let you go." This somewhat cheered up Clarence, though with the natural impatience of youth he wanted to go at once. "I think I never knew a boy as lucky as Ben," said he. "He certainly has been strangely fortunate," said Mr. Walton. "He would have been glad to take a place in a store at five dollars a week, and now he's got something ever so much better. I believe he has more money than I to spend, and I am sure he dresses better." "He seems to have made an impression upon this Major Grafton. I shouldn't be surprised if Grafton adopted him. He has no family of his own, and is, I imagine, very rich." We know that on this last point Mr. Walton was misinformed. The suggestion, however, was enough to excite the envy and jealousy of Clarence. "Do you think he will be richer than I?" he asked. "You will be well provided for, Clarence. You won't have occasion for envying your cousin, even if he should be adopted by Major Grafton." We have now to change the scene to the little town of Sunderland, from which our hero had come to New York to seek the good fortune which he so strangely found. We direct our steps to a plain cottage, containing but four rooms and an attic, which stood a little out of the centre of the village. Small and plain as it was, it had an air of refinement and good taste, with its climbing honeysuckles, tiny bed of flowers, its trimly-kept lawn and neat surroundings, which are vainly sought about many more pretentious residences. Here dwelt Mrs. Baker and Ben's little sister, Alice, but ten years old. She bore a strong family resemblance to Ben, and was equally good-looking. "It seems an age since Ben left home," said Mrs. Baker, with a little sigh. "I miss him dreadfully, mother," said Alice. "Why need he go away?" "I can't blame him, Alice, though I am very sorry to have him go," said Mrs. Baker. "He is ambitious----" "What does that mean?" asked Alice, puzzled. "It means that he is anxious to get on in the world--to make money. It is a natural feeling for a boy." "He used to earn money here at home," said Alice. "Only a little. No doubt he can do better in New York, if he can get a chance. If his uncle will only help him----" "I should think he might, mother. Ben is a good boy." "There is none better," assented his mother, fondly; "but strangers may not know that." Just then a neighbor, driving by, paused in the road and called out to the widow, whom he saw at the open window: "Widder Baker, there's a letter for you at the post-office. 'Spect it's from Ben." "Go right over and get it, Alice," said her mother, excitedly. Alice wasn't long in performing her errand. She came back well rewarded, bringing with her two letters, one of which had arrived the day before. The first letter contained an account of his cold reception by his uncle, and on the other hand his good luck in encountering Major Grafton. As an earnest of his good fortune he enclosed three five-dollar bills. "God has been very good to us!" said the widow, with beaming face. "I can hardly believe in Ben's good fortune." "Open the other letter, mother," said Alice. Mrs. Baker did so, and, glancing over it rapidly, uttered a quiet exclamation of surprise and dismay. "Alice," she said, "Ben has sailed for Europe!" "Gone to Europe, and without bidding us good-by!" "He did not have any chance," and Mrs. Baker read Ben's letter. When she came to think it over, she felt that Ben was, on the whole, fortunate to have so good an opportunity of seeing the world; and as to dangers and risks, God would take care of him abroad as well as at home. She would have liked to have known the man who had her boy in charge. Doubtless he must have taken a fancy to Ben, or he would not have given him such a chance. CHAPTER XV. FILIPPO NOVARRO. Nicholas Walton was well pleased with the good fortune of his nephew. Though a selfish man, he was not wholly without a conscience and a heart. He had always regretted the manner in which he had possessed himself of the large sum of money which, by enabling him to take a store on Broadway, and largely extend his business, had allowed him to take a place among the foremost merchants of New York. He would have preferred to compass his own fortune without bringing ill-fortune to his brother-in-law, but if the thing had to be done again, under the same circumstances, he would probably have yielded to the same temptation. "Ben appears to be a smart, attractive boy," said Walton to himself. "He is likely to make his own way in the world, especially in his present position. I dare say it is better for him to have lived plainly, and nourished self-reliance, than to have been reared in luxury. Then, as to the fortune, Doctor Baker was a man of very little business shrewdness. He would have wasted the money in bad investments, and, ten to one, not a dollar of it would have remained at the present time." All this Nicholas Walton said to quiet his conscience, but without success. Many a time, especially in the silent watches of the night, memory revived for him that scene, which he would so gladly have forgotten, when his ill-fated brother-in-law died in a fit of agitation brought on by Walton intentionally. He could see himself once more rifling the pockets of the dead man, and converting to his own use the money which would have made the physician and his family prosperous and happy. These disquieting thoughts he tried to get rid of. He tried to persuade himself that he was wholly disinterested in his good wishes for his nephew. By way of keeping up the illusion he snatched five minutes from his business, and wrote the following letter of congratulation to his sister: "MY DEAR SISTER:--Benjamin has no doubt apprised you of his success in obtaining a profitable engagement, and of his departure for Europe. He has also, perhaps, told you that I was opposed to his remaining in the city. I admit that I thought it would have been better for him to remain in Sunderland and obtain a practical acquaintance with farming, in which case I would, at the proper time, have set him up on a farm of his own, for I hold that the farmer is the only truly independent man. A merchant may be rich to-day and a bankrupt to-morrow, and that in spite of the utmost care and prudence. However, I won't dwell on this subject. I am willing to admit that I did not give my nephew credit for the energy and ability he has shown. Though I refused to help him, further than to pay the expenses of his trip to the city, on condition of his returning home at once, he remained and succeeded in commending himself to the favor of a rich man who has given him an excellent position, and will probably--for he seems to be eccentric--finally conclude to adopt the boy. "It is needless to say that I could not have anticipated such extraordinary luck for Benjamin, and that I am glad he followed his own counsel and remained in the city. Doubtless a better fortune awaits him than the life of a farmer, which, though independent, is laborious. I only write now to congratulate you upon his success, and to express my interest in him. Though you will no doubt miss him, I think you will be able to see that he has done the best thing for himself and for you in the engagement which he has made with Major Grafton. He would have dined at my house to-morrow, but for his sudden departure. "I inclose my next month's allowance a little in advance. "Your affectionate brother, "NICHOLAS WALTON." Mrs. Baker was surprised and gratified on receiving this unusually long letter from her brother Nicholas. She had been wounded at the cool reception which he had accorded to Ben, as detailed in the letter of the latter, but this letter put a new face on the matter. "After all, Nicholas feels an interest in Ben," she said to herself, "and no doubt he acted for what he thought the best in the advice he gave him to remain in Sunderland and become a farmer. He acknowledges his mistake very handsomely." So upon the spur of the moment she wrote her brother a letter, acknowledging gratefully his kindness to her boy, and asking for a continuance of it. This letter was received by Mr. Walton with satisfaction. It made it easier for him to feel that he had not, after all, wronged his sister and her family as much as his conscience sometimes reproached him with. "Would that I could lose all the memories of that dreadful hour!" he said to himself, with a shudder. But he did not find that so very easy. It was destined to be recalled to him in a startling manner within a week. As he sat in his office the following Thursday, a clerk entered. "Mr. Walton," he said, "there is a foreign gentleman in the store who wishes to see you." "Is it a stranger?" "Yes, sir." "He wishes to see me on business, doubtless. You may bring him in." The visitor entered--a man of medium size and swarthy complexion--who would be taken at first sight for a Spaniard or a Portuguese. Nicholas Walton regarded him with a look of inquiry. "Do I speak to Mr. Walton?" asked the stranger, in good English, but with a foreign accent. "I am Mr. Walton," answered the merchant. "You are brother-in-law to Mr.--I beg pardon, Doctor Baker?" "Ye-es," answered the merchant, with a startled look. "Can you tell me if the good doctor is well?" "He is--dead!" replied Walton, slowly. "Did you know him?" "I much regret to hear of his death. I did not know him, but I met him once." "This must be the man who gave him the bonds," thought Walton, trying to conceal his perturbation. "The moment and the man I have so long dreaded have arrived. Now, Nicholas Walton, you require all your coolness and nerve." "May I ask when that was?" he asked, with apparent unconcern. "Five years ago. I was the agent for conveying to him a large sum in securities bequeathed him by my uncle, to whom he had rendered a great service." "Indeed! I am most glad to see you, sir. I wish my brother-in-law were alive to give you personal welcome." "When--did he die?" "But a short time after you met him. He died instantly--of heart disease." "He left a wife and child, did he not?" "He left a wife and two children." "And they live?" "Yes." "I wish I could see them." Nicholas Walton was perplexed and alarmed. If the stranger should see Mrs. Baker, his elaborate scheme would fall to the ground and he would be called upon for an explanation. "Do you remain long in the city?" he asked. "I go to Havana in three days. Business of importance, not to mention the sickness of my brother, calls me there." "Ah!" said the merchant, relieved. "You will have to defer seeing Mrs. Baker, then." "I thought she might live near by," said Filippo Novarro, for such was the name he gave. "Two years ago she removed to Minnesota," said the merchant, with fluent falsehood. "Her son, however, is travelling in Europe." "That, at least, will look as if she retained her fortune," he said to himself. "Then I must not hope to meet her," said Novarro. "When you write, will you give her my profound respects?" "With pleasure, Señor Novarro," said Walton, briskly. "Can I be of any service to you personally?" "Thank you, sir, no. I shall be very busy till I leave the city." "Then let me express my pleasure in meeting you," said Walton, offering his hand. "The pleasure is mutual, Mr. Walton, I assure you," said the stranger, bowing low. "Thank Heaven, I have got rid of you," said Walton to himself, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "But shall I always be as lucky?" CHAPTER XVI. ON BOARD THE PARTHIA. "Am I really on the Atlantic, bound for Europe?" said Ben to himself, as he paced the deck of the Parthia, then several hours out. He found it hard to realize, for only a week before he had been in his quiet country home, wholly unconscious of the great change that fate had in store for him. He was not unfavorably affected by the new sea-life. Instead of making him sick, it only gave him a pleasant sense of exhilaration. With Major Grafton it was different. He was a very poor sailor. He was scarcely out of port before he began to feel dizzy, and was obliged to retire to his state-room. He felt almost irritated when he saw how much better Ben bore the voyage than he. "One would think you were an old sailor, instead of me," he said. "I have crossed the Atlantic a dozen times, and yet the first whiff of sea air lays me on my back, while you seem to enjoy it." "So I do at present," answered Ben; "but perhaps my time will come to be sick. Can't I do something to make you comfortable?" "You may tell the steward to bring some ginger ale," said the major. Ben promptly complied with the major's request. He felt glad to do something to earn the liberal salary which he was receiving. It was not exactly acting as a private secretary; but, at any rate, he was able to be of service, and this pleased him. He had no complaint to make of Major Grafton. The latter saw that he wanted for nothing, and had he been the major's son he would have fared no better. Yet he did not form any attachment for his employer, as might have been thought natural. He blamed himself for this, when he considered the advantages of his position; but it was not so strange or culpable as Ben supposed. The boy saw clearly that, whatever might have been Major Grafton's motives in taking him into his service, it was not any special interest or attachment. The reader understands that Grafton had a purpose to serve, and that a selfish one. For Ben he cared nothing, but his own interest required that he should have a boy with him as a substitute for the one whose death he wished to conceal, and our hero filled the bill as well as any he could secure. One day, while Major Grafton was in his state-room, enduring as well as he could the pangs of sea-sickness, a gentleman on deck accosted Ben: "You seem to enjoy the voyage, young man," he said. "Yes, sir; very much." "You are not alone?" "No; I am travelling with Major Grafton." "Indeed!" said the gentleman, in surprise. "I didn't know the major was on board. Where does he keep himself?" "He seldom leaves his state-room. He has been sick ever since he started." "I remember meeting the major last summer in Switzerland. You were sick at the time, but from your present appearance I judge that you got bravely over it." "I think you are mistaken, sir. I was not with Major Grafton at that time." "You were not! That is strange. Surely there was a boy with him; I remember he called him Philip." "He calls me so, but that is not my name." "Do you mean to say that you were not with the major at that time?" "I did not know there was such a man at that time." "Humph! I don't understand it," said James Bolton (this was the traveller's name). "I do remember, however, hearing that the boy, then called Philip, died at Florence." "I think that settles it," said Ben. "Whoever the poor fellow may have been that died, I am sure that it was not I." "Are you Major Grafton's adopted son, or ward?" "No, sir; I am his private secretary. That is, I was hired in that capacity, though as yet I have not had much writing to do." "You are lucky. Take care you don't die, like the other boy." "I will try to live, I assure you, sir." "By the way, just mention my name to the major--James Bolton, of London. I dare say he will remember me. Just say that I occupied the room opposite his in the Hotel des Bergues, in Geneva, and that we went to Chamounix together. I should be glad to renew my acquaintance with him, whenever he feels well enough to come on deck." "I will mention you to him, Mr. Bolton," said Ben, politely. Our young hero took an early opportunity of keeping his promise. On his next visit to the state-room he said: "Major Grafton, I met a gentleman on deck this morning who wishes to be remembered to you." "Who is it?" asked the major, quickly, raising his head from the pillow of his berth. "He says his name is Bolton--James Bolton, of London." "Don't know him!" said the major, shortly. "He says that he was with you at the Hotel des Bergues, in Geneva, Switzerland, last summer; also that he went with you to Chamounix." "What else did he say?" asked the major, who seemed unpleasantly affected by the mention of Bolton's name. "He thought I was with you at the time." "Ha! What did you say?" "I told him he was mistaken." "Don't tell these fellows too much; they are simply impertinent," said the major, with a frown. "What more did he say?" "He said you had a boy with you whom you called Philip, and that this boy, as he afterward heard, died at Florence." Ben looked inquiringly at the major, as if to obtain confirmation or denial of this story. Major Grafton hesitated, as if not decided what to say. "It is true," he said, after a pause. "Poor Philip died; but it is a painful subject. I don't like to speak of it. You resemble him very closely, and that was my chief object in taking you as a companion. I don't really need a private secretary, as you have probably found out." "I wish you did, sir. I would like to do something to earn my wages." "Don't trouble yourself on that score. It suits me to have a companion; I hate being alone. As long as you conform to my wishes, I will provide for you." "Thank you, sir." "But hark you, Philip! I don't care to have you talk too much to strangers about me or my affairs. Now, as to this man Bolton, I prefer that you should keep him at a distance. He is not a fit companion for you." "Is he a bad man?" asked Ben, in some surprise, for Bolton had seemed to him a very respectable sort of man. "He is a thoroughly unprincipled man," answered the major, emphatically. "He is a confirmed gambler, and is cultivating your society because he thinks you may have money. He is trying to lead you into a snare." "Then I was deceived in him," said Ben, indignantly, for it didn't occur to him to doubt the positive statement of Major Grafton. "Quite natural, Philip," said Grafton, pleased with having aroused the boy's suspicions of a man who might impart dangerous information. "Of course, I needn't suggest to you to keep the man at a distance. I do not care to have you come under his influence." "I shall bear in mind what you say, sir," said Ben. "I think I have checkmated this meddling Bolton," said the major to himself, in a tone of satisfaction. When, a few hours later, Bolton approached Ben and asked: "Have you spoken to Major Grafton about me?" Ben coldly answered, "Yes, sir." "Did he remember me?" questioned Bolton. "Yes, sir." "I thought he would. Are we likely to see him on deck soon?" "No, sir, I think not." Ben spoke so coldly that Bolton regarded him with a puzzled look. He could not help seeing that the boy did not care to continue the conversation, and, with a bow of farewell, joined another passenger in a promenade. "I should like to have asked him a little more about the boy I am succeeding," thought Ben; but he respected the major's wishes, and kept aloof from Bolton for the remainder of the voyage. CHAPTER XVII. THE BEAUFORTS IN TROUBLE. There was an anxious look on Rose Beaufort's pleasant face. She and her young brother were the only bread-winners in the family, and work as hard as they might it was very difficult to make both ends meet. But for one item they could have managed with strict economy, but that item--the rent--was a formidable one. They hired their humble apartment of a Mrs. Flanagan, who leased the whole floor, and agreed to pay two dollars a week. This woman was a coarse, selfish person, whose heart was as hard and unfeeling as her face and manners were unprepossessing. One Monday morning, about two months after Ben's departure for Europe, the landlady knocked at the door of the two sisters. "It's Mrs. Flanagan," said Rose, with a troubled look, recognizing her knock. "She has come for her rent, and I have but fifty cents toward it." "Perhaps she will wait," suggested Adeline; but her voice was not hopeful. "Come in!" said Rose. "You were mighty long tellin' me to come in," grumbled the landlady, as she entered the humble room, with a hostile look. "I am sorry if I kept you waiting," said Rose, gently. "I thought maybe you didn't want to see me," said Mrs. Flanagan. "I won't stay long to trouble ye." "Stay as long as you like," said Rose in a conciliatory manner. "I didn't come for any palaver--I haven't the time. I suppose you know what I came for. You haven't forgot it's Monday mornin'?" said the landlady, in an aggressive tone. "I didn't forget it, Mrs. Flanagan, but I am afraid I shall have to disappoint you this morning." "Do you mane to say you haven't got my rint ready?" demanded Mrs. Flanagan, her red face becoming still more inflamed with anger. "Indeed, Mrs. Flanagan, it isn't my fault," pleaded Rose. "I've got fifty cents toward it, and if--" "Fifty cints! What's fifty cints?" exclaimed the landlady, angrily. "Can I pay my rint wid fifty cints? It's a shame--that it is--for you to chate a poor hard-workin' woman, and a widder besides." "My sister never cheats anybody," said Adeline, indignantly. "Hoity-toity! So it's you that are spakin', is it?" said Mrs. Flanagan, with her arms akimbo. "You can talk, anyway, if you can't work. All you do is to sit here all day long, while your sister is wearin' out her fingers wid the needle." It was a cruel blow to the poor girl, who needed no reminder of what she often thought about with bitter regret and mortification. She did not retort angrily, but, turning sadly to her sister, said: "I am afraid it's true, Rose; I am only a burden and an expense to you. I do nothing to help you." Now it was Rose's turn to be angry. "Are you not ashamed, Mrs. Flanagan, to twit my poor sister with what is her misfortune, not her fault?" she exclaimed, with flushed face and sparkling eyes. "She would gladly work, if she could." "It's ashamed I'm to be, am I?" retorted Mrs. Flanagan, viciously. "I pay my bills, anyhow, and it's ashamed I'd be if I didn't. I don't want no more talk from the like of you. It's money I want." "Here are fifty cents, and I will try to get you the rest to-day," said Rose, sadly. "Them that wear gold rings can pay their rint, if they want to," was Mrs. Flanagan's parting shot, as she slammed the door behind her. Rose looked at the plain gold ring on her finger. It had been her mother's ring, and for that she valued it above its intrinsic value. "I can't part with this," she murmured, with moistened eyes. "Yet, is it right to keep it when we owe money?" "Don't part with mother's ring, whatever you do, Rose," said her sister, hastily. "But have we a right to keep it?" asked Rose, doubtfully. "Yes, a thousand times, yes! That woman can wait for her money. We cannot part with this legacy of our dying mother." "But she may put us out into the street," said Rose, shuddering. "Is there nothing else by which we can raise money?" said Adeline, realizing their situation. "Money is due me for two vests. As a general thing, Walton & Co. don't pay me till I hand in half a dozen, but perhaps they would make an exception in this case." "That would be but seventy cents. It would not make up what we owe Mrs. Flanagan." "It might induce her to wait for the rest," said Rose. "If you don't mind staying alone a little while, Addie, I will wrap them up and carry them to the store." "Go, if you like, Rose. I always miss you, but I cannot expect to keep you here with me all the time." Rose wrapped up the two completed vests, and putting on her hat, kissed her sister and went down stairs. It was not far to the great store, which we have already entered with Ben. Entering, Rose walked to the back part of the store and took the elevator to the second floor, where she found the superintendent of the work-room. She made known her request. "Quite out of the question, miss," said the superintendent, sharply. He was a hard-featured man, who was a good man of business, but was not open to sentimental consideration. "Didn't you know our rules?" he asked. "Yes, sir; but this was a case of necessity." "I beg your pardon, miss, it is a matter of business. When you have finished the batch we will pay you, and not till then." "But, sir, I need the money very much." "That is your affair, not ours. Probably you have friends and can borrow money, if you need it sooner than we are ready to pay it to you." "I don't know where to find them," thought Rose, but she did not say this. The superintendent had already turned away, as if to intimate that he had no more time to give her. Rose walked to the elevator slowly and sadly, and descended to the main store. "What shall I do?" she thought. "Mrs. Flanagan will turn us out, and then poor Addie will suffer." As she stepped out into the street the thought of the ring came back to her. It was dear to her as a cherished legacy from a mother early lost and deeply mourned, yet it had a money value which would relieve their pressing necessities for a week at least. "I don't think mother would wish me to keep it under the circumstances," she thought. "Addie will scold me, but it appears to be the only thing that remains for me to do. Heaven knows that I don't wish to part with it." The proper place to go would have been to a pawnbroker's shop, but Rose did not know of one. She had never had dealings with any. As she passed a jewelry store it occurred to her that perhaps they would buy it inside, and she entered. "In what way can I serve you, miss?" asked a young man behind the counter. "I--I wish to dispose of a ring," said Rose, hurriedly. "Can you tell me the value of it?" and she slipped the ring from her finger and offered it to the salesman. "We don't buy second-hand jewelry," said the clerk, rudely. "We sell rings here; don't buy them." "Then would you be kind enough to lend me two dollars on it till--till next week?" entreated Rose. "It must be worth much more than that." "It doesn't matter how much it is worth," said the clerk. "We ain't in that line of business. You don't suppose we keep a pawnbroker's shop, do you?" and he laughed contemptuously, glancing at a tall lady who stood beside Rose and had listened attentively to the conversation, as if inviting her to enjoy the joke with him. "Then perhaps you will direct me to a pawnbroker's," said Rose, ill at ease. "Oh, you can go find one on the Bowery," said the clerk, carelessly. "Now, madam," turning to the tall lady, "what can I show you?" His tone was much more respectful than the one he employed in speaking to Rose, for the lady, though far from beautiful, and no longer young, was handsomely-dressed, and had the appearance of being wealthy. "You can't show me anything to-day, young man," said Miss Jane Wilmot, for it was she. "I wish to speak to this young lady. My dear, come out of the store with me. I wish to ask you a few questions." The clerk arched his brows in surprise and disappointment as his hoped-for customer walked away without purchasing anything, followed by Rose. CHAPTER XVIII. MRS. FLANAGAN IS DRIVEN FROM THE FIELD. Miss Jane Wilmot had never been pretty, even when, twenty years before, she could lay claim to being a young lady; and her manners were decided; but a kind smile lighted up her face as she said to Rose: "My child, you seem to be in trouble." "Yes, indeed, madam," said Rose, "I am in great trouble." "Don't think me inquisitive," said Miss Wilmot, "if I inquire into your trouble. I infer that you are in need of money." "Yes, madam, I am very much in need of money, or I would not think of selling my mother's ring." "Your mother--is she living?" "No; she has been dead for five years." "You are not alone in the world?" "No, thank Heaven! I don't know how I could bear to feel myself alone. I have a sick sister and a little brother." "And does the whole burden of their support fall on you?" asked Miss Wilmot, in a tone of sympathy. "Not quite. My little brother Harry earns two dollars a week as a cash-boy." "That is not much help." "It is nearly as much as I earn myself. There is not much to be earned at making vests at thirty-five cents each." "Thirty-five!" repeated Miss Wilmot, indignantly. "Who pays you such a wretched price?" "Walton & Co." "No wonder they prosper, if they pay so little for having their work done. How many vests can you make in a week?" "One vest a day is about as much as I can make, but I have made seven in a week." "And you consider that a good week's work?" asked Miss Wilmot. "Yes, but I cannot average that." "That makes--let me see--two dollars and forty-five cents. You don't mean to say, child, that your united incomes amount to only four dollars and forty-five cents?" "It generally amounts to less, for I cannot average seven vests a week." "Well, well, what are we coming to?" ejaculated Miss Wilmot, pityingly. "You don't look, child, as if you had always been so miserably poor." "I have not. My grandfather was rich, but he took offense at mother's marriage to father and he left all his property to my cousin." "The old wretch! Excuse me, child, I forgot that he was your grandfather. So you were wholly left out of the will?" "If my cousin should die, the whole property would come to us." "He should have left the property between you. But I fancy you think I am a curious old woman, with my questions." "I don't think you an old woman at all, madam." Miss Wilmot smiled. Though she was a spinster of over forty she was not wholly without appreciation of a compliment, and the reply of Rose pleased her. "At any rate, I am old enough to be your mother, my dear," she said. "But that is neither here nor there. How much did you expect to get for that ring?" "I hoped that I might get three dollars," said Rose, hesitatingly. "I owe Mrs. Flanagan--she is my landlady--a dollar and a half, and I could pay that and have a little fund left to fall back upon." "A little fund--a dollar and a half!" said Miss Wilmot, pityingly. "I suppose I would not get so much at a pawnbroker's?" continued Rose. "My child, I am not a pawnbroker, but I think it will be better for me to lend you something on the ring." "If you only would, madam! I feel timid about going to a pawnshop." "Where they would offer some ridiculous trifle for it, no doubt. Here, child, give me the ring." Rose drew it from her finger and handed it to Miss Wilmot. The latter drew a purse from her pocket and slipped the ring into it. "It is too small for me to wear," she said. "It will be safe in my purse." She drew out two five-dollar bills and handed them to Rose. "Ten dollars!" exclaimed Rose, in surprise. "I don't do business on the regular terms," said Miss Wilmot, smiling. "I am sure the ring is worth more than ten dollars to you. Some day you may be able to redeem it." "I am afraid not, madam; but this money seems like a small fortune to me." "You don't know what future luck is in store for you. I will keep the ring for you. You should know who has it. I am Miss Jane Wilmot, of 300 Madison avenue. I am called a strong-minded woman; I hope that won't prejudice you against me." "It would be hard for me to become prejudiced against you after your liberality, Miss Wilmot. I wish there were more strong-minded woman like you." "Now for your name, my child." "I am Rose Beaufort; my sister's name is Adeline, and my little brother, twelve years old, is Harry." "I have a great mind to go home with you, if you won't consider it an intrusion," said Miss Wilmot. "Far from it, Miss Wilmot--that is, if you won't mind our humble quarters." "If you can endure them week after week, I can get along for half an hour," said the spinster. "Lead the way, my dear. Is it far? If so, we will take a horse-car." "It is less than half a mile, I should think," said Rose. "Then we will walk." They soon reached the poor tenement-house. "You see it is a poor place," said Rose, apologetically. "Poor enough!" said Miss Wilmot, plainly. "You may not care to come up." "There is nothing delicate about me, my child. Go on, I will follow." Rose entered the poor room in advance of her visitor. "Home again, Rose?" said Adeline, whose head was turned away from the door, and who therefore did not see Miss Wilmot. "Yes, Addie." "Did you get any money? Did they pay you for the vests?" "No; but I met a good friend, who has come home with me. Miss Wilmot, this is my sister, Addie." "I am glad to make your acquaintance, my dear," said the spinster, and her face, plain as it was, looked positively attractive from very kindness. "You look good!" said Addie, whose instincts were rapid. "I am sure you are a friend." "I will be," said Miss Wilmot, emphatically. The weakness of the younger sister appealed to her even more strongly than the beauty of the elder. Just then a knock was heard at the door. Mrs. Flanagan had heard the step of Rose upon the stairs, and had come up to see if she had brought money for the rent. "It is my landlady, Mrs. Flanagan," said Rose. "I want to see what sort of a woman she is. Ask for delay, and let me go into this inner room," said Miss Wilmot, rapidly. When Mrs. Flanagan entered the room there was no sign of a visitor. "Well," said the landlady, entering upon her business at once, "have you got my money for me?" But for Miss Wilmot's admonition, Rose would have produced the money without delay, but she thought it necessary to follow the directions of her new friend. "They would not pay me for the two vests I had made," she said. "I must wait till all are finished." "Just what I expected," said the landlady, placing her arms akimbo. "I saw how it would turn out. You needn't think I am going to be put off like this. Pay me my rent, or out you go, bag and baggage!" "Would you turn my poor sister into the street, Mrs. Flanagan?" "I am not going to keep you here for nothing, you may rely upon that." "Won't you wait till next week?" "When another week's rent will be due? No, I won't, and I hope that you understand it." "Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, woman!" said a strong, decided voice, and Miss Wilmot strode out of the bedroom. Mrs. Flanagan stared at her with mingled surprise and indignation. "I am no more a woman than you are," she retorted. "That's true enough," rejoined Miss Wilmot, "nor half as much. There's nothing womanly about you." "Do you think I can let my rooms for nothing?" said the landlady, sullenly. She saw that Miss Wilmot was richly dressed, and she had a respect for such evidence of wealth. "How much do the young ladies owe you?" "A dollar and a half." "What is the rent of these rooms?" "Two dollars a week." "Then, three dollars and a half will pay to the end of the present week?" "Yes, ma'am." "Here is the money. They will move out at the end of the week." "I shall be glad to have them stay," said the landlady, now anxious to retain them. "I shall find them a better home. Good-morning." Mrs. Flanagan went down stairs feeling that she was worsted in the contest. She was a bold woman, but she was rather afraid of Miss Wilmot. "Now, my dears," said the spinster, "let us talk business." CHAPTER XIX. BRIGHTER PROSPECTS. "You must know, my dear," said Miss Wilmot, "that I am a rich woman, and own considerable more than my share of worldly goods. Among other items of property, I own a French flat house on West Twenty-fifth street. It isn't one of the costly flats, but is intended for people with moderate incomes. I learned yesterday that one of the flats was just vacated. The family occupying it is about to move to the West, and desired me, as a matter of convenience to them, to purchase their furniture, and let it furnished. I intended to decline, but now I shall accept, having found a tenant that suits me." "Who is it?" asked Rose, not quite understanding her own connection with the matter. "Her name is Rose Beaufort," said Miss Wilmot, smiling. "But, Miss Wilmot, I am afraid it will be beyond my means. What rent shall you ask?" "I don't think thirty dollars a month will be too much, considering that there are five well-furnished rooms. There is even a piano." "Thirty dollars a month!" exclaimed Rose, in dismay. "Why, that will be more than all of us together can earn. Mrs. Flanagan only asks us two dollars a week, and that we've hardly been able to meet." "I think that can be made easy for you," said the spinster. "I shall let you pay in work." "But I couldn't do enough to pay the rent alone." "Not at making vests at thirty-five cents apiece, I admit. My work will be better paid for. I shall want some writing done, account-books straightened, and--by the way, do you play on the piano?" "Oh, yes, madam." "Well?" "I believe I have a taste for it." "Do you consider yourself competent to teach the piano?" "Yes, I think so." "Why, then, did you not seek pupils, instead of trying to make a living by sewing?" "So I did, but I had no one to recommend me, and I could not afford to advertise." "Do you also play, my dear?" asked Miss Wilmot, turning to Adeline. "But very little," answered the young girl, humbly. "Addie draws and paints," said Rose. "I have no talent for either." "Why, that is well. I may be able to obtain pupils for her, too. However, we can wait and see." "Miss Wilmot," said Rose, gratefully, "you came to us like a good angel. I was almost despairing when I met you. Now, I am full of courage." "Never despair!" said Miss Wilmot, kindly. "The sun is often behind the clouds. But I must be going. You will hear from me in a day or two." The good spinster rose as she spoke, and going out of the humble room, descended the dirty staircase, leaving behind her joy where she had found sorrow. "It seems almost too good to be true, Rose," said Addie. "So it does, Addie." "A nice furnished flat and a piano! I shall not believe it until I see it." "We can rely upon whatever Miss Wilmot promises. Has she not paid our rent, and given us ten dollars besides?" "How glad Harry will be when he hears it!" "Yes, poor boy. It hasn't been a very pleasant home for him. Do you know, Addie, I feel inclined to be extravagant?" "In what way, Rose?" "I am going to order a nice dinner from a restaurant--roast turkey and vegetables; and I will make some coffee, and we will have everything ready by the time Harry arrives." "But it will cost a great deal, Rose," said Adeline, in alarm. "Never mind, for once. This ought to be a Thanksgiving Day for us. Let us celebrate it as such. Besides," added Rose, the frugal instinct coming in, "if I order two plates it will be enough for three of us. I know of a restaurant where we can get all I want for, say, seventy-five cents. We won't mind about money to-night." "It will seem good to have a nice dinner once more," said Adeline, thoughtfully. "It is a long time since we had anything but the plainest food." Rose postponed her feast until six o'clock, the hour when Harry usually got home. There was a restaurant near by, where she gave the order, directing it to be sent in at ten minutes to six. Mrs. Flanagan was considerably surprised when a colored waiter made his appearance at her door with a large covered dish. "Who is this for? Haven't you made a mistake?" she asked. "No, ma'am. It's for a young lady--Miss Beaufort. Doesn't she live here?" "Yes. What have you got there?" asked the landlady, curiously. "Roast turkey." "Bless my soul!" thought Mrs. Flanagan. "She must have come into a fortune. It's all right!" and she directed the waiter to the room of the Beauforts. When Harry arrived the little table was set out with its usual neatness, and on it there was a display such as made him start back with surprise. "Where did all this come from?" he asked, bewildered. "Explanations postponed till after supper," said Rose. "Sit down and we will begin." "All right; I've no objection," said Harry. "Yes, Rose, you may give me some of the dressing. I say, ain't it good, though? I wish we could live like this every day." A great fuss to make over a very ordinary dinner, some of my young readers may think; but let them put themselves in the place of this family, and judge whether they would not hail with joy such a meal after a long course of the most frugal fare. They were in the midst of their enjoyment when a knock was heard at the door--a subdued knock, not like the authoritative knock of their landlady. So there was general surprise when Mrs. Flanagan opened the door. The fact was she could not repress the impulse to gratify her curiosity, which had been excited by the remarkably lavish dinner of her tenants. "So I've caught you at dinner," she remarked, apologetically. "You must excuse me; it didn't occur to me that I might be intruding." "It's of no consequence, Mrs. Flanagan," said Rose, not sorry, perhaps, that her old enemy should witness such an indication of prosperity. "I would invite you to dinner, but I am afraid there is no more of the turkey left." "Roast turkey, upon my word! Well, here's luxury!" said Mrs. Flanagan. "I've had my supper, so I could not accept if you did invite me." "We don't have turkey every day, Mrs. Flanagan," said Adeline. "We thought we would have it to-day by way of variety." "They must have come into some money," thought Mrs. Flanagan. "Perhaps that old lady was their aunt." "I'm sure I'm glad you're doin' so well," she said. "I hope you'll stay with me, in spite of all that's past and gone. You see I am that worried sometimes to get money to pay my rent that I may speak kind of cross like, but I don't mean anything--as is well-known to you." "Didn't you mean anything this morning when you were going to put us out of the house because I could not pay the whole of the rent?" asked Rose. "I didn't mean it. They were only hasty words," said the landlady, stoutly. "I hope you'll stay with me, for it wouldn't look natural to see anybody else goin' in and comin' out of these rooms." "I cannot tell yet what we may do," said Rose. "I am glad you didn't mean what you said this morning," she added, quietly, "for it made us feel very sober. I thought you meant to put us into the street." "I'm sure I'm very sorry. I was cross, and I didn't know what I said. Well, I must be goin' down and gettin' Mike's supper, for he always comes home late." "It's the way of the world, Rose," said Adeline, as the landlady disappeared. "What does it all mean?" asked Harry, puzzled. "What has made that old cat so good-natured all at once?" "Roast turkey," answered Rose, dryly. "She thinks we are prospering, and will be good tenants." "You are going to stay, ain't you?" Then the new prospects of the family were explained to Harry, who was much exhilarated by the account. "Can't I give lessons in something?" he asked. "You might give lessons in whistling," said Addie, who didn't enjoy her brother's performance in that line; "but I hope you won't receive pupils at home." CHAPTER XX. THE NEW HOME. Two days later Rose Beaufort received another call from Miss Jane Wilmot. "My dear," said the spinster, "your new rooms are ready for you, and you can move in at once." "Our rent is paid here till Saturday," suggested Rose. "Give your landlady the benefit of the balance of the week. Is this furniture all yours?" "Such as it is." "You won't want it. Any articles that you do not value you had better send to an auction store to sell. The flat is already well furnished." "A tenant on the floor below has offered to buy the furniture," said Rose. "Does he make you a fair offer?" "He offers thirty-five dollars." "A low price, but it will save you trouble to accept it. When that matter is arranged I will send my carriage, and take you and your sister right over to your new home." Without dwelling upon details, it is sufficient to say that before sunset the two sisters found themselves installed in a pretty and cosey home in a much better part of the city. There was a parlor, fronting on the street, a kitchen, and there were three sleeping-rooms, so that each of the little family could have one. The parlor contained a piano, a bookcase, well filled--this had not belonged to the recent tenants, but was supplied, without the knowledge of Rose, by Miss Wilmot. Adeline uttered a cry of delight as she went from room to room. "It is delightful!" she said. "Here is an easy-chair for you," said Miss Wilmot. "It will be more comfortable than a rocking-chair, even." This, too, had been added by the thoughtful spinster. "Now open the piano and let me hear you play," said Miss Wilmot. While Rose was playing, her benevolent friend nodded approvingly more than once. "You'll do," she said. "I confess I had some doubts about your qualifications as a teacher, but I can see that you are a brilliant performer." "If I can obtain pupils, I hope to suit," said Rose, modestly. "I have some in view. An acquaintance of mine, Mrs. Tilton, of West Forty-second street, is in want of a music-teacher for her two girls. I will send you there, with a note, to-morrow. But first I must give you a hint. How much were you intending to charge for a lesson?" "I had not thought," said Rose, hesitating. "How would fifty cents do?" "Fifty cents!" repeated Miss Wilmot, with a rising inflection. "If you undervalue yourself to that extent, no one will think you know how to teach. You must charge two dollars per lesson." "But will anybody pay me so much?" asked Rose, amazed. "To one who has only been earning thirty-five cents a day at vest-making, fifty cents an hour seems very large pay." "My dear child, be guided by me. I know the world, and the world will set very much the same value upon you that you set on yourself. Ask Mrs. Tilton two dollars an hour." "But if she objects to pay it?" "Say that you are sorry that you cannot make any arrangements." "I am afraid I can't keep a straight face when I ask such a price, Miss Wilmot." "Oh, yes, you will! Don't feel nervous. If you lose the pupils, I will see that you don't suffer by it. By the way, put on your best dress, for it is desirable that you make a favorable first impression." "I will follow your advice, Miss Wilmot," said Rose. "You can't do better." The next day Rose rang the bell at the door of a fine brown-stone house on West Forty-second street. "Is Mrs. Tilton at home?" she asked. "Yes, miss. Who shall I say wishes to see her?" "The music-teacher." Rose was shown into the drawing-room, and presently Mrs. Tilton entered. She was a tall, blonde lady of fashionable appearance, thoroughly worldly, and influenced by externals to a large extent. "I believe Miss Wilmot has written you in reference to the subject of my call," said Rose. "Yes, Miss Beaufort. You are a music-teacher?" Rose bowed. "My two little girls have made a beginning, but have only taken two quarters each. I wish them to have every advantage." Rose bowed again. "Of course, any one recommended by Miss Wilmot can hardly fail to be competent. May I ask, Miss Beaufort, where you live?" "At the Wilmot Flats, in West Twenty-fifth street." "Then you are a tenant of Miss Wilmot?" "Yes, madam. My brother and sister and myself live together." "Of course you have a piano at home?" "Yes, madam," answered Rose, glad to answer the question in the affirmative. "I asked because it might at times be more convenient--when we were preparing for company, for instance--to send your pupils to you." "Just as may suit you, madam." "Now, as to your terms, Miss Beaufort?" "I charge two dollars per lesson," answered Rose, as boldly as she could. "Isn't that high?" asked Mrs. Tilton. "Most lady teachers do not charge as much." "I am quite aware of that," said Rose. "I think some charge only a dollar per lesson." "I presume you are right," said Rose; but, obedient to Miss Wilmot's suggestions, she didn't offer to reduce her own price. "I hope to make my services worth the amount I ask." "Then you won't accept a less price?" "I should prefer not to do so." Mrs. Tilton was not a generous woman. She was disposed to haggle about prices, and had Rose applied to her for work as a seamstress she would have driven a hard bargain with her, but, as the friend and _protégé_ of Miss Jane Wilmot, a lady of the highest social consideration, she did not venture to follow her own economical inclinations. In fact, Mrs. Tilton was not of an old family. Her husband had recently become rich, and though she aspired to be fashionable, there were circles to which she could not obtain admission. She plumed herself on her acquaintance with Miss Wilmot, and would not, on any account, have had Rose report to that lady that she had been unwilling to pay her price. Two dollars an hour seemed high, but she knew very well that she must buy social recognition, and that she valued above money. "Very well," she said, after a pause; "I will pay your price. Can you give me Tuesday and Friday afternoons from three to five?" "Yes, madam." "Then we will commence next Tuesday, if you please. By the way, my neighbor, Mrs. Green, also desires to secure instruction for her daughter, and I promised to ask you to call." "I will do so now if the lady is likely to be in," said Rose, gladly. "I think you will find her in, now. You may hand her my card." Mrs. Green lived but three doors away. She was at home, and engaged her, without any demur as to price, to give her daughter two hours a week, Monday and Thursday afternoons being selected. As Rose walked home she could hardly credit her good fortune. Six lessons a week at two dollars apiece would amount to twelve dollars, and leave her plenty of time to herself. Twelve dollars! and till now her weekly income, laboring all day, had been less than three dollars. "Addie," she said, after recounting her success to her sister, "do you know I feel quite like a young lady of fortune? I am almost afraid that it is all a dream, and that I shall wake up some day and find myself back again at Mrs. Flanagan's." "Let us enjoy it as long as it lasts, Rose," said Adeline. "I wish I could help. I don't like to have the whole family leaning on you." Adeline had her wish. Three days later Miss Wilmot came in with two little girls. "They want to take lessons in drawing," she said. "They have a taste, but their father is a mechanic, and they have been unable to gratify it. Now, I have been thinking that I will let you pay the rent by instructing them, and leave your sister her whole time to teach music." "I should like nothing better," said Adeline, brightening up. "Then they will begin at once." Adeline was fond of children, and found instruction in her favorite accomplishment no task, but a positive pleasure. "I shall not be a burden upon you, Rose, any longer," she said, cheerfully. "I should think not. If you pay the rent, it will be no light help. I shall insist on contributing my share, and will pay you fifteen dollars a month to make matters even." Adeline protested, but Rose was firm. Her invalid sister's spirits were raised, and life was no longer monotonous, now that she felt herself of some use in the world. "Do you know, Rose," she said, "I don't think I should be happier if our share of grandfather's money had come to us, as we once anticipated." CHAPTER XXI. THE COLLAPSE OF AN ELDERLY DUDE. The remarkable change that had taken place in the fortunes of Rose Beaufort interfered seriously with the plans of a person who has thus far only been incidentally mentioned--the superintendent of the work department of Nicholas Walton's large clothing store. Hugh Parkinson was a man no longer young. If not forty, he looked that age. Moreover, his natural attractions, which were very scanty, had not been increased by the passage of time. His hair, which was of a reddish tinge, was carefully combed up from the side to cover the rather extensive vacancy for which time and irregular hours were responsible; but to look young was a problem which he had not been able to compass. He did what he could, in the way of dress, to make up for the ravages of time. He always got his clothes made by a fashionable Broadway tailor, and in the street he looked like an elderly "dude," and thus far more ridiculous than the younger specimens of this class. Perhaps it is well for our self-conceit that we do not see ourselves as others see us. Hugh Parkinson, when he surveyed himself in the mirror, decided that he was handsome and stylish-looking. He felt that it was time he married. His salary was a liberal one--fifty dollars per week--and he had a snug sum in various savings banks, representing the savings of the last ten years. "I'm a good catch!" he said to himself, complacently; "I've a right to expect considerable in a wife. Egad! I must be getting married while I am still a young man." He had been a young man for a good many years, and so entitled to call himself such. Hugh Parkinson was fastidious, however, and he had never met the one he wanted to marry till he saw Rose Beaufort. Rose was about half his age, and her fresh beauty touched the heart--such as he had--of the old young man. "She has no fortune, but what does that matter?" he said to himself, magnanimously. "I have enough for both. When she goes with me to the theatre she will excite the admiration of all, and all the young men in society will envy me. Egad! I must marry her." Rose, however, had as yet shown no signs of admiring Mr. Parkinson. Indeed, the superintendent had good reason to doubt whether she even esteemed him. He saw, however, that she was poor. Marriage with him would bring her comfort, and even a moderate degree of luxury; upon this he depended for a favorable issue to his suit. As to her being poor, that was evident enough. To be sure, she was well dressed, but no one who is in good circumstances takes vests to make at thirty-five cents apiece. Besides, he knew where she lived, for the vest-makers were obliged to leave their addresses with their names; and he had passed through Bleecker street, and seen for himself the shabby tenement-house in which Rose lived. "I wish she might become poorer still," said Mr. Parkinson to himself; "then I would have a chance to step in as her good angel and relieve her from suffering. She couldn't help being drawn to me." When Rose called and desired pay for the two vests which she had completed, Mr. Parkinson was pleased; it showed that she was becoming harder pressed by poverty. "Daniells," he said to the examining clerk, "when Miss Beaufort calls with her package of vests I want you to object to the quality of her work." "But, Mr. Parkinson, her work is always well done," objected Daniells. "Oh, well, you can always find faults. Just say that she must see me before you feel authorized to pay her." "What's your game, Mr. Parkinson?" asked Daniells. Mr. Parkinson winked significantly. "The fact is, Daniells," he said, "I want an opportunity to ingratiate myself with the fair Rose. I will take her part, pay her the money as a favor, and--you comprehend?" "Yes, I see. The fact is, Rose is pretty, and if I were not a married man I would try to obtain a smile from her myself." "Just do as I tell you, there's a good fellow, and you won't lose by it." When Rose had obtained by good fortune the powerful friendship of the rich Miss Wilmot, she, of course, decided to give up vest-making. She had some time left, but she felt that it would be necessary for her to keep up her practice at home, if she aspired to become a successful piano-teacher. However, she would finish the vests she had in hand, and let those be the last. When the vests were finished she took them round to Mr. Walton's establishment. The vigilant Daniells did not fail to note her appearance, and prepared to serve the interests of his superior in the way which had been arranged between them. "So you've finished the vests?" he said, carelessly. "Let me look at them." Rose regarded this as a mere formality, knowing that they had been well made, and never before having had her work objected to. What was her surprise, therefore, when Daniells went over them one by one, frowning and shaking his head, disapprovingly. "Really," he said, "these vests are hardly satisfactory." "What is amiss with them?" asked Rose, in genuine surprise. "I can't go into particulars," said Daniells, who would have found it hard to do so, by the way; "I can only say that they are not as well made as we expect." "They are as well made as usual," said Rose, flushing indignantly. "I cannot understand why you object to them, when all the work I've done before has passed without objection." "All I can say, Miss Beaufort, is that I do not feel authorized to pay you for them. Mr. Parkinson, however, is my superior. You can refer the matter to him." "I should like to do so, sir," said Rose, with cold dignity. "I will accompany you." The two passed on to the superintendent's desk, and Daniells explained the matter to his superior. "I will look over the work myself," said Parkinson. "You may go back, Mr. Daniells. I will settle the matter." Rose stood quiet, while the superintendent examined the vests. "Really, Miss Beaufort," said Hugh, with his fascinating smile, "I think Mr. Daniells has done you injustice. To my eye, the vests are very neatly made." "Thank you, sir," said Rose, gratefully. "I am sure they are as well made as any I have brought here." "The fact is," said Parkinson, confidentially, "Daniells is rather fussy--I might say cranky--I have had more than once to reverse his decision. You shall certainly be paid promptly, as usual." "Thank you, sir." Rose had never admired the superintendent, but he seemed to her now a just and agreeable man. The money was not now of so much importance to her, but she strongly objected to being unjustly treated, and being deprived of the money which she had fairly earned. Mr. Parkinson himself paid over to Rose the money due for the six vests. "Miss Beaufort," he said, "I hope you won't think we men of business are all hard and disposed to take advantage of the poor. Now, in your case, I assure you that I feel very kindly toward you." "Thank you, sir," said Rose, considerably surprised. Mr. Parkinson's vanity led him to think that she was regarding him with a look of interest, but he misinterpreted her. She looked upon him as old enough to be her father, and not a suspicion had ever entered her mind that he thought of her as a possible wife. "If you will permit me," said the superintendent, "I am about to go out to lunch, and will communicate to you a plan I have for your advantage. It will be better not to take any new work now." "I did not intend to," said Rose. Mr. Parkinson looked a little surprised. They passed through the store together, and out into Broadway. Rose waited for Mr. Parkinson to say what he appeared to have in his mind. "I think, Miss Beaufort," he said, as they emerged into the street, "you could do better than make vests at thirty-five cents each." "I think so, too," answered Rose. "I wonder what he means?" she thought. "Such a beautiful girl as you are----" "Sir!" exclaimed Rose, haughtily. "No offense, my dear. Quite the contrary, I assure you. I have had my eye upon you for some time, and I admire you exceedingly. You are poor, but I shall overlook that. My dear girl, I am very well off, as you may suppose, and I offer to make you Mrs. Parkinson." "Good-evening, sir," said Rose, coldly. "I don't wish to continue the conversation." "Don't be foolish, my dear girl. It is a fine chance for a poor vest-maker to marry a man in my position." Rose did not deign to answer, but tried to escape. He attempted to seize her by the arm, when his hat was violently knocked over his eyes, and he came near measuring his length on the sidewalk. CHAPTER XXII. THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. Mr. Parkinson adjusted his hat, and darted a glance of indignation at a fine-looking young man who had come to the rescue of Rose Beaufort. "This is an outrage, sir," he said, angrily. Clinton Randall paid no attention to the discomfited Parkinson, but asked Rose: "Has this man annoyed you?" "He forced his attentions upon me," answered Rose. "If he has insulted you, I will take care that he is punished." "Don't meddle with what is none of your business," said Parkinson, furiously. "I have a good mind to horsewhip you." "Make the attempt whenever you please, sir," said Randall, significantly. "If ever I find you annoying this young lady again, I shall probably give you a taste of the same medicine." "Annoying?" sneered Parkinson. "I offered to make her my wife, if you call that annoyance. Let me tell you that when a gentleman in my position offers to marry a vest-maker she has reason to feel complimented." "She evidently does not," said Randall, not without sarcasm. "Whether she is a vest-maker or not, she is evidently a young lady and is entitled to be treated as such." "She will be sorry for having made such a fuss," said Parkinson, spitefully. "Miss Beaufort," he continued, turning to Rose, "you need not trouble yourself to come to the store again for work, as I shall decline to give you any. You may regret having treated me with such scant courtesy." "I had no intention of asking for more work," said Rose, coldly. "Perhaps you have come into a fortune," sneered Parkinson. "Enough of this!" said Randall, sternly. "This young lady has no favors to ask of you. You had better go back to your master and conduct yourself hereafter in a more becoming manner, or you may repent it." Here was a fresh outrage for poor Parkinson. In his own eyes he was a man of very great importance, and to be told by this young man, before a common vest-maker, to go back to his master, was very humiliating. He was trying to think of some scathing retort, when Randall, with a bow, offered his arm to Rose, and they walked away together. "I wonder whether she really doesn't care for any more work," thought Parkinson, "or is it only pretense? I dare say she will, after a while, be coming round again for vests to make. If she does, I shall have her in my power." And the superintendent walked slowly back to the store, chafing inwardly at his ill-success. "I hope you won't allow yourself to think of this disagreeable occurrence," said Clinton Randall, "or of this unmannerly cur." "No, sir, thanks to your kindness, I shall have no occasion." "He seemed spiteful. I hope it is not in his power to annoy you." He said this, thinking that Rose might be dependent upon Parkinson for work. "Last week he might have done so," answered Rose. "I was engaged in making vests for the store in which he is employed, and he might have refused me work. Now, fortunately, thanks to a kind lady, I have no further occasion to apply to him." "I am heartily glad to hear it. Any connection with such a cur must be disagreeable. Has he ever annoyed you before?" "Never; and I was much surprised to-day when he followed me from the store and pressed his attentions upon me." "He is old enough to be your father--the old fool!" said Randall, resentfully. It seemed to him profanation that such a man should have thought of appropriating the fresh beauty of the charming girl at his side. "He thought I ought to regard myself honored by his proposal," said Rose, smiling, as she thought of the unromantic figure of her elderly lover. "He has found out by this time that you hold a different opinion. If he should ever persecute you again, I hope I may be at hand to rescue you once more." "I am not likely to meet him, and have no further occasion to make vests for a living. If you will kindly stop the next up-town car, I will not longer detain you." "Certainly," answered Randall; and as a car was just at hand, he complied with her request. He stood on the sidewalk, following, with his glances, the Broadway car into which he had helped Rose. "I wish I dare follow her, and find out who she is," said Randall to himself; "but she might misinterpret my motive and class me with that elderly reprobate with whom I was compelled to interfere. What a charming girl she is! I never saw a sweeter expression, or a more beautiful complexion." He was in a day-dream, from which he was presently roused. "What are you staring at, Randall?" asked a young man of about his own age, slapping him on the shoulder. "You seem star-gazing." "So I am." "Star-gazing at midday?" "It is a human star, Tudor. In short, it is a beautiful girl, whom I have just helped into a car." "Who is she?" "I don't know, I'm sure." "An unknown divinity, eh? Tell me about it, for there is evidently a story under all this." "A very short one. I found an elderly scamp annoying her, and knocked his hat over his eyes." "And, after having gallantly rescued her, you helped her into a car?" "Exactly." "And that is the whole of it?" "I am afraid so." "You don't mean to say you are struck at last, Randall--you who have so long been the despair of manoeuvering mammas? Come, that would be news, indeed!" "I am not at all sure but I am. Tudor, I will say one thing, that I never saw a sweeter face in all my wanderings." "That's saying a good deal, for you have been all over the world. And you don't know the young lady's name?" "Haven't the slightest clew to it." "Is she rich or poor, a stylish city lady or a rustic beauty?" "I fancy she is not rich," said Randall, who, for some reason, did not care to mention that she had been a vest-maker. To him it mattered little, but his friend Tudor might be more fastidious, and he was not willing to give him any chance to look down upon Rose. "Couldn't you manage to ask her name?" Randall shook his head. "I tried to think of a pretext, but could not," he answered. "You may meet her again." "I hope to do so." "And if you do?" Randall smiled. "Considering that it is not over ten minutes since I first set eyes upon her, it is, perhaps, a little premature to consider that question. I shall certainly try to meet her again." The two young men sauntered up-town, and the conversation fell upon other themes, but Clinton Randall seemed unusually thoughtful. Do what he might, he could not help recurring again and again to the fair face which he had seen for the first time that morning. When Rose was at home again the matter seemed no longer serious to her. Whenever she thought of Mr. Parkinson and his suit she felt inclined to laugh. "Addie," she said, "I have had a proposal this morning." "A proposal!" repeated her sister, in surprise. "Yes, an offer of marriage." "You are not in earnest?" "Indeed I am! I am not sure but I shall give you a brother-in-law." "I wasn't aware that you knew any eligible young man." "He isn't a young man. Let me describe him to you. His name is Parkinson; he is somewhere between forty and fifty; he is partially bald, and--I am not quite sure that he is not bow-legged." "And you love him?" queried Adeline, mischievously. "If so, I give my consent, for though I had hoped for a better-looking brother-in-law, I am not willing that your young affections should be blighted." "Nonsense, Addie," returned Rose, half-vexed. "Tell me all about it." Rose did so, and her sister listened with fixed interest. "And this young man who rescued you, and knocked your adorer's hat over his eyes. I suppose he was a commonplace young man, red-haired and freckled, perhaps?" "Indeed he was not," said Rose, indignantly. "Then he was handsome?" "Yes, I think that he would be considered so." "Take care you don't dream of him. It would be very romantic--wouldn't it?--if you should marry him, as generally happens in romances." "Don't be a goose, Addie!" said Rose; but she did not seem annoyed. Secretly, she thought Clinton Randall the most attractive young man she had ever met, and wondered if fate would ever throw them together again. CHAPTER XXIII. ON THE BORDERS OF THE LAKE OF GENEVA. It is time to look after our hero in his European wanderings. He had been travelling hither and thither with his guardian, who appeared to have no definite aim except to enjoy himself. Whether he succeeded in doing this was by no means certain. On the whole, he and Ben got along very well together. He did not undertake to control his young secretary, but left him very much to his own devices. There were times when he seemed irritable, but it generally happened when he had been losing money at the gaming-table, for he was fond of play, not so much because he was fascinated by it as because it served as a distraction in lieu of more serious pursuits. On the whole, he did not lose much, for he was cool and self-possessed. One thing was unsatisfactory to Ben--he had little or nothing to do. He was private secretary in name, but what use Major Grafton had for a private secretary Ben could not divine. Why Ben need have concerned himself, as long as he received his salary, may excite the wonder of some of my readers, but I think most people like to feel that they are doing something useful. Ben, however, found a use for part of his time. In his travels through France, Switzerland, and Italy, he had oftentimes found himself, when alone, at a loss on account of a want of knowledge of the French language. "Why should I not learn it?" he asked himself. He procured some elementary French books, including a grammar, dictionary, and tourist's guide, and set himself to the task with his usual energy. Having little else to do, he made remarkable progress, and found his studies a source of great interest. "What are you doing there, Philip?" asked Major Grafton, one afternoon. "I am trying to obtain some knowledge of French. I suppose you have no objection?" "Not the least in the world. Do you want a teacher?" "No, sir; I think I can get along by myself." Major Grafton was rather glad that Ben had found some way of passing his time. He did not want the boy to become homesick, for his presence was important to him for reasons that we are acquainted with. Ben supplemented his lessons by going into shops, pricing articles, and attempting to hold a conversation with the clerks. This was a practical way of learning the language, which he found of great use. Again they found themselves in Geneva, which Ben thought, on the whole, a pleasant place of residence. Here, too, he could make abundant use of his new acquisition, and did not fail to avail himself of his opportunity. So he enjoyed his stay in the charming Swiss city until one day he made an astounding discovery. The most interesting walk in Geneva is along the borders of the lake. Near it are placed seats on which the visitor may sit and survey the unequalled view. Ben had seated himself one day, with a French book in his hand, which he was studying, when he observed a couple of ladies seat themselves near him. He would have given them no further thought if by chance the name of Major Grafton, spoken by one of them, had not reached his ears. "I see that Major Grafton is here," said one. "You know we met him at Florence." "Yes, the one who had the sick boy with him." "The same." "It was his son, was it not?" "I thought so at the time, but I have since learned that I was mistaken. He was the boy's guardian." "The boy died, did he not?" "Yes, and it must have been a serious calamity to him." "You mean that he was very much attached to the boy?" "No, I don't mean that. On the contrary, he appeared to care very little for him. It was the pecuniary loss I was thinking of." "Explain yourself." "You must know, then, that the boy was heir to a large fortune, the income of which, during his minority, was payable to Major Grafton for his benefit. No doubt the guardian made a good thing out of it. He probably made it pay both the boy's expenses and his own." "Then, on the boy's death, he would lose this income?" "Precisely." "It is strange," said the younger lady; "but he still has a boy with him." "He has?" inquired the other, in surprise. "The name he calls him is Philip." "That was the name of the boy who died." "Are you sure that he died? Are you sure that this is not the same boy?" "Positive." "It is very singular. A strange idea has occurred to me." "What is it?" "What if he is passing off this boy for the first, in order to retain the liberal income which he received as guardian?" "But that would be fraudulent." "That is true; but I think Major Grafton would be capable of it. I hear from my brother that he gambles, and a gambler is not apt to be overburdened with principle." "If this is so, he ought to be exposed. To whom would the boy's fortune go, if it were known that he was dead?" "To three cousins, who, I understand, are living in poverty in New York. There are two young girls and a brother, named Beaufort. They were cut off by the grandfather, from whom the fortune was inherited. For what reason I am not aware. However, the will stipulated that if the boy should die, the fortune should go to these children." "Then they ought to be enjoying it now?" "Exactly. If all is true that I suspect, they are being kept out of it by a conspiracy." "Who is the boy that Major Grafton has with him now?" "I don't know. Possibly it is a relative of his own. He calls him Philip to deceive the public, if all is as I suspect." "Don't you think we ought to do something in the matter, Clara?" "I never meddle with matters that don't concern me." "Not even to right such a wrong as this?" "No; I suppose matters will come right after awhile. The deception will be discovered, you may depend upon it." "If I knew the boy I would speak to him about it." "You would have your labor for your pains. The boy is probably in the conspiracy. I think he is a nephew of Major Grafton. If anything were said to him, he would no doubt put the major on his guard, and that would be the end of it. My dear, we shall do much better not to interfere in the matter at all." The younger lady looked dissatisfied, but did not reply. The feelings with which Ben heard this revelation may be imagined. He never for a moment doubted the truth of the story. It made clear to him what had seemed singular hitherto. He had never been able to understand why Major Grafton should pick him up, and without any inquiry into his capacity offer him an engagement as private secretary. He had found that the office was merely nominal, and that there were no duties to speak of connected with it. Major Grafton had shown no particular interest in him, and evidently cared nothing for him, save as he served his purpose. But if his presence enabled Grafton to remain in possession of a large income, there was no need to inquire further. Ben saw that he was made an important agent in a wicked conspiracy to divert a large fortune from its lawful owners. What ought he to do? CHAPTER XXIV. THE MAISON DE FOUS. This question of what he ought to do disturbed Ben not a little. As an honorable boy he did not wish to benefit any longer than was absolutely necessary by a deception which involved injustice and fraud. He was living very comfortably, it is true, and his allowance was a handsome one. He sent half of it to his mother, and this was sufficient to provide all that was needed for her and his sister's comfort. He had done this innocently, hitherto, but now that his eyes were opened, his knowledge would make him an accomplice in the conspiracy. In his uncertainty he decided upon what was not, perhaps, the most judicious course, to ask Major Grafton directly in regard to the matter. An opportunity soon came. "Major Grafton," Ben began, "how long since did Philip die?" The major regarded him suspiciously. The question put him on his guard. "A few months ago," he answered indifferently. "Were you--his guardian?" "You seem curious this morning, Philip," answered the major, coldly. If Ben had been older and more experienced he would have been able to get at the truth indirectly, but it was his nature to be straightforward. "I heard something yesterday that disturbed me," he said. Major Grafton threw himself back in an easy-chair and fixed his eyes searchingly on the boy. "Tell me what you heard," he said, shortly, "and from whom." "I was sitting on a bench near the lake when two ladies began speaking about you--and me." "Tell me what they said," broke in Grafton, impatiently. "The truth must be told," thought Ben, "even if Major Grafton gets offended." "They said that Philip had a large fortune, and you were his guardian. When he died the money was to go to some cousins in New York. They said that you had concealed his death, and so continued to draw the income of the property, and were palming off me for him. They seemed to think I was your nephew, and was in the plot." Major Grafton was a good deal disturbed by what Ben had told him. Of course there was a strong chance that the truth would come out some time, but he had hoped to keep it concealed for some years, perhaps. "These ladies seem to have a large share of imagination," he said, with a forced laugh. "From one fabrication you may judge all. You know whether you are my nephew or not, and whether you are engaged in any plot?" "No, sir, of course not." "The whole thing is ridiculous; I don't think you need trouble yourself any more about it." But Ben was not satisfied, and Major Grafton could see this from his look. "That was my reason for asking whether Philip had any property," he continued, with an inquiring look. "I must satisfy him in some way," thought the major, "or he will compromise me." "I wouldn't like to think I was keeping any property away from the rightful owners," proceeded Ben. "You can put yourself at ease," said the major, carelessly. "Those ladies, whoever they are, know almost nothing about the matter. Philip did have a little property, yielding scarcely enough for his own expenses. At his death it fell to me. His grandfather was an intimate friend of mine, and made the arrangement in gratitude for my care of the boy." "Then there were no cousins in New York?" asked Ben, doubtfully. "Not that I am aware of. That is a lie out of whole cloth. There is no one more unscrupulous than a female gossip. Did you speak to either of the ladies?" "No, sir." "That was right. You might have made mischief and seriously offended me. Do you often write home?" "Every week, sir." "I have no objection to that, but I must caution you against repeating this nonsensical and absurd story. I have taken a great deal of interest in you on account of your resemblance to poor Philip, to whom I was tenderly attached. It is on that account I engaged you to accompany me. You would not be likely to do as well in New York?" "No, sir; no one would think of paying me as liberally as you do." "I am glad you appreciate the advantages of your position. I hope you won't lose it by any foolishness," added Grafton, significantly. Ben felt that there was no more to say, but he was far from satisfied. He was thoroughly persuaded within himself that the story was true, and that Major Grafton was acting a fraudulent part. How could he find out? He had not forgotten his visit to the office of Mr. Codicil, just before they left New York. He had seen enough, then, to be aware that between Major Grafton and the lawyer there were business relations, and he suspected that they referred to the boy whose place he had taken. This would seem to bear out and confirm the story told by the two ladies. Now, if he should write a letter to Mr. Codicil he might ascertain all he needed to know, and if all was as he suspected he could refuse having any further part in the conspiracy. He did not remember the exact location of Mr. Codicil's office, but he did remember his first name, and he judged rightly that a letter simply directed to the lawyer, and addressed New York, would be likely to reach him. Major Grafton, after the interview between Ben and himself, watched our hero with ever-increasing suspicion. He felt that he was in the boy's power. An indiscreet revelation would overthrow the fabric of fraud which in his self-interest he had erected, and reduce him to earning a precarious living at the gaming-table. In the case of an average boy he would have been secure, from the boy's regard for his own interest; but he saw that Ben was a conscientious boy, of honorable impulses, and this disgusted him. "The boy is dangerous," he decided. "I must place him where he can do no mischief." When a man is thoroughly unprincipled he can always find ways and means for the carrying out of his iniquitous plans. Major Grafton experienced no difficulty in devising a method for staving off the threatened danger. One day after a leisurely breakfast, during which Major Grafton had been unusually chatty and affable, he said: "Philip, I have a pleasure in store for you." "What is it, sir?" "We are going to take a long drive into the country." "Thank you, sir. I shall enjoy it." Fifteen minutes afterward an open carriage drove into the court-yard of the hotel. "Is this the carriage I ordered?" asked Major Grafton. "It is for M. de Grafton," said the driver. "But you are not the man I spoke to." "No, it was my brother. He is obliged to stay at home; his wife is taken suddenly sick." "Very well; you will no doubt answer the purpose equally well. Philip, take a seat inside." Ben did so. "Where shall I drive, monsieur?" Major Grafton indicated the direction. They drove over a broad, smooth road on the eastern shore of the lake. It was a charming drive, not alone on account of the smooth waters of the lake which were in constant view, but also on account of the distant mountains and the picturesque Swiss habitations which regaled their eyes. They kept on uninterruptedly for nearly two hours, until Ben began to marvel at the length of the drive. Finally they came in sight of a large, picturesquely situated house, surrounded by trees. "We will descend here, Philip," said Major Grafton. "I want you to see this chateau." "Is there anything interesting connected with it?" asked Ben. "Yes, I believe Voltaire once lived here," answered Grafton. "I always thought he lived at the Chateau de Ferney." "He also lived here for a few months," said Major Grafton, shortly. "I think Calvin also lived here once." Ben entered without suspicion. A suave, black-whiskered man welcomed them. He seemed to recognize Major Grafton, and was voluble in his protestations of joy at meeting them. "Is this the boy you spoke of?" he asked. "Yes," answered Grafton. "Philip," he said, "remain in this room a few minutes while I speak with M. Bourdon." "Certainly, sir." He waited fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, and no one came back. Finally the door opened and the black-whiskered man made his appearance--alone. "Where is Major Grafton?" asked Ben. The other smiled craftily. "He is gone, M. Philippe." "Gone! and without me?" "You are to live with me, my son." "I don't understand you. What sort of a place is this?" "It is a _maison de fous_." Ben was horror-struck. He knew now that he was in a lunatic asylum. He could guess why he was placed there. CHAPTER XXV. IN A TRAP. For a sane person to find himself suddenly incarcerated in a lunatic asylum is enough to excite a thrill of horror in the most stolid. Ben shuddered and started back, pale and sick with apprehension. He was a brave boy, but it required more courage than he possessed to preserve his coolness under such circumstances. "What does it mean?" he ejaculated. "It means, my friend," answered M. Bourdon, with a sardonic smile, "that you are not quite right here," and he tapped his forehead significantly. He spoke English correctly, but with an accent, having, when a young man, passed several years in England. "It is a lie!" exclaimed Ben, indignantly, his terror giving place to anger. "My mind is not in the least affected." M. Bourdon shrugged his shoulders, with another aggravating smile. "They all say so," he answered. "I am as sane as you are!" continued Ben, hotly. "Well, well, I may be a little touched myself--who knows?" said M. Bourdon, or the doctor, as we may call him, in a tone of banter. It was hard for Ben to restrain himself, so impressed was he by the outrage of which he was the victim. It would have been a relief to attack the doctor, and seek deliverance by forcible means, but a glance at the well-knit frame of M. Bourdon, and the certainty of his being able to summon assistance, deterred him and led him to control his rash impulse. One thing he could do, and that was to ascertain, if possible, Major Grafton's motive in subjecting him to imprisonment. "What proof have you that I am insane?" he asked, more calmly. "Your appearance." "You have not had time to examine me." "The doctors are able to judge from very slight examination," said M. Bourdon, smiling. "Did Major Grafton tell you I was insane?" asked Ben. "You mean the gentleman who came here with you?" "Yes." "He has assured me of it." "What did he say? How did he tell you I had shown signs of insanity?" "He said you had tried to drown yourself in the lake, and, being foiled in that, had made an attempt to poison him. Surely this is enough to warrant his sending you to me." "Did he utter these infamous falsehoods?" demanded Ben, startled. "Of course you pronounce them falsehoods, my young friend, and doubtless you believe what you say. I am quite sure you have no recollection of what you did. This is one of your sane periods. At this moment you are as sane as I am." "You admit that?" said Ben, in surprise. "Certainly, for it is true. Your insanity is fitful--paroxysmal. Half an hour hence you may stand in need of a strait-jacket. If you were always as clear in mind as at present there would be no need of detaining you. I would open my door and say, 'Go, my young friend. You do not need my care.' Unfortunately, we do not know how long this mood may last." The doctor spoke smoothly and plausibly, and it was hard for Ben to tell whether he was really in earnest or not. He regarded M. Bourdon intently, and thought he detected a slight mocking smile, which excited his doubt and distrust anew. To appeal to such a man seemed well-nigh hopeless, but there was nothing else to do. "Are you the doctor?" he asked. "Yes; I am Dr. Bourdon," was the reply. "And you are at the head of this establishment?" continued Ben. "I have that honor, my young friend," answered Bourdon. "Then I wish to tell you that Major Grafton has deceived you. He has an object to serve in having me locked up here." "Doubtless," answered the doctor, with an amused smile, taking a pinch of snuff. "He is afraid I would reveal a secret which would strip him of his income," continued Ben. "And that secret is----?" said the doctor, not without curiosity. Ben answered this question as briefly and clearly as he could. The doctor listened with real interest, and it might have been satisfactory to Ben had he known that his story was believed. M. Bourdon was a shrewd man of the world, and it struck him that this knowledge might enable him to demand more extortionate terms of Major Grafton. "Don't you believe me?" asked Ben, watching the face of his listener. "I hear a great many strange stories," said the doctor. "I have to be cautious about what I believe." "But surely you will believe me, knowing that I am perfectly sane?" "That is the question to be determined," said M. Bourdon, smiling. "Won't you investigate it?" pleaded Ben. "It is a crime to keep me here, when I am of sound mind." "Whenever I am convinced of that I will let you go. Meanwhile you must be quiet, and submit to the rules of my establishment." "How long do you expect to keep me here?" asked Ben. "As long as you require it and your board is paid." Ben looked despondent, for this assurance held out very little hope of release. Still he was young, and youth is generally hopeful. Something might turn up. Ben was determined that something should turn up. He was not going to remain shut up in a mad-house any longer than he could help. He remained silent, and M. Bourdon touched a little bell upon a small table beside the door. The summons was answered by a stout man with rough, black locks, who looked like a hotel porter. "Francois," said the doctor, in the French language, "conduct this young man to No. 19." "At once, _Monsieur le Docteur_," answered the attendant. "Come with me, young man." He signed to Ben to follow him, and our hero, realizing the utter futility of resistance, did so. "Go ahead, monsieur," said Francois, when they came to a staircase. Ben understood him very well, though he spoke in French, thanks to his assiduous study of the last four weeks. They walked along a narrow corridor, and Francois, taking from his pocket a bunch of keys, carefully selected one and opened the door. "_Entrez monsieur._" Ben found himself in an apartment about the size of a hall bedroom, with one window, and a narrow bedstead, covered with an exceedingly thin mattress. There was no carpet on the floor, and the furniture was very scanty. It consisted of but one chair, a cheap bureau, and a washstand. And this was to be Ben's home--for how long? "I must get acquainted with this man," thought Ben. "I must try to win his goodwill, and perhaps he may be able to help me to escape." "Is your name Francois?" he asked, as the man lingered at the door. "_Oui, monsieur._" "And how long have you been here--in this asylum?" "How long, monsieur? Five years, nearly." "There is some mistake about my being here, Francois. I don't look crazy, do I?" "No, monsieur; but----" "But what?" "That proves nothing." "There is a plot against me, and I am put here by an enemy. I want you to be my friend. Here, take this." Ben produced from his pocket a silver franc piece and offered it to Francois, who took it eagerly, for the man's besetting sin was avarice. "Thanks, monsieur--much thanks!" he said, his stolid face lighting up. "I will be a friend." "Francois!" At the call from below Francois hastily thrust the coin into his pocket, nodded significantly to Ben, and, retiring, locked the door behind him. CHAPTER XXVI. INTRODUCES TWO CELEBRITIES. What a change a short half-hour may make in the position and feelings of any person! Little did Ben imagine, when he set out on a drive in the morning with Major Grafton, that he was on his way to one of the most hopeless of prisons. It was hard even now for him to realize his position. He looked from the window, and with a glance of envy saw in a field, not far away, some Swiss peasants at work. They were humble people, living a quiet, uneventful, laborious life; yet Ben felt that they were infinitely better off than he, provided he were doomed to pass the remainder of his life in this refuge. But of this he would not entertain the idea. He was young, not yet seventeen, and life was full of pleasant possibilities. "I am a Yankee," he thought, "and I don't believe they will succeed in keeping me here long. I will keep a bright lookout for a chance to escape." Half an hour later Ben heard the key grate in the lock, and, fixing his eyes on the entrance, he saw Francois enter. "Monsieur, dinner is ready," he said. Ben, notwithstanding his disagreeable situation, felt that he, too, was ready for the dinner. He was glad to find that it was not to be served to him in his own room. He would have a chance of seeing the other inmates of the house. "Where is it?" he asked. "Follow me," answered Francois, of course in French. He led the way, and Ben followed him into a lower room, long and narrow, which was used as the dining-room. There were no side-windows, and it would have been quite dark but for a narrow strip of window near the ceiling. Around a plain table sat a curious collection of persons. It was easy to see that something was the matter with them, for I do not wish to have it understood that all the inmates of the house were, like our hero, perfectly sane. M. Bourdon was not wholly a quack, but he was fond of money, and, looking through the eyes of self-interest, he was willing to consider Ben insane, although he knew very well that he was as rational as himself. "Sit here, monsieur," said Francois. Ben took the seat indicated, and naturally turned to survey his immediate neighbors. The one on the right-hand was a tall, venerable-looking man, with white hair and a flowing beard, whose manner showed the most perfect decorum. The other was a thin, dark-complexioned man, of bilious aspect, and shifty, evasive eyes. Neither noticed Ben at first, as the dinner appeared to engross their first attention. This consisted of a thin broth and a section of a loaf of coarse bread as the first course. Ben had been accustomed to more luxurious fare, and he was rather surprised to see with what enjoyment his neighbors partook of it. Next came a plate of meat, and this was followed by a small portion of grapes. There was nothing more. It was clear that M. Bourdon did not consider rich fare good for his patients. "I think I would rather dine at the hotel," thought Ben; but the diet was not by any means the worst thing of which he complained. "If I were free I would not mind how poor and plain my fare was," he thought. His companions finished dinner before him, and had leisure to bestow some attention upon him. "My little gentleman, do you come from Rome?" asked the venerable old gentleman on his right. "No, sir," answered Ben. "I am sorry. I wished to ask you a question." "Indeed, sir. Perhaps I might answer it even now. I have been in Florence." "No; that will not do; and yet, perhaps you may have met persons coming from Rome?" "I did, monsieur." "Then perhaps they told you how things were going on." "Very well, I believe, monsieur." "No, that could not be," said the old gentleman, shaking his head. "I am sure nothing would go well without me." "Do you, then, live in Rome?" asked Ben, curiously. "Surely!" exclaimed the old man. "Did you not know that the Pope lived in Rome?" "But what has that to do with you, sir?" "A great deal. Know, my little gentleman, that I--to whom you are speaking--am the Pope." This was said with an air of importance. "There's no doubt about his being insane," thought Ben. "How, then, do you happen to be here?" asked our hero, interested to see what his companion would say. "I was abducted," said the old gentleman, lowering his voice, "by an emissary of the King of America. M. Bourdon is a cousin of the king, and he is in the plot. But they won't keep me here long." "I hope not," said Ben, politely. "The King of Spain has promised to send an army to deliver me. I only received his letter last week. You will not tell M. Bourdon, will you?" "Certainly not," answered Ben. "It is well; I thought I could rely upon your honor." "My friend," said another voice, that of his left-hand neighbor, "you are losing your time in talking with that old fool. The fact is, he isn't right here," and he touched his head. The Pope appeared deeply absorbed in thought, and did not hear this complimentary remark. "He thinks he is the Pope. He is no more the Pope than I am." Ben nodded non-committally. "He ought to be here. But I--I am the victim of an infamous horde of enemies, who have placed me here." "Why should they do that, sir?" "To keep me out of my rights. It is the English Government that has done it. Of course, you know who I am." "No, sir, I don't think I do." "Look well at me!" and the dark man threw himself back in his chair for inspection. "I am afraid I don't recognize you, monsieur," said Ben. "Bah! where are your eyes?" said the other, contemptuously. "I am Napoleon Bonaparte!" "But I thought you died at St. Helena," said Ben. "Quite a mistake, I assure you. The English Government so asserted, but it was a deception. They wished my memory to die out among my faithful French. They buried my effigy, but smuggled me off in a vessel late at night. They placed me here, and here they mean to keep me--if they can. But some day I shall escape; I shall re-enter France; I shall summon all to my banner, and at the head of a great army I shall enter Paris. Do you know what I will do then?" "What will you do, sir?" asked Ben, with some curiosity. "I shall descend upon England with an army of five millions of men," said the dark man, his eyes flashing, "and burn all her cities and towns." "That will be rather severe, won't it?" asked Ben. "She deserves it; but I may do worse." "How can that be?" "Do you see that man over on the other side of the table--the short, red-haired man?" "Yes, I see him." "He is a chemist and has invented a compound a thousand times more powerful than dynamite. I am negotiating for it, and, if I succeed, I mean to blow the whole island out of the water. What do you think of that, eh?" he continued, triumphantly. "I think in that case I shall keep away from England," answered Ben, keeping as straight a face as he could. "Ah, you will do well." When dinner was over, the boarders passed out of the room, Ben among them. He was destined not to go out quietly. Suddenly a wild-looking woman darted toward him and threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming: "At last I have found you, my son, my son!" Ben struggled to release himself, assisted by Francois, who did not scruple to use considerable force. "None of your tricks, madam!" he cried, angrily. "Will you take from me my boy?" she exclaimed, piteously. "There is some mistake. I am not your son," said Ben. The woman shook her head sadly. "He disowns his poor mother," she said, mournfully. On the whole, Ben was rather glad to return to his chamber. "I don't like my fellow-boarders," he thought. "I sha'n't stay in the _maison de fous_ any longer than I am obliged to." CHAPTER XXVII. A MIDNIGHT ESCAPE. For three days Ben passed a dull, uniform existence, being most of the time confined to his chamber. To a boy of active temperament it was most irksome. If he only had something to read, the hours would pass more swiftly. Fortunately, on the second day, he bethought himself of Francois, who seemed friendly. "Francois," he said, "can't you get me something to read?" "I don't know," said the attendant, doubtfully. "What would monsieur like?" "Anything you can find. I would prefer a story." "I will try, monsieur." The next time Francois made his appearance he held in his hand a tattered edition of a popular novel. "Will that do?" he asked. Ben had never heard of the book, but on opening its pages it looked attractive, and he answered: "Yes, Francois, I am much obliged to you." He thought it politic, remembering that he might need other favors, to put a franc piece into the hand of the friendly attendant. Francois brightened up. His wages were so small that these little gratuities were very welcome. "Would monsieur like something else?" he inquired. "There is one thing I would like very much, Francois," answered Ben. "What is that, monsieur?" "To get out of this place." "But monsieur is insane." "I am no more insane than you are. Do I look insane?" "No; but one cannot always tell." "I would give a hundred francs to any one who would get me out of this," said Ben, not, however, expecting to produce much impression on the mind of his auditor. "A hundred francs!" repeated Francois, his eyes sparkling. But in a moment he looked sober. "It would not do. I should be discharged," he said. "Think it over, Francois," said Ben. The attendant did not answer, but the suggestion had borne fruit. It may be asked how Ben had so much money. It may be explained that he was about to send a remittance home, having received a payment from Major Grafton, but his unexpected arrival at the refuge had prevented him. He had with him two hundred francs, or about forty dollars in gold. Something happened on the third day which worked favorably for Ben's hopes of securing the active assistance of Francois. About dusk a boy appeared at the gate of the asylum, and asked to see Francois. When the two were brought together, he said: "I came from your wife. She wishes you to come home. The child--little Marie--is very sick." Poor Francois was much disturbed. In a little cottage five miles away lived his wife and his only child, Marie. The poor fellow was deeply attached to his child, for it must be remembered that the poor and simple-minded are quite as apt to have as strong affections as the richer and more favored. "Is she very bad, Jean?" he asked, quite pale. "Yes," answered Jean. "I think she is out of her head. She keeps moaning. Her poor mother is very much frightened." "I will ask if I can come," said Francois, and he straightway sought out the doctor. "I would like to speak to you, M. Bourdon," he said. "Speak quick, then, for I am busy," said the doctor, gruffly, for something had happened to disturb him. "Jean Gault has just told me that my little Marie is very sick, and my wife wants me to come home. If I could go now, I would come back in the morning." "Well, you can't go," said the doctor, harshly. "But, _Monsieur le Docteur_, do you understand that my child--my little Marie--is very sick? She moans, and is out of her head, and I may never see her again, if I don't go." "Plague take your little Marie!" said M. Bourdon, brutally. "What have I to do with her? I want you to stay here. You know very well that you can't be spared." "But," protested Francois, indignantly, "do you think because I am poor that I have no feeling? You are very much mistaken. I cannot stay away and let poor Marie die without seeing her." "You can't go, at all events," said M. Bourdon, roughly. "I cannot go?" "No; or, if you do, you will lose your place. I cannot have my men going away on every silly pretext. I don't believe your child is sick at all." "But Jean Gault is below. He has brought word from my wife." "I dare say it is all planned between you." "Then you will not let me go?" "No, I won't. If you go, you lose your place. I shall not take you back. Do you understand?" "Yes, I understand," said Francois, slowly. "Then you can go. We have had words enough about this." If the doctor had not been irritated he would have been careful how he dealt with Francois, who was the most valuable man in his employ. But when we are irritated we lose sight of what is politic, and are apt to make grievous mistakes, as M. Bourdon certainly did on this occasion. Francois sought out little Jean. "Jean," he said, "go home and tell my wife that I will come some time to-night. The doctor has forbidden me to go, but I shall go, all the same. Be sure you tell no one else." "Very well, Francois," answered the boy. "Tell my wife I may be late, but I will surely come." The boy went away, and Francois went up to Ben's room. "Monsieur, I have something to say to you," he commenced. "What is it, Francois?" "You said you would give a hundred francs to any one who would get you out of this?" "Yes, Francois," answered Ben, quickly. "Have you so much money with you, then?" asked Francois, doubtfully. "See here!" and Ben took out five napoleons, which he displayed in his open palm. The attendant's eyes sparkled. "And you will give them to me, if perchance I set you free?" "Yes." "Listen, then. I would not do it, but my little Marie is very sick, and my wife wants me to come home. Perhaps she may die;" and the poor fellow suppressed a sob. "But M. Bordon--that is the doctor--he says I shall not go. He said 'Plague take your child!'" continued Francois, wrathfully. "Poor Francois," said Ben compassionately. "Ah! you feel for me, little monsieur," said Francois, gratefully. "The doctor has a heart like a stone. He says if I go I shall not come back; but I do not care, I cannot stay away. I will go, and you shall go with me. Can you walk five miles?" "I can walk ten--fifteen, if necessary," said Ben, promptly. "Then be ready at midnight. We will go together. It will not do to go earlier. Then the doctor will be asleep. Every one else will be asleep, and we can go away unobserved. M. Bourdon will be sorry that he did not let me go. I promised to come back." And Francois's eyes sparkled with honest indignation. Ben's heart beat high with hope. "You will come to my room at midnight?" he said. "Yes, monsieur." "I will be ready." "One thing, monsieur. Do not have your shoes on. You can carry them in your hand. We must not make any noise when we are going down stairs, or we may be caught." "That is well thought of, Francois. Depend upon me. I will be ready." It will easily be supposed that Ben did not go to bed. He sat waiting patiently hour after hour till, as midnight struck, his door was softly opened, and Francois appeared. "Now," said the attendant, "follow me, and make no noise." Ben, in his stocking feet, followed the attendant down stairs. Producing a large key, Francois opened the outside door, then closed it softly, and they stood outside under a star-lit sky. CHAPTER XXVIII. BEN'S FLIGHT. As good luck would have it, Ben and Francois departed without being observed. On emerging from the asylum they at first ran, after putting on their shoes, but when a quarter of a mile had been traversed they dropped into a walk. "Well, we got away safely," said Ben. "Yes; the doctor was asleep. We shall not be missed till morning." "And then it shall be my fault if I am caught. Where is your home, Francois?" "Five miles away." "Yes, but is it on my way?" "Where would monsieur go?" "To Paris." "To Paris!" ejaculated Francois, with wonderment. "That is a great way off, is it not?" "Yes, I think it must be a thousand miles away." "But monsieur is a boy; he cannot walk so far." "No," answered Ben, laughing. "I don't propose to. Is there any railroad station near your house?" "Yes, monsieur; only five minutes off." "That will do very well." "And has monsieur money enough?" "Not to go all the way to Paris, but half-way there, perhaps." "And is not monsieur afraid he will starve--without money?" "I think I can get along," said Ben, slowly, for it dawned upon him that it would not be a very pleasant thing to be penniless in a foreign country. "I will give back half the money monsieur has given me," said Francois, in a friendly tone. "No, Francois; you will need it all. I am not afraid." After a walk of an hour and a half the two pedestrians reached a small village set among the hills. Francois began to walk faster, and to look more eager. "Does monsieur see that cottage?" he said. Ben's eyes rested on an humble cottage just out of the village. "Yes." "It is mine. Will monsieur come with me?" "Yes, I will go to see if your little girl is alive." Soon they were at the door. There was a light burning in the main room. A plain, neat woman opened the door. "Thank Heaven!" she exclaimed, "it is Francois." "Is--is Marie alive?" "Yes, my husband. She has had a change for the better." "Heaven be praised!" "And who is this young gentleman?" "A friend," answered Francois, after some hesitation. "Then I'm glad to see him. Welcome, monsieur." "Come in, monsieur," said Francois. "I think I had better go to the station." "The cars will not start till seven o'clock. Monsieur will need repose." "But I don't wish to incommode you." "My wife will give you a blanket, and you can lie here." Ben accepted the invitation, and stretched himself out on a settee. "I will wake you in time," said Francois. "Be tranquil." CHAPTER XXIX. BEN IS MISSED. Meanwhile M. Bourdon slept the sleep of the just--or the unjust--not dreaming of the loss his establishment had sustained. He did not open his eyes till five o'clock. Usually at that hour Francois was stirring, as he had morning duties to perform. But M. Bourdon did not hear him bustling around as usual. At first this did not strike him, but after awhile he began to wonder why. "The lazy dog!" he said to himself. "He is indulging himself this morning, and his work will suffer." He went to the door of his chamber and called "Francois!" Francois slept in an upper room, but still the asylum was not a lofty building, and he should have heard. "He must be fast asleep, as usual," grumbled M. Bourdon. "I must go up and rouse him. It would be well if I had a horsewhip." Slipping on a part of his clothing, the doctor crept up stairs. He knocked at the door of his dilatory servant. "Francois! Francois, I say. Are you dead?" There was no answer. "I suppose he has locked his door," muttered the doctor, as he tried the latch. But no! the door opened, and, to his dismay, the room was empty. The bed had not been disturbed. The doctor's face was dark with anger. "The ingrate has left me, after all. He has gone to his child, who is not sick at all, I dare say. Well, he will repent it. I will not take him back." Here the doctor paused. It would be exceedingly inconvenient to lose Francois, who, besides being a capable man, accepted very small pay. "At any rate I will lower his wages!" he said. "He shall regret the way he has served me." It was a temporary inconvenience. Still there was an outside man whom he could impress into the service as a substitute, and in a day or two Francois would be glad to return. It was not, perhaps, so serious a matter, after all. But M. Bourdon changed his mind when he found the front door unlocked. "Who had escaped, if any?" This was the question he asked himself. In great haste he went from one room to another, but all seemed to be occupied. It was only when he opened Ben's room that he ascertained that the one whom he would most regret to lose had decamped. Ben's bed, too, was but little disturbed. He had slept on the outside, if he had slept at all, but not within the bed, as was but too evident. "Has any one seen the boy?" demanded M. Bourdon of an outdoor servant who slept outside, but was already on duty. "Not I, _Monsieur le Docteur_." "Then he must have escaped with Francois! Put my horse in the carriage at once." Ten minutes later M. Bourdon was on his way to the cottage of Francois. Fifteen minutes before he arrived Francois had aroused our young hero. "It is time to get up, little monsieur," he said. "In half an hour the cars will start." Refreshed by his sound sleep, Ben sprang up at once--he did not need to dress--and was ready for the adventures of the day. "Where is the station, Francois?" he said. "I will go with monsieur." "No; if the doctor should come, delay him so that he cannot overtake me." "Perhaps it is best." Ben followed the directions of his humble friend, and soon brought up at the station. He purchased a third-class ticket for a place fifty miles away, and waited till it was time for the train to start. Meanwhile M. Bourdon had driven up to the cottage of Francois. The door was opened to him by Francois himself. "Where is that boy? Did he come away with you?" he asked, abruptly. "What boy?" asked Francois, vacantly. "The one who came a few days since. You know who I mean." Francois shrugged his shoulders. "Is he gone?" he asked. "Of course he is, fool." Just then the wife of Francois came to the door. Unfortunately her husband had not warned her, nor did she know that Ben had been an inmate of the asylum. "Where is the boy who came here last night with your husband?" asked M. Bourdon, abruptly. "Gone to the station," answered the woman, unsuspiciously. The doctor jumped into his carriage, and drove with speed to the station. CHAPTER XXX. M. BOURDON'S LITTLE SCHEME. Meanwhile Ben had entered a third-class carriage--it behooved him to be economical now--and sat down. He was congratulating himself on his fortunate escape, when M. Bourdon dashed up to the station. He entered the building, and was about passing to the platform, when he was stopped. "Your ticket, monsieur." Just then came the signal for the train to start. "Never mind the ticket!" shouted the doctor. "Don't stop me. One of my patients is running away." "I can't help it," said the guard, imperturbably. "Monsieur cannot pass without a ticket." "But I don't want to go anywhere," roared M. Bourdon. "I want to see the passengers." To the railway attendant this seemed a very curious request. He began to think the doctor, with his excitable manner, was insane. At any rate, he was obliged to obey the rules. "Go back and buy a ticket, monsieur," he said, unmoved. "But I don't want to go anywhere," protested M. Bourdon. "Then go back!" And the official, placing his hand on the doctor's sacred person, thrust him forcibly aside. "Fool! Dolt!" screamed M. Bourdon, who could hear the train starting. "You must be crazy!" said the guard, shrugging his shoulders. It was too late now. The train had actually gone, and M. Bourdon turned back, foiled, humiliated and wrathful. He regretted bitterly now that he had not let Francois off the evening before, as in that case Ben would not have had a chance to escape. Now he must lose the generous sum which Major Grafton had agreed to pay for his ward. It was more than he received for any other of his patients, for M. Bourdon, recognizing Ben's sanity, shrewdly surmised that the guardian had some special design in having his ward locked up, and took advantage of it to increase the weekly sum which he charged. And now all this was lost. But no! A happy thought struck the worthy doctor. Ben had escaped, it is true, but why could not he go on charging for him just as before? His escape was not known to Major Grafton, and probably would not be discovered for a long time at least. The major was not very likely to visit the asylum, as an interview between him and his young victim would be rather embarrassing to him. Yes, that was the course he would pursue. He would from time to time send in a report of his patient, and regularly collect his board, while he would be at no expense whatever for him. It was necessary, however, to take Francois into his confidence, and he drove back to the cottage of the humble attendant. Francois was watching outside. He was afraid the doctor would succeed in capturing the boy, in whom he had begun to feel a strong interest. When he saw M. Bourdon drive up alone he smiled to himself, though his features remained outwardly grave. "Did you find him, sir?" he asked, respectfully. "No," answered M. Bourdon, roughly. "The train had just started." "And was he a passenger?" "Doubtless." "What will you do, _Monsieur le Docteur_?" Francois asked, curiously. "Francois," said M. Bourdon, suddenly, "I am sorry for you." "Why?" asked Francois, considerably surprised. "Is it because my little Marie is sick?" "Plague take your little Marie! It is because you have helped the boy to escape." "How could I help him, sir?" "Some one must have unlocked the door of his room. Otherwise, he could not have got out." "I don't know, monsieur," said Francois, assuming ignorance. "When did you first see him?" "I had walked about a quarter of a mile," said Francois, mendaciously, "when he ran up and overtook me. I told him to go back, but he would not. He followed me, and came here." "This story is by no means ingenious," said the doctor, shaking his head. "When you stand up in a court of justice you will see how the lawyers will make you eat your words. And very likely they will send you to prison." "Oh, no! Don't say that!" said poor Francois, much frightened. "What would become of my poor wife and child?" "You should have thought of them before this." "Oh, _Monsieur le Docteur_, you will save me from prison!" exclaimed poor, simple-minded Francois. "On one condition." "Name it, monsieur." "Let no one know that the boy has escaped." "I will not, if you desire it." "You see, it will be bad for me as well as for you. It was very important to keep him--very important, indeed--and his friends will call me to account. But they need not know it, if you remain silent." "No one shall hear me say a word, _Monsieur le Docteur_," said Francois, promptly. "That is well. In that case I will overlook your disobedience, and allow you to return to your place." "Oh, monsieur is too good!" said Francois, who did not by any means anticipate such magnanimous forgiveness. "When can you come back?" "When monsieur will." "Come, then, this evening. It will be in time. I will allow you to spend the day with your family, since your child is sick." The doctor turned his horse's head, and drove back to the asylum. Three days after he wrote to Major Grafton: "MY DEAR SIR: Your ward is rather sullen, but quiet. He was at first disposed to make trouble, but the firm and effective discipline of the institution has had the usual result. I allow him to amuse himself with reading, as this seems to be the best way of keeping him quiet and contented. His insanity is of a mild kind, but it is often precisely such cases that are most difficult to cure. You may rely, Monsieur Grafton, upon my taking the best care of the young gentleman, and, as you desired, I will especially guard against his obtaining writing materials, lest, by a misrepresentation of his condition, he might excite his friends. "I thank you for your promptness in forwarding my weekly payments. Write me at any time when you desire a detailed account of your ward's condition." M. Bourdon signed this letter, after reading it over to himself, with a complacent smile. He reflected that it did great credit to his ingenuity. "Some men would have revealed the truth," he said to himself, "and lost a fine income. I am wiser." In due time this letter reached Major Grafton. "That is well," he said to himself. "I am rather sorry for the boy, but he has brought it on himself. Why must he be a fool, and threaten to blab? He was living in luxury, such as he has never been accustomed to before, and he might rest content with that. In me surely he had an indulgent master. I rarely gave him anything to do. He could live on the fat of the land, see the world at no expense to himself, and have all the advantages of a rich man's son. Well, he has made his own bed, and now he must lie in it. On some accounts it is more agreeable to me to travel alone, and have no one to bother me." To avert suspicion, Major Grafton left the Hotel des Bergues and took up his quarters at another hotel. At the end of two weeks he left for Italy, having arranged matters satisfactorily by sending M. Bourdon a month's payment in advance, an arrangement that suited the worthy doctor remarkably well. CHAPTER XXXI. A WANDERER IN FRANCE. A boy toiled painfully over a country road but a few miles from the city of Lyons. His clothes bore the marks of the dusty road over which he was travelling. It was clear by his appearance that he was not a French boy. There is no need of keeping up a mystery which my young readers will easily penetrate. This boy was our hero, Ben Baker. He was now more than half way to Paris, and might have reached that gay city days since but for his limited supply of money. When he gave Francois a hundred francs he nearly exhausted his limited capital, but there was no help for it. He had travelled a hundred miles on the railway, far enough to be beyond the danger of pursuit and the risk of a return to the asylum, which he could not think of without a shudder. Now he would walk, and so economize. He had walked another hundred miles, and had reached this point in his journey. But his scanty funds were now reduced to a piece of two sous, and he was between three and four thousand miles from home. This very day he had walked fifteen miles, and all he had eaten was a roll, which he had purchased in a baker's shop in a country village through which he had passed in the early morning. Hopeful as Ben was by temperament, he looked sober enough as he contemplated his position. How was he ever to return home, and what prospect was there for him in Europe? If he had been in any part of America he would have managed to find something to do, but here he felt quite helpless. He had walked fifteen miles on an almost empty stomach, and the result was that he was not only tired but sleepy. He sat down by the way-side, with his back against the trunk of a tree, and before he was conscious of it he had fallen asleep. How long he had been asleep he did not know, but he was roused suddenly by a touch. Opening his eyes, he saw a man fumbling at his watch-chain. The man, who was a stout and unprepossessing-looking man of about thirty-five, wearing a blouse, jumped back with a hasty, confused exclamation. "What are you doing?" demanded Ben, suspiciously. He spoke first in English, but, remembering himself, repeated the question in French. "Pardon, monsieur," said the man, looking uncomfortable. Ben's glance fell on his chain and the watch, which had slipped from his pocket, and he understood that the man had been trying to steal his watch. In spite of his poverty and need of money he had not yet parted with the watch, though he suspected the time would soon come when he should be compelled to do so. "You were trying to steal my watch," said Ben, severely. "No, monsieur, you are wrong," answered the tramp, for that was what he would be called in America. "How came my watch out of the pocket, and why were you leaning over me?" continued Ben. "I wanted to see what time it was," answered the man, after a minute's hesitation. "I think it is fortunate I awoke when I did," said Ben. His new acquaintance did not choose to notice the significance of the words. "Monsieur," he said, "I am a poor man. Will you help me with a few sous?" Ben could not help laughing. It seemed too ridiculous that any one should ask money of him. He took the two-sous piece from his pocket. "Do you see that?" he asked. "Yes, monsieur." "It is all the money I have." The man looked incredulous. "And yet monsieur is well dressed, and has a gold watch." "Still I am as poor as you, for I am more than three thousand miles from home, and have not money enough to get there, even if I sell my watch." "Where does monsieur live?" asked the tramp, looking interested. "In America." "Will monsieur take my advice?" "If it is good." "There is a rich American gentleman at the Hotel de la Couronne, in Lyons. He would, perhaps, help monsieur." The idea struck Ben favorably. This gentleman could, at any rate, give him advice, and he felt that he needed it. "How far is Lyons away?" "Scarcely a league." "Straight ahead?" "Yes, monsieur." "Then I will go there." "And I, too. I will guide monsieur." "Thank you. I will reward you, if I have the means." CHAPTER XXXII. A STRANGE MEETING. The Hotel de la Couronne is situated in one of the finest parts of Lyons. As Ben stood before it, he began to doubt whether he had not better go away with his errand undone. After all, this American gentleman, if there were one in the hotel, would be likely to feel very little interest in a destitute boy claiming to be a fellow-countryman. He might even look upon him as a designing rogue, with a fictitious story of misfortune, practising upon his credulity. Ben's cheek flushed at the mere thought that he might be so regarded. So he was on the point of going away; but he was nerved by his very desperation to carry out his original plan. He entered the hotel, and went up to the office. "Will monsieur look at some apartments?" asked the landlord's son, a man of thirty. "No, monsieur--that is, not at present. Is there an American gentleman at present staying in the hotel?" "Yes. Is monsieur an American?" Ben replied in the affirmative, and asked for the name of his countryman. "It is Monsieur Novarro," was the reply. "Novarro!" repeated Ben to himself. "That sounds more like a Spanish or an Italian name." "Is that the gentleman monsieur desires to see?" "From what part of America does Mr. Novarro come?" The register was applied to, and the answer given was "Havana." "Havana!" said Ben, disappointed. "Then he will take no interest in me," he thought. "There is very little kindred between a Cuban and an American." "Would monsieur like to see M. Novarro?" "I may as well see him," thought Ben, and he answered in the affirmative. "There is M. Novarro, now," said the landlord's son; and Ben, turning, saw a tall, very dark-complexioned man, who had just entered. "M. Novarro, here is a young gentleman who wishes to see you--a countryman of yours." The Cuban regarded Ben attentively, and not without surprise. "Have we met before?" he asked, courteously. "No, sir," answered Ben, relieved to find that the Cuban spoke English; "and I am afraid I am taking a liberty in asking for you." "By no means! If I can be of any service to you, my friend, you may command me." "It is rather a long story, Mr. Novarro," Ben commenced. "Then we will adjourn to my room, where we shall be more at our ease." Ben followed his new acquaintance to a handsome private parlor on the second floor and seated himself in a comfortable arm-chair, indicated by the Cuban. "I will first mention my name," said Ben. "It is Benjamin Baker." "Baker!" exclaimed the Cuban, in evident excitement. "Who was your father?" "My father was Dr. John Baker, and lived in Sunderland, Connecticut." "Is is possible!" ejaculated the Cuban; "you are his son?" "Did you know my father?" asked Ben, in amazement. "I never saw him, but I knew of him. I am prepared to be a friend to his son. Now tell me your story." CHAPTER XXXIII. AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY. Ben told his story so far as it concerned his engagement by Major Grafton and his visit to Europe. Of his mother and her circumstances and of his uncle he had scarcely occasion to speak, considering that his auditor would hardly feel interested in his own personal history. The Cuban, who had a grave, kindly aspect, listened with close attention to his narrative. When Ben ceased speaking he said: "My young friend, there is one thing that puzzles me in this story of yours." "What is it, sir?" asked Ben, anxiously. He feared that the stranger did not believe him. "Why should you need to travel with Major Grafton, or any other gentleman, as private secretary, unless, indeed, your mother did not wish you to come to Europe alone?" Ben stared at his interlocutor in amazement. "How could I come to Europe alone?" he asked. "Where should I find the money to pay my expenses?" "Your mother might pay the expenses of your trip." "My mother is very poor, Mr. Novarro." "Very poor! Has she, then, lost the money that your father left her?" "I think you must be under a great mistake, Mr. Novarro. My uncle allows my mother a small income, and I help her all I can." "There is certainly a great mistake somewhere," said the Cuban. "To my certain knowledge your father possessed a hundred thousand dollars in first-class securities. Didn't you know anything of this?" continued Mr. Novarro, observing Ben's look of extreme amazement. "I know nothing of it, Mr. Novarro." "Then he must have been robbed of the securities which I myself gave him on the 18th day of May, in the year 18--" "That was the day of my father's death," said Ben. "He died on that very day?" said the Cuban in excitement. "Tell me the particulars of your father's death. Did he die a natural death?" "Yes, sir; he died of heart disease." "And where?" "In the house of my Uncle Nicholas." "Before he had time to go home? Before he had acquainted your mother with his good fortune?" "Neither my mother nor myself knew but that he died a poor man." "But he had the securities with him. Did your uncle say nothing of them?" "Not a word." A look of suspicion appeared on the face of Filippo Novarro. "Tell me," he said, quickly--"did your uncle, shortly after your father's death, enlarge his business?" "Yes, sir; he moved from a small store in Grand street to a larger store on Broadway--the one which he now occupies." With the Cuban, suspicion was now changed to certainty. He brought down his fist heavily upon the table at his side. "I know all now," he said. "Your uncle deliberately robbed your dead father of the securities which I had placed in his hands, and coolly appropriating them to his own use, used the proceeds to build up and extend his business, leaving your mother to live in poverty." "I feel bewildered," said Ben. "I can hardly believe my uncle would treat us so shamefully." "By the way, when did your mother move to Minnesota?" asked the Cuban. "To Minnesota?" "Yes. When I was in New York, not long since, I called upon your uncle and signified my intention to call upon your mother. He told me she had moved to Minnesota, and, of course, I was compelled to give up my plan." "My mother has never moved to Minnesota; she still lives in Sunderland." "Then your uncle intended to prevent our meeting. He feared, doubtless, that if we met, his rascality would be discovered. Providence has defeated his cunningly-devised scheme, and the truth will soon be brought to light, to his confusion." "I am afraid, sir, it will be difficult for my mother and myself to prove that my father left money. We have no money, with which to hire legal assistance." "I propose to take the matter into my own hands. I am personally interested as the agent whom my dead friend commissioned to pay a debt of gratitude to the man who saved his life. Have you anything to detain you in Europe?" "No, sir, except an empty purse." "Permit me to act as your banker." Mr. Novarro drew from his pocket two hundred and fifty francs in gold and paper and handed them to Ben. To our hero it seemed like a fairy-tale, in which he was playing the leading part. He half-feared that the gold would turn into brass and the bank-notes into withered leaves; but, strange though it was, he saw good reason to think that his good fortune was real. "How can I thank you, sir, for your liberality?" he said, gratefully. "You forget that this is your own money; I am only advancing it to you, and shall be repaid speedily. Will you accept me as your guardian to protect your interests and compel your uncle to disgorge his ill-gotten gains?" "Thankfully, sir, if you are willing to take the trouble." "Then you will sail with me for New York by the next steamer. Have you your luggage with you?" "I have nothing, sir, except what I have on my back. I had to leave the asylum without a change, and I have not been able to change my clothes for a week or more." "I had forgotten. This must be looked to at once. We will take lunch, and then go out and purchase a new supply of under-clothing." Once more Ben had fallen on his feet. At what appeared to be the darkest moment light had suddenly fallen across his path, and he had stumbled upon the one man who was able to bring him into the sunshine. Before night his wardrobe had been quite replenished, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief as he found himself in fresh and clean attire. He sought out the tramp who had escorted him to the hotel, and liberally rewarded him. "I shall telegraph for passage in the Havre line of steamships," said Mr. Novarro. "A steamer is to sail on Saturday, so that we shall not have long to wait." "I fear, Mr. Novarro, you are interrupting your own plans in order to befriend me," said Ben to his new patron. "I have no plans. I am--perhaps unfortunately for myself--a rich man, under no necessity of labor. Indeed, my chief aim has been to pass my time as pleasantly as possible. Now I find something to do, and I find myself happier for having some object in life. I am rejoiced that we have met. It has brought to my life a new interest; and even after I have redeemed your wrongs I shall hope to keep up my acquaintance with you, and to make the acquaintance of your mother." "You may be sure, sir, that my mother will be only too glad to know so true a friend." The Cuban regarded Ben with a look of interest and affection. He was beginning to be attracted to him for his own sake. He was a man of energetic temperament, though a large inheritance had hitherto prevented any display of energy. At length the occasion had arisen, and he looked forward with eagerness to the struggle with the New York merchant to secure the rights of his new friend. On the next day Ben and his guardian left Lyons for Paris. They had two days in this lovely city, and late on Friday evening they reached Havre, the point where they were to embark for America. "The first act is over, Ben," said the Cuban. "Our ocean trip is a long wait between the first and second acts. When the curtain next rises it will be in New York, and there will be other actors to take an unwilling part in our drama, which is devoted to the detection and punishment of guilt." CHAPTER XXXIV. ROSE MAKES AN ENEMY. Leaving Ben and his new guardian on their passage across the Atlantic, we will precede them to New York, and inquire after the welfare of some of our other characters. The Beauforts seemed to have entered on a new and prosperous career. Rose continued to give lessons in music, and to receive liberal compensation. She was really an accomplished musician, and had the happy knack of making herself agreeable to her young pupils. Besides, she was backed by the influence of Miss Wilmot, and that helped her not a little. Her sister Adeline, too, gave lessons in art, and thus contributed to the family purse. My readers will not have forgotten the young man who rescued Rose from the disagreeable attentions of her elderly lover, Mr. Parkinson. More than once Rose had thought of Clinton Randall, and, though she scarcely admitted it to herself, cherished the hope that they would some day meet again. The young man's frank, chivalrous manners, and handsome face and figure, had impressed her most favorably, and she suffered herself to think of him more than she would have liked to admit. Had she known that Clinton Randall had been equally attracted by her, and had made strenuous efforts to find her ever since their first meeting, she would have been much gratified. Some weeks passed, however, before she saw him again. One afternoon, as she was walking through Madison Square on her way home from Mrs. Tilton's, where she had given her customary lessons, she met the young man in the walk. His face glowed with unmistakable joy as he hurried forward, with hand extended. "I am very glad to meet you again, Miss Beaufort," he said, eagerly. "Where have you been? Not out of the city?" "Oh, no!" answered Rose, successfully concealing her own pleasure at the meeting. "You can't expect a poor music-teacher to break away from her work at this season?" "But I did not know you were a music-teacher." "No, I suppose not," answered Rose, smiling. "Do you give lessons on the piano?" "Yes, it is my only instrument." "I have for a long time thought of taking lessons on the piano," said Randall, who had never thought of it before, "if I could only find a teacher who would not be too strict. Do you--take gentlemen?" "I am afraid I could not venture upon a pupil of your age, Mr. Randall," said Rose, amused. "Suppose you proved refractory?" "But I never would." "I am afraid my time is fully occupied. I will promise, however, to take you, if I agree to take any gentlemen." "Thank you. I shall not forget your promise." Clinton Randall, though he had been walking in a different direction, turned and accompanied Rose, both chatting easily and familiarly. It never occurred to Rose that she might meet any one who would comment upon her and her escort. But at the corner of Eighteenth street and Broadway she met a tall young lady, who made her the slightest possible nod, while she fixed eyes of scorn and displeasure upon the two. Clinton Randall raised his hat, and they parted. "You know Miss Jayne, then, Miss Beaufort," said Randall. "Yes, slightly, and you?" "I have met her in society." "She is a niece of Mrs. Tilton, to whose daughters I am giving music-lessons." "Indeed! I know Mrs. Tilton--I am to attend her party next week. Shall you be there?" "I believe so--not as a guest, however. She has invited me to play on the piano for the entertainment of the guests. You will probably dance to my music." "I would rather dance with you to the music of another player, Miss Beaufort." "You forget, Mr. Randall, that I am a poor music-teacher." "I don't think of it at all. It makes no difference in your claims to consideration." "The world does not agree with you, Mr. Randall." "Then it ought. By the way, Miss Beaufort, has your elderly admirer renewed his proposals?" "Mr. Parkinson? No, I have not met him since." "You are sure you won't relent, and make him a happy man?" "I don't think it at all likely," said Rose, laughing. Meanwhile Rose had made an enemy without being aware of it. Miss Arethusa Jayne had long looked upon Clinton Randall with eyes of partiality, not alone on account of his good looks, but because he was wealthy, socially distinguished, and in all respects a desirable _parti_. In her vanity she had thought that he was not indifferent to her attractions. When, therefore, she saw him walking with her aunt's music-teacher, she was not only angry but jealous. She reluctantly admitted that Rose was pretty, though she considered herself still more so. After this meeting she changed her plans, and went straight to her aunt. "Aunt," she said, "whom do you think I met on Broadway just now?" "I am sure I can't tell, Arethusa. I suppose all the world and his wife are out this fine day." "Your music-teacher, Miss Beaufort, and Clinton Randall." "You don't say so!" ejaculated Mrs. Tilton. "How should she know him?" "I have no idea they were ever introduced," said Arethusa, sneering. "Probably she isn't particular how she makes acquaintance with gentlemen. I always thought her forward." "I can't say I ever did, Arethusa." "Oh, she covers it up with you; but I ask you, Aunt Lucy, how could she otherwise get acquainted with a gentleman of Mr. Randall's position?" "I don't know. Was she actually walking with him?" "Certainly, and laughing and talking in a boisterous, unladylike way." Of course this was untrue, but a jealous woman is not likely to consider her words. "I thought you ought to know it, aunt, so I came and told you." "Do you think I ought to do anything, Arethusa?" "I would not allow such a girl to teach my children." "But she is an excellent teacher, and is recommended by Miss Wilmot." "Probably Miss Wilmot does not know how she conducts herself. No doubt she carefully conceals her forwardness from that lady." "But I can't discharge her without giving reasons." "True, aunt. By the way, Mr. Randall comes to your party, does he not?" "He has sent an acceptance." "And you mean to have Miss Beaufort there to play dancing-tunes?" "Yes; she comes a good deal cheaper than a professional," said Mrs. Tilton, who, even in her pleasures, was thrifty. "That is well. Then you will have an opportunity to see how the two go on together, and can quietly signify to Miss Beaufort, the next day, your opinion of her conduct." "But, Arethusa," said Mrs. Tilton, who was not jealous, like her niece, "I can't think there is anything out of the way. Miss Beaufort has always seemed to me a model of propriety." "Oh, you dear, unsuspicious aunt! How easily you are deceived! Do you want to know my opinion of Miss Propriety--the opinion I formed when I first saw her?" "Well, Arethusa?" "I saw at once that she was bold and sly, and I really think it is taking a great risk to permit your children to be under the instruction of such a girl." "Well, Arethusa, I will take your advice and watch them both at the party." "That is all I ask, Aunt Lucy." "I will get aunt to discharge her yet," said Miss Jayne to herself, with satisfied malice. CHAPTER XXXV. A WOMAN'S JEALOUSY. Mrs. Tilton's house was ablaze with light, for it was the evening of the great party. Ambitious of social distinction, she took care to do things on a handsome scale, though she was not averse to saving money where it would not attract attention. Among the young ladies present were two with whom we are especially concerned. One of them was Arethusa Jayne, who was dressed with more splendor than taste. She made a profuse display of jewelry, some of which, we may confidentially inform the reader, was borrowed from a well-known jeweler, who was handsomely paid for the favor. Of course no one suspected this, and the society young men were misled into thinking that the owner of so many diamonds must be very rich. This was precisely what Arethusa desired, for she was in the market, and had been for more years than she liked to remember. Another young lady, still better known to us, was Rose Beaufort. She was the most plainly dressed young lady in the handsome parlors, yet she attracted an unusual share of attention. "Who is that pretty young lady?" asked a middle-aged lady of Arethusa. "That?" answered Miss Jayne, with a sneer. "Oh, that is Miss Beaufort, the music-teacher." "She is very sweet-looking." "Do you think so? I don't at all agree with you. To me she looks very artful, and I have reason to think that beneath her innocent exterior there is something quite different." "That is a pity." "It is not surprising. Still water runs deep, you know." Rose kept in the background. She had no wish to make herself conspicuous at Mrs. Tilton's gay party. She would rather not have been there, but did not wish to disappoint her employer. "Ah, here you are, Miss Beaufort," said a glad voice. Rose looked up, and her face flushed with pleasure as she recognized Clinton Randall. "I did not think you would find me," she said. "I was sure to do it. I have been looking for you everywhere. Can't you spare a seat for me?" Rose moved, and Clinton sat down beside her on the sofa. He had scarcely been there two minutes, however, when Arethusa discovered them. She went straightway to her aunt. "Aunt Lucy," she said, in a low voice, "look at the sofa opposite." "Well?" said Mrs. Tilton, who was rather short-sighted. "There is your precious music-teacher monopolizing Clinton Randall. Didn't I tell you?" "I am really shocked at her brazen ways. You were right, Arethusa." "For goodness' sake, separate them before the whole room notices them." "How can I do it?" "Send her to the piano." "Miss Beaufort," said Mrs. Tilton, coldly, "oblige me by sitting down to the piano. You may play a waltz." "Certainly, Mrs. Tilton," said Rose. "That woman speaks as if she owned Miss Beaufort," thought young Randall. He was about to follow her to the piano when Arethusa came up, and with an insinuating smile, said: "Don't look so mournful, Mr. Randall. Let me fill Miss Beaufort's place." "Certainly," answered the young man, moving, but not with alacrity. "I wasn't aware that you knew Miss Beaufort," said the young lady. "I believe you saw me walking with her the other day." "Yes, to be sure; it had escaped my mind." Rose began to play. Her touch was fine, and her performance could hardly fail to attract attention. "Miss Beaufort plays remarkably well," said Clinton Randall. "Oh, it's her business," answered Arethusa, with careless hauteur. "She gives lessons to my aunt's children, you know." "Your aunt is fortunate to secure such an accomplished pianist." "Oh, she is very well," said Arethusa, carelessly. "Do you feel like dancing?" "I beg your pardon. I should have suggested it." The two moved out upon the floor and took their places among the dancers. Arethusa danced passably, her partner remarkably well. At length he led her to her seat, and, with a bow, left her, much to her chagrin. Later in the evening some one relieved Rose at the piano. Clinton took the earliest opportunity to seek her out and ask her for a dance. Rose hesitated. "I have not danced for a long time," she said. "Circumstances have kept me out of society. I am afraid you won't find me a satisfactory partner." "I will take the risk, Miss Beaufort. You won't refuse?" She rose and took her place on the floor. Arethusa Jayne, who was dancing with one of the walking gentlemen of society, a young man who was merely invited to swell the number of guests, was not long in discovering Miss Beaufort's good luck, and her face showed her displeasure. It would have pleased her had Rose been awkward, but she was unusually graceful, in spite of her want of practice. Miss Jayne was hot with jealousy. "You shall repent this," she said to herself, and looked so stern that her partner asked, with alarm: "Are you not well, Miss Jayne?" "Certainly"--you fool! she would liked to have added. "Why do you ask?" "I thought you looked disturbed," he stammered. "I was only a little thoughtful," she said, with a constrained smile. "But I am fatigued. Suppose we sit down." He led her to her seat, nothing loth, and she had the satisfaction of following with her glance Clinton Randall and her rival five minutes more. "Did you have a good time, Rose?" asked her sister Adeline, next morning, at the breakfast-table. "Better than I dared to hope," answered Rose, with a smile. "Did you dance?" "Two or three times." She had danced with two partners besides Clinton Randall, and with him a second time. "It seemed quite like the old times," she said, after a pause, "when we were in society. Though I only appeared in the character of a governess, I enjoyed it." "Don't you feel tired?" "A little; but I don't go out to give lessons till afternoon." At two o'clock Rose went to Mrs. Tilton's to give her regular lessons. "Mrs. Tilton would like to see you," said the servant. A little surprised, Rose remained in the parlor till that lady appeared. "I wish to speak to you, Miss Beaufort," said Mrs. Tilton, coldly, "about your conduct last evening." "My conduct last evening!" repeated Rose, in utter surprise. "To what do you refer?" "To your indelicate conduct with Mr. Clinton Randall and other gentlemen." "What do you mean? I demand an explanation!" exclaimed Rose, indignantly. "You seem to forget your position, Miss Beaufort. As the instructress of my children, I feel I must be exacting. I do not approve of your bold flirtation with gentlemen above yourself in social position, and I beg to say that I must provide myself with another music-teacher for my girls." "After your insulting remarks," said Rose, hotly, "nothing would induce me to remain in charge of them. Nothing in my conduct has called for such cruel charges." "Doubtless you think so. I disagree with you," said Mrs. Tilton, coldly. "Good-afternoon, madam!" said Rose, rising abruptly. "Good-afternoon, Miss Beaufort." It was like a thunderbolt to Rose, and mystified as well as made her indignant. She could recall nothing that had passed which would justify Mrs. Tilton in her strange treatment. It was the first blow, but not the last. Arethusa Jayne, with unappeased malice, went the rounds of the families in which Rose was employed, and within a week she received notes from all the parents, expressing regret that they could no longer avail themselves of her services. It began to look serious for poor Rose. CHAPTER XXXVI. ROSE COMES INTO A FORTUNE. Ben and his friend had a fair passage from Liverpool, and were equally pleased to set foot on American soil. By this time they had become excellent friends. The Cuban, having no near relatives, was surprised to find how much interest he felt in his young ward. "Well, Ben," he said, "shall we first attend to your business, or that of the young ladies whom your late employer has cheated out of their rightful inheritance?" "My business can wait, Mr. Novarro. Let us attend to the last." "Do you remember the office of Mr. Codicil--that was the name of the trustee, was it not?" "Yes, sir. I can guide you there without delay." "Then, after we are fairly established in our hotel, we will go to see him." Meanwhile there was great despondency in the modest home of the Beauforts. To be deprived of her pupils without just cause was indeed a grievous misfortune, and, gentle as she was, Rose could not think of it without exasperation. Though she could not at first understand from whom the blow came, reflection satisfied her that Miss Arethusa Jayne was her enemy and had wrought this mischief. Her motive Rose could not penetrate, not being in the secret of Miss Jayne's admiration for Mr. Randall. To make matters worse, her constant friend, Miss Wilmot, was absent from the city, at some springs in Virginia, and was not expected home for some weeks to come. She applied for a position in answer to an advertisement, but when called upon for references her heart sank within her, as she reflected that the ladies who had recently employed her would hardly speak in her favor. "What shall we do, Addie?" she asked, despondently. "I can't get new pupils, and I must do something. I don't like to go back to the old business of making vests." "Don't do that, at any rate, Rose; I am sure you can do better than that." "I wish I knew what." "Suppose you go and see Mr. Codicil." "He might think I wished him to give me money." "No; ask him to use his influence to obtain you music-pupils." Rose brightened at the suggestion. "I believe I will follow your advice, Addie. It seems to me good." "And if that doesn't do any good, write to Miss Wilmot, and ask her advice. You can always refer to her." "Why, Addie, I never gave you credit for such wise counsel. Your words have inspired me with new cheerfulness. I will go to Mr. Codicil to-morrow morning." Half an hour before the arrival of Rose Beaufort at the lawyer's office, Ben and Mr. Novarro entered. "Can I see Mr. Codicil?" asked Ben. The clerk said, doubtfully, noting Ben's youthful appearance, and judging that his business could not be of great importance: "I will see. What name shall I mention?" "You may say that I come from Major Grafton." This message brought an immediate invitation to enter the lawyer's sanctum. The old man regarded him with considerable surprise as he entered. "I thought you were in Europe, Philip," he said. "Is your guardian with you?" "I have just come from Europe, Mr. Codicil," answered Ben. "Major Grafton is not with me." "How does it happen that you have left him? You have not run away, have you?" "Yes, sir; I felt obliged to run away." "May I ask why?" demanded the lawyer, searchingly. "Because I was not willing to aid Major Grafton in a scheme of fraud." Mr. Codicil pricked up his ears. "Proceed, young man," he said. "This is becoming interesting." "You called me Philip Grafton, and this is the name Major Grafton wished me to assume, but it is not my real name." "Go on, go on!" "My real name is Ben Baker. Major Grafton met me in this city, and engaged me to travel with him as his private secretary. He gave me the name of Philip Grafton, because, he said, I looked like his only son, bearing that name, who died abroad." "The old rascal!" "I supposed this was true, and saw no objection to the plan." "Can you tell me what became of the boy whose name you assumed?" asked Mr. Codicil, eagerly. "Yes, sir; he is dead." "Poor fellow! Where did he die?" "In Italy, last year." "And his rascally guardian, concealing this from me, has drawn the income of his property regularly for his own use. Now tell me how you came to learn all this." Ben gave the explanation clearly, and recited the steps taken by Major Grafton to keep him from divulging the secret. "It was a bold game," said the lawyer; "but, thanks to your information, it has failed. I shall at once telegraph to Major Grafton that his guardianship has ceased, and I will send over an agent to obtain the necessary proof of the boy's death." At this moment a clerk entered. "There is a young lady who desires to see you, Mr. Codicil." "Did she give her name?" "Miss Beaufort." "Send her in at once. She could not have come at a more fitting time. My young friend, go into the little room adjoining, and wait till I summon you." Rose Beaufort entered the lawyer's presence with a grave expression on her face. "I hope, Mr. Codicil, you will excuse my troubling you with a visit." "So far from troubling me, I am very glad to see you. What can I do for you?" "I am in trouble, and wish your advice." "Proceed." Rose unfolded her story, and concluded by asking Mr. Codicil if he would exert his influence toward obtaining her some pupils in music. The lawyer's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "I hardly know what to say to that request," he answered. "I did not suppose you would be prejudiced against me by Mrs. Tilton's false and groundless accusations," said Rose, with a troubled air. "I am not. That is not the point. I am only questioning the expediency of your teaching at all." "But I know of no better way of earning a livelihood." "Still, it is not customary for wealthy young ladies to take pupils." "I don't understand you, Mr. Codicil," said Rose, bewildered. "Then I will no longer keep you in suspense. Your poor cousin, Philip, is dead, and you inherit your grandfather's fortune--that is, you, your sister, and brother." "When did poor Philip die?" asked Rose, unaffectedly shocked. "It must have been very sudden." "On the contrary, he died last year." "Last year! How happens it, then, that we did not know of it before?" "Because there has been a wicked scheme to defraud you of the inheritance. Ben, come here." Ben entered, and the story was soon told. Of course it need not be repeated. "Now, Miss Beaufort, if you insist on taking pupils, I will do what I can to procure you some," said the lawyer. "If I take them it will be without compensation," answered Rose, smiling. "Can you tell me how soon we may expect to come into our property? I ask, because we are near the end of our money." "It will take perhaps two months to obtain legal proof of Philip's death, but that will not inconvenience you. I will advance you whatever money you require in the meantime." "You are very kind. If you could let me have twenty dollars----" "You are very modest," said the lawyer, smiling. "Suppose we say two hundred?" "Two hundred!" ejaculated Rose. "I think you will be able to find a use for it," said the lawyer. "Remember, though I don't want to encourage you in extravagance, that is less than two weeks' income." There was great joy in the Beaufort household when Rose carried home the great news, though it was mingled with sorrow for the untimely fate of poor Philip. CHAPTER XXXVII. BEN MEETS HIS COUSIN. Ben supposed that his new guardian would be in favor of making an immediate call upon his uncle, but the Cuban counselled delay. "First," he said, "I wish to find, if I can, the broker through whom your uncle sold the securities of which he robbed your father. We can make out a case without it, but with this our case will be complete." "Won't it be difficult to find out, Mr. Novarro?" asked Ben. "Difficult, but not impossible. To begin with, I know the date of probable transfer. Next, I know the securities. By visiting the offices of different brokers I may obtain some information. At any rate, I have mapped out my plan of procedure, and hope within a week to obtain a clew." Ben asked no questions, feeling that he could safely leave the whole matter in the hands of so experienced a business man as his new guardian. They did not go to a hotel, but to a boarding-house kept by a Cuban lady, a friend of his guardian, which they found quite as comfortable and more homelike than the Metropolitan or the Windsor. Meanwhile Ben thought it best not to make a call at the office of his uncle. Indeed, remembering the cruel way in which he had wronged his mother, he would have found it disagreeable to meet him. But one day, on Broadway, he met his cousin, Clarence Plantagenet. He would have avoided the encounter, but it was too late, for Clarence had seen him. "What! Ben!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea you were back in New York. When did you arrive?" "Three days since," answered Ben. "Where are you staying?" "At a boarding-house in Forty-second street." "How is Major Grafton?" "I don't know; I am no longer with him." "What!" exclaimed Clarence, pricking up his ears. "You are no longer in his employ?" "No." "Where is he?" "I left him in Europe." "What did he discharge you for?" asked Clarence, cheerfully. "He didn't discharge me. He was opposed to my leaving him, but we couldn't agree." "I think you are a fool!" said Clarence, bluntly. "With him you could live like a gentleman. You haven't got another place, have you?" "No." "And you won't get one very soon, I can tell you that, except as a boy at three or four dollars a week." Ben smiled. "I can look round, at any rate," he answered. "That's all the good it'll do. You mustn't expect my father to help you." "I don't. If I had, I should have called before this." "After throwing up a good place, if you were not discharged, you don't deserve help." "I am not sure that I shall look for another place," said Ben. "You are not?" asked Clarence, mystified. "No; I may go to school a little longer. I haven't as good an education as I should like." "But how are you going to live while you are doing all this?" "Don't you think your father would give me a home in his family and let me attend school in the city?" "Well, Ben Baker, you have got cheek, I declare! If that is what you are counting on, you may as well give it up." "It's as well to know the worst," said Ben, tranquilly. "I shall have to be going along," said Clarence, coldly. He told his father at dinner about his meeting with Ben. "I'll tell you what, father," he said. "I couldn't account at first for Ben's seeming so cool and independent. I think I understand it now." "Well, suppose you explain, then." "I think he's robbed Major Grafton of a sum of money and taken French leave. He said he was not 'bounced' and that the major did not want him to leave." "I hope you are wrong, my son. I haven't the highest opinion of your cousin, but I earnestly hope he is honest. To have him guilty of such a crime would be a disgrace to our family. Always be honest, Clarence! Depend upon it, honesty is the best policy, and a boy or man makes a great mistake who appropriates what is not his own." "Of course, pa, I know all that. Do you think I would steal? As to Ben Baker, that's a different matter. He's always been poor, and I suppose the temptation was too strong for him." "Let us hope not. Dishonesty I could not overlook, even in a relation." Who would imagine that this man, so strict in his ideas of honesty, had deliberately stolen a hundred thousand dollars from his widowed sister and her son! CHAPTER XXXVIII. M. BOURDON HAS A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR. Major Grafton was quite easy in mind after consigning Ben to the safe custody of an insane asylum. "Serves the boy right!" he said. "What business had he to interfere with my plans? M. Bourdon will see that he does not annoy me any further." His confidence in the wisdom of his plan was maintained by the frequent letters he received from the director of the asylum, in all of which he spoke encouragingly of the effect of discipline upon Ben. Major Grafton regularly transmitted the compensation agreed on between them. This continued until one day Major Grafton, who had now returned to Geneva, was dumbfounded by receiving the following telegram from Mr. Codicil: "Your scheme is revealed, and your guardianship at an end. No further drafts of yours will be honored. N. CODICIL." "Confusion! What does this mean?" ejaculated Major Grafton. "That wretched boy must have found means of writing to America. If this is so, I will haul M. Bourdon over the coals. It must have been through his criminal negligence." He lost no time in setting out for the asylum, which he reached in due season. "I wish to see M. Bourdon," he said, sternly, to the attendant who had admitted him. The doctor, who would rather have seen any one else, could hardly conceal his dismay when he set eyes on the major. "Can he have found out?" he asked. "Dr. Bourdon, how is my ward?" he demanded. "Tranquil and contented," answered the doctor, smoothly. "I have reason to think you have been negligent, and allowed him to write letters to America." "Impossible, my dear sir--quite impossible, I assure you." "I believe there is some trickery here," said the major, sternly. "I wish to see the boy." Perspiration gathered on the brow of M. Bourdon, though it was a cool day. How could he stave off this visit? His wits came to the rescue. "I greatly regret to tell you," he said, "that your ward is sick of a contagious disease. To see him would imperil your life." Major Grafton was not a nervous man, and he was too much in earnest to be turned from his design. "I am not afraid," he said; "I will see him." "I will go and prepare him for your visit," said the doctor, sorely perplexed. Five minutes had not elapsed when he returned in apparent consternation. "My good sir," he said, "I have serious news. Your ward is not in his room. He must have escaped in the night." "You scoundrel!" exclaimed the major, livid with passion. "Just now you told me he was sick with a dangerous malady; now you say he has escaped. I have a great mind to strangle you!" and he clutched the doctor by the collar. "Mercy, mercy!" shrieked the doctor, terribly alarmed. "Are you mad?" "When did the boy escape? Tell me instantly, if you value your life." "Over a month since. I didn't wish to alarm you, and so concealed the intelligence." "While you continued to draw for his board, you thief!" "I--I am prepared to refund the money, monsieur. I only drew because it was necessary to keep up the deception." M. Bourdon refunded five weeks' board, told the story of Ben's escape, and Major Grafton was compelled to be content with this. "I am afraid the game is up!" he muttered, as he rode rapidly away. "That cursed boy has spoiled all. I wish I had him in my clutches!" It was well for Ben that he was not within reach of the irate major. CHAPTER XXXIX. BEN AND HIS UNCLE. "Ben," said the Cuban, a few days later, "I have excellent news." "What is it, sir?" "I have found the broker who sold the stolen securities for your uncle." "Is it possible, sir?" said Ben in excitement. "Yes; it is a piece of great good luck. And now I think we are ready to call upon your uncle. First, however, I have a little scheme in which I shall require your co-operation." "Very well, sir." "I wish to test your uncle's disposition toward you. We are in a position to dictate terms to him. If he shows proper feeling toward his nephew we shall feel disposed to be considerate toward him." "What do you wish me to do?" asked Ben. "Call on your uncle and ask him if he can give you a place in his store, or help you to one outside. Of course you wouldn't accept one, but we shall see what reception he gives you." Into this scheme Ben readily entered. He was no longer a friendless and penniless boy, dependent upon his uncle for the means of living, but rich and his own master. Nicholas Walton was sitting in his counting-room when Ben entered. It so happened that Clarence Plantagenet was just leaving the store as Ben entered. "What do you want?" he asked, coldly. "I should like to see your father." "I don't think he will see you. He is busy." "I am quite anxious to see him," persisted Ben. "Are you going to ask him to help you?" said his cousin. "Yes; to help me to a place." "I am sure he won't do it." "I would rather take the refusal from his lips," said Ben. "Oh, well, I suppose you can go and see him if you want to, but you will find that I am right." "I think I will see him, then." Clarence had been intending to go out at once, but it struck him that he would enjoy seeing his poor cousin rebuffed, and he accompanied Ben to the back of the store. "Father," he said, as he entered the office, followed by Ben, "here is Ben Baker, who wants to see you. I told him it would be of no use to ask you for help, but he doesn't believe me." Mr. Walton frowned ominously. "Well, boy," he said, frigidly, "so you have lost your place with Major Grafton?" "Yes, sir." "I am convinced that it was on account of misconduct on your part." "Is it quite right to condemn me before you have heard anything of the circumstances attending my leaving him?" said Ben, mildly. "Oh, I dare say you have some plausible story," sneered Mr. Walton; "but it won't produce any effect on me." "Still, sir, I will venture to say that I did not leave him on account of any misconduct on my own part." "Perhaps it was on account of misconduct on his part," said Mr. Walton, with a scornful laugh. "Yes, sir, it was." "Really, this is very amusing. Now let me know what you want of me." "Can you give me a place in your store, sir?" "No, I can't, or rather I will not," answered his uncle, curtly. "Will you use your influence to obtain me a position elsewhere?" "No, I won't, and I consider you very impudent to prefer the request." "You seem to forget, sir, that I am your nephew." "I chose to forget it, considering the disreputable manner in which you have behaved." "Then, you won't do anything for me, sir?" "No, decidedly no!" "I told you so," said Clarence, triumphantly. "You may as well go to selling papers." "He can do better than that," said a strange voice. "He can live on the interest of his money." Clarence and his father started in surprise, as the speaker, Filippo Novarro, entered the office. The merchant, recognizing him, turned pale. CHAPTER XL. CONCLUSION. "I see you know me, Mr. Walton," said the Cuban, quietly. "I have a few words to say to you. Do you wish your son to listen?" "Clarence, you may leave the office," said the merchant, in a husky voice. Clarence, whose curiosity was aroused, was very unwilling to go. "Sha'n't Ben go, too?" he asked. "Yes." "I beg pardon, but I wish him to remain," said the Cuban. "He is deeply concerned in what I have to say." Clarence was still more curious. He left the office, but he lingered within ear-shot. "Mr. Walton," said Novarro, "I am a man of few words, and will come to the point. As the guardian of this boy, and the friend of his father's friend, I have come to demand from you the fortune of which you deprived him." "I don't know what you are talking about," said the merchant, trying to speak firmly. "I beg your pardon, but you do. I call for the money you obtained for the securities which you took from the dead body of Dr. Baker, who died in your house of heart disease--a sum which you appropriated to your own use, leaving your sister and your sister's son poor and dependent." "You must be crazy, sir. Where is the proof of your strange and unfounded charge?" "I can produce the broker who sold these securities for you in the year 18--." "It is easy to say this. May I know the name of this broker?" asked the merchant, making a feeble attempt to deny the charge. "His name is John Goldsmith, and his office is No. ---- Wall street," answered Novarro, promptly. Nicholas Walton leaned back in his chair and seemed ready to faint, but uttered no word. "Well, sir, your answer?" "Can't we--compromise--this--thing?" asked Walton, feebly. "No, sir; we will promise not to expose you, but it will be only upon condition that you pay principal and interest. The only favor we will extend is, that we will not demand compound interest." "But it will ruin me! I cannot take so large a sum from my business." "That I can understand. On behalf of my young ward and his mother, I will agree to accept half cash, and half in notes maturing at different dates, secured by your stock in trade. Do you consent, or shall we bring suit?" "Can't you throw off the interest? That boy and his mother will be amply provided for by the principal." "If you had received your nephew differently when he applied for help just now, we might have consented. Now it is out of the question." Nicholas Walton was forced to make an unconditional surrender, and the terms were agreed to upon the spot. "Ben," said Mr. Novarro, as they left the office, "I congratulate you. You are now rich." "Thanks to you kind management, Mr. Novarro." It is said that listeners never hear any good of themselves. Clarence was in a terrible panic when he heard the conference between his father and the Cuban. That his despised cousin Ben should become suddenly rich was a bitter pill to swallow. He sneaked out of the store, perturbed in mind. "Now, Ben, I suppose you will want to carry the news to your mother," said the Cuban. "That is what I was about to ask, Mr. Novarro." "We will take the next train for Sunderland, preparing your mother by a telegram." I do not propose to describe Ben's happy meeting with his mother. Mrs. Baker was grieved to hear of her brother's treachery, but it was a relief to her to think that he had nothing to do with her husband's death. As we know, he was directly responsible for it, but the knowledge of this was confined to his own breast. Even the Cuban never suspected what had brought on the attack that terminated the poor doctor's life. "Now, Ben, what career do you select?" asked his guardian. Ben took a week to consider. He then decided not to go into business, but to obtain a liberal education, and study law. He and his mother removed to Cambridge, where he completed his preparatory studies, and entered Harvard College. He is now a young lawyer, and has commenced the practice of his profession under flattering auspices. Clarence Plantagenet, on the other hand, is a young man about town, and his father cannot induce him to enter upon any business. He has professed his willingness to become a broker, if his father will purchase him a seat at the Stock Board, but Mr. Walton wisely thinks it will be cheaper to give him a liberal income than give him the chance of squandering a fortune in stocks. We must not forget the Beauforts. They removed to a fashionable locality, and purchasing a house, furnished it with elegance and taste. It is surprising how many people found them out in their days of prosperity who had ignored them before. Even Mrs. Tilton essayed to apologize for her outrageous treatment, and tried to ingratiate herself with Rose, but the latter treated her with such distant civility that she gave up the attempt. In less than a year Rose Beaufort became Mrs. Clinton Randall, and her star rose still higher. There is one person who never will forgive her for her good fortune, and that is Miss Arethusa Jayne, who had strongly hoped to secure the hand of Clinton Randall for herself. No one would have been more amazed than Randall himself, for he was happily unconscious of Miss Jayne's admiration for him. Ben has not forgotten his early friends. Hugh Manton, the reporter, by his help has secured an interest in a flourishing daily paper in an inland city, and is earning a liberal income. Major Grafton is earning a precarious living at European spas and gambling resorts, and is beginning to show the marks of age. Filippo Novarro has established himself as a permanent resident of the United States, and spends much of his time with Ben and his mother. And now, with all our characters satisfactorily disposed of, the good rewarded, and the bad punished, we bid the reader farewell and ring down the curtain. HORATIO ALGER, JR. The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one of their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true, what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr. Alger's books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear. Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book, "Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York." It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a writer then, and Mr. Alger's treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. "Ragged Dick" first appeared in 1868, and ever since then it has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about 200,000 copies of the series have been sold. --"Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls." A writer for boys should have an abundant sympathy with them. He should be able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He should learn to look upon life as they do. Boys object to be written down to. A boy's heart opens to the man or writer who understands him. --From "Writing Stories for Boys," by Horatio Alger, Jr. RAGGED DICK SERIES. 6 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $6.00 Ragged Dick. Fame and Fortune. Mark the Match Boy. Rough and Ready. Ben the Luggage Boy. Rufus and Rose. TATTERED TOM SERIES--First Series. 4 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $4.00 Tattered Tom. Paul the Peddler. Phil the Fiddler. Slow and Sure. TATTERED TOM SERIES--Second Series. 4 vols. $4.00 Julius. The Young Outlaw. Sam's Chance. The Telegraph Boy. CAMPAIGN SERIES. 3 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $3.00 Frank's Campaign. Charlie Codman's Cruise. Paul Prescott's Charge. LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES--First Series. 4 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $4.00 Luck and Pluck. Sink or Swim. Strong and Steady. Strive and Succeed. LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES--Second Series. 4 vols. $4.00 Try and Trust. Risen from the Ranks. Bound to Rise. Herbert Carter's Legacy. BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES. 4 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $4.00 Brave and Bold. Jack's Ward. Shifting for Himself. Wait and Hope. VICTORY SERIES. 3 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $3.00 Only an Irish Boy. Adrift in the City. Victor Vane, or the Young Secretary. FRANK AND FEARLESS SERIES. 3 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $3.00 Frank Hunter's Peril. Frank and Fearless. The Young Salesman. GOOD FORTUNE LIBRARY. 3 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $3.00 Walter Sherwood's Probation. A Boy's Fortune. The Young Bank Messenger. HOW TO RISE LIBRARY. 3 vols. =By Horatio Alger, Jr.= $3.00 Jed, the Poorhouse Boy. Rupert's Ambition. Lester's Luck. COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA FAMOUS STANDARD JUVENILES FOR GIRLS A GOOD GIRL'S BOOK IS HARD TO FIND! One often hears the above quoted. _These_ books have stood the tests of time and careful mothers, and will be of the greatest interest to girls of all ages. Free from any unhealthy sensationalism, yet full of incident and romance, they are the cream of the best girls' books published. These volumes, each one well illustrated, carefully printed on excellent paper, substantially bound in cloth, 12mo. =WAYS AND MEANS LIBRARY.= By Margaret Vandegrift. 4 vols. $3.00 Queen's Body Guard. Rose Raymond's Wards. Doris and Theodora. Ways and Means. =STORIES FOR GIRLS.= 3 vols. $2.25 Dr. Gilbert's Daughters. Marion Berkley. Hartwell Farm. =HONEST ENDEAVOR LIBRARY.= By Lucy C. Lillie. 3 vols. $2 25 The Family Dilemma. Allison's Adventures. Ruth Endicott's Way. =MILBROOK LIBRARY.= By Lucy C. Lillie. 4 vols. $3 00 Helen Glenn. The Squire's Daughter. Esther's Fortune. For Honor's Sake. RECENT SUCCESSES The following, though of recent date, have at once reached such a height of popularity that they can already be classified as standards. 75 cents each. Lady Green Satin. By Baroness Deschesney. Marion Berkley. By Elizabeth B. Comins. Lenny, the Orphan. By Margaret Hosmer. Family Dilemma. By Lucy C. Lillie. Question of Honor. By Lynde Palmer. Girl's Ordeal. A. By Lucy C. Lillie. Elinor Belden; or The Step Brothers. By Lucy C. Lillie. Where Honor Leads. By Lynde Palmer. Under the Holly. By Margaret Hosmer. Two Bequests, The; or, Heavenward Led. By Jane R. Sommers. The Thistles of Mount Cedar. By Ursula Tannenforst. $1.25 _Catalogue sent on application to the Publisher_ A Veritable "Arabian Nights" of Entertainment Containing 168 Complete Illustrated Stories. [Illustration] HURLBUT'S STORY OF THE BIBLE told for YOUNG AND OLD by _Rev. Jesse Lyman Hurlbut, D.D._ =THE BIBLE MADE FASCINATING TO CHILDREN.=--The heroes and the noble men and women of the Bible are made to appear as living, acting people. The book is an original work, and in no sense an imitation. It has been in preparation for a number of years. =THE DISTINGUISHED AUTHOR.=--Dr. Hurlbut has long been associated with, and director of, the Sunday School work of one of the largest denominations, and he has been more closely associated with the detail work of the Chautauqua movement than has any other man. He is also well known as a writer. =REMARKABLE FOR THE BEAUTY AND NUMBER OF ITS ILLUSTRATIONS.=--There are sixteen pictures in color prepared for this work by the distinguished artist, W. H. Margetson, and reproduced with the beauty and attractiveness of the artist's original work. There are also =nearly 300 half-tone= engravings in this remarkable book, which is as original in the selection of its illustrations as it is in its stories. WHAT OTHERS THINK OF IT "It is a needed and original work. Not an imitation."--_Christian Advocate_, New York. "Written in such a style as to fascinate and hold the interest of child or man."--REV. F. E. CLARK, Pres. Society of Christian Endeavor. "It is a beautiful book. I hope every family in the land will secure 'Hurlbut's Story of the Bible.'"--GENERAL O. O. HOWARD. "The best book of its kind, and that kind the most important."--REV. JAMES A. WORDEN, Presbyterian B'd. of Pub. and S. S. Work. "I like very much the vocabulary you have used, and I can see how careful you have been in choosing understandable words."--MR. PHILIP E. HOWARD, _Sunday-School Times_, Philadelphia. "It is the completest and best thing of the kind I have seen. The book is splendidly illustrated."--MARIAN LAWRANCE, General Secretary, International Sunday-School Association. "Many will be drawn to the Bible who otherwise might look upon it as only adapted for older people."--HON. DAVID J. BREWER, Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. _8vo, cloth. 750 pages. 16 color plates. 262 half-tone engravings. Net $1.50_ The JOHN C. WINSTON CO. THE RENOWNED STANDARD JUVENILES BY EDWARD S. ELLIS Edward S. Ellis is regarded as the later day Cooper. His books will always be read for the accurate pen pictures of pioneer life they portray. LIST OF TITLES DEERFOOT SERIES Hunters of the Ozark. The Last War Trail. Camp in the Mountains. LOG CABIN SERIES Lost Trail. Footprints in the Forest. Camp Fire and Wigwam. BOY PIONEER SERIES Ned in the Block-House. Ned on the River. Ned in the Woods. THE NORTHWEST SERIES Two Boys in Wyoming. Cowmen and Rustlers. A Strange Craft and Its Wonderful Voyage. BOONE AND KENTON SERIES Shod with Silence. In the Days of the Pioneers. Phantom of the River. WAR CHIEF SERIES Red Eagle. Blazing Arrow. Iron Heart, War Chief of the Iroquois. THE NEW DEERFOOT SERIES Deerfoot in the Forest. Deerfoot on the Prairie. Deerfoot in the Mountains. TRUE GRIT SERIES Jim and Joe. Dorsey, the Young Inventor. Secret of Coffin Island. GREAT AMERICAN SERIES Teddy and Towser; or, Early Days in California. Up the Forked River. COLONIAL SERIES An American King. The Cromwell of Virginia. The Last Emperor of the Old Dominion. FOREIGN ADVENTURE SERIES Lost in the Forbidden Land. River and Jungle. The Hunt of the White Elephant. PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE SERIES The Forest Messengers. The Mountain Star. Queen of the Clouds. ARIZONA SERIES Off the Reservation; or, Caught in an Apache Raid. Trailing Geronimo; or, Campaigning with Crook. The Round-Up; or, Geronimo's Last Raid. OTHER TITLES IN PREPARATION PRICE $1.00 PER VOLUME Sold separately and in set Complete Catalogue of Famous Alger Books, Celebrated Castlemon Books and Renowned Ellis Books mailed on application. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PHILADELPHIA, PA. * * * * * Transcriber's note: A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. All have been retained. This book also contains dialect and vernacular comversation. Obvious punctuation errors were fixed. Other printing errors, which were not detected during the revision of the printing process of the original book, have been corrected. The following provides the detail of those corrections: In Page 23 the expression "by curiosity" was changed to "my curiosity". In Page 43 in the expression "sauntered out out", "out" was removed once from the text. In Page 52 "In his attempt to obtained" was changed to "In his attempt to obtain". In Page 105 the expression "was an expect" was changed to "was an expert". In Page 176 the expression "for work as a seamtress" was changed to "for work as a seamstress". In Page 179 "I shall insist in" was changed to "I shall insist on". In Page 238 the expression "had prevented" was changed to "had prevented him". In Page 239 the expression "to have strong affections" was changed to "to have as strong affections". In Page 310 the expression "was dumfounded by receiving" was changed to "was dumbfounded by receiving". In Page 316 the expression "but he dosen't" was changed to "but he doesn't". In Page 321 "In behalf of my young ward" was changed to "On behalf of my young ward". 
54389	----	NELSON THE NEWSBOY _Or, Afloat in New York_ BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "ADRIFT IN NEW YORK," "CHESTER RAND," "PAUL THE PEDDLER," ETC. COMPLETED BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD AUTHOR OF "THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL," "THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN," ETC. [Illustration: Decoration] NEW YORK STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY 1905 [Illustration: "HE CAUGHT SIGHT OF THE BULLY NEWSBOY WHO HAD ROBBED HIM."--_Frontispiece._] BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE YOUNG BOOK AGENT; Or, Frank Hardy's Road to Success. FROM FARM TO FORTUNE; Or, Nat Nason's Strange Experience. LOST AT SEA; Or, Robert Roscoe's Strange Cruise. JERRY, THE BACKWOODS BOY; Or, The Parkhurst Treasure. NELSON, THE NEWSBOY; Or, Afloat in New York. YOUNG CAPTAIN JACK; Or, The Son of a Soldier. OUT FOR BUSINESS; Or, Robert Frost's Strange Career. FALLING IN WITH FORTUNE; Or, The Experiences of a Young Secretary. _12mo, finely illustrated and bound. Price, per volume, 60 cents._ NEW YORK STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY 1905 COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY THE MERSHON COMPANY _All rights reserved_ PREFACE. "NELSON THE NEWSBOY" relates the adventures of a wide-awake lad in the great metropolis. The youth is of unknown parentage and is thrown out upon his own resources at a tender age. He becomes at first a newsboy, and from that gradually works up to something better. He is often tempted to do wrong--the temptation becoming particularly hard on account of his extreme poverty--but there is that in his make-up which keeps him in the right path, and in the end he becomes a victor in more ways than one. So much for the seamy side of life in New York, which, alas! is by far the greater side. On the other hand, there are those who are well-to-do and aristocratic who are interested in learning what has become of the boy, and these furnish a view of life in the upper society of the metropolis. How the youthful hero fares in the end is told in the pages which follow. In its original form Mr. Alger intended this story of New York life for a semi-juvenile drama. But it was not used in that shape, and when the gifted author of so many interesting stories for young people had laid aside his pen forever, this manuscript, with others, was placed in the hands of the present writer, to be made over into such a volume as might have met with the noted author's approval. The other books having proved successful, my one wish is that this may follow in their footsteps. ARTHUR M. WINFIELD. _June 15, 1901._ CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. INTRODUCING THE HERO, 1 II. A QUARREL OVER A DOLLAR, 9 III. SAM PEPPER'S RESORT, 17 IV. DOWN AT THE FERRY, 25 V. NELSON SPEAKS HIS MIND, 35 VI. A BOOK AGENT'S TRIALS, 43 VII. A HARSH ALTERNATIVE, 55 VIII. THE COMBINATION OF THE SAFE, 63 IX. A PAIR WELL MATCHED, 69 X. GERTRUDE LEAVES HER HOME, 77 XI. AFLOAT IN NEW YORK, 85 XII. NELSON RECOVERS SOME MONEY, 94 XIII. A QUESTION OF BUSINESS, 102 XIV. BULSON RECEIVES A SETBACK, 111 XV. BUYING OUT A NEWS STAND, 119 XVI. NELSON AND PEPPER PART, 127 XVII. A BOLD MOVE, 134 XVIII. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY, 140 XIX. NELSON TO THE RESCUE, 147 XX. THE HOME IN THE TENEMENT, 155 XXI. NELSON MAKES A PRESENT, 162 XXII. A DISAPPOINTMENT, 170 XXIII. AN UNSUCCESSFUL QUEST, 176 XXIV. A DECOY LETTER, 183 XXV. MARK HORTON RELENTS, 190 XXVI. NELSON ON SHIPBOARD, 198 XXVII. DOWN THE JERSEY COAST, 206 XXVIII. GERTRUDE HAS AN ADVENTURE, 215 XXIX. A SURPRISE ON THE ROAD, 224 XXX. COMPARING NOTES, 233 XXXI. BULSON GROWS DESPERATE, 240 XXXII. SOMEBODY WAITS IN VAIN, 248 XXXIII. QUESTIONS OF IMPORTANCE, 257 XXXIV. FATHER AND SON--CONCLUSION, 266 NELSON THE NEWSBOY. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCING THE HERO. "_Herald_, _Times_, _Tribune_! All the news of the day! Have a paper, sir? All about the terrible fire in Harlem! Two lives lost!" High and clear above the din made by the cabs, trucks, and street cars a boyish voice could be heard. The speaker was but fifteen years of age, tall and thin, with a face that betokened a refinement unusual to such a station in life. But if the lad's look was above the average, his clothes were not, for they were in tatters, while the hat and shoes he wore had seen far better days. "A fire in Harlem, eh?" queried a stout gentleman, as he stopped short in front of the newsboy. "Yes, sir; a big one, too, sir. Which paper will you have?" "Which has the most in about the fire?" "All about the same, sir. Better take 'em all, sir. Then you'll be sure to have all the news," added the newsboy shrewdly. At this the stout gentleman laughed. "I don't know but what you are right," he said. "Give me one of each." The words were scarcely uttered when the newsboy had the papers ready for him. Taking the several sheets, the stout man passed over a dime and started to cross the crowded thoroughfare. "Change, sir!" cried the boy, and dove into his pocket for a handful of cents. "Never mind the change, lad." "Thank you, sir!" The newsboy wheeled quickly. "_Herald_, _Times_, _Tribune_! Who'll have a paper? All the latest news! Extra!" The stout man stepped from the curb into the gutter, and there halted to let a truck go by. As he waited he began to scan one of the newspapers he had purchased. Suddenly he gave a violent start. "Fire in the Starmore apartment house!" he muttered. "The building I purchased only last month! What bad luck is this?" Still staring at the newspaper, he passed onward behind the heavy truck. Another truck and a street car were coming from the opposite direction, and both traveling at a good rate of speed. "Hi! look out!" yelled the truck-driver, and the street-car bell clanged violently. But the stout man was too absorbed in the newspaper to heed the warnings. The cry of the truck-driver reached the ears of the quick-witted newsboy, and in a flash he saw the danger. "Oh, the gentleman will be run over!" he muttered, and throwing his papers on the pavement, he made a leap into the street and grabbed the man by the arm. Just as he drew the stout individual back the truck horse plunged forward, grazing the man's side. Had it not been for the newsboy, the stout gentleman would have collapsed in the gutter. But as it was each, in a moment more, gained the pavement in safety. "Phew! that was a narrow escape," puffed the stout gentleman, as soon as he could get back some of the wind he had lost in his consternation. "So it was," answered the newsboy, as he stepped about to pick up his scattering stock in trade. The stout gentleman brought out a large handkerchief and began to mop his face, for the excitement had put him into a perspiration. "My lad, you've done me a great service," he went on, after the boy had collected his papers. "That's all right, sir," was the ready reply. "Sorry you lost your papers. The truck cut 'em up, and they are all muddy, besides." "Never mind the papers--you can sell me another set. But I want to thank you for what you did for me." "You're welcome, sir. Here's the other set of papers." "If it hadn't been for you, I might have fallen under that horse and truck!" The stout man shuddered. "Here is pay for the papers and for your services to me." As he finished he held out a two-dollar bill. "Why, it's two dollars!" cried the newsboy in astonishment. Then he added quickly, "I can't change it." "I don't want you to change it. I want you to keep it." "What for?" "For what you did for me." "What I did aint worth two dollars." "Let me be the judge of that, my lad. What is your name?" "I'm Nelson, sir." "What is your full name?" At this question the boy's face fell, and his mouth trembled a little as he gave his answer. "I don't know, sir." "What, you don't know what your name is?" cried the stout gentleman in astonishment. "No, sir." "But--but--you must have some name. Where do you live?" "I live over on the East Side with an old sailor named Samuel Pepper. He keeps a lunch room." "Is he a relative?" "He calls himself my father--not my real father, you know; only he says he adopted me when I was a little kid. Everybody around there calls me Nelson, or Sam Pepper's boy." "I see. And he sends you out to sell papers?" "No, sir; I go out on my own hook." "But you ought to go to school." "I go to night school sometimes, when Sam lets me." "Didn't he ever send you to day school?" At this Nelson, for so we will call him for the present, shook his head. "Sam don't like the schools. He says if I go I'll get too smart for him. He says I am almost too smart already." "Too bad!" The stout gentleman was going to say something more, but suddenly remembered about the fire in Harlem. "Perhaps I'll see you again, Nelson. I can't stop now. Do you know why I forgot myself in the street? It was because that fire proved to be in an apartment house that I purchased only a month ago." "Your house! That's a big loss, sir." "The place was insured, so I shall not expect to lose much. I must get up there at once and see see how it was those lives were lost." In a moment more the stout gentleman was crossing the street again, but this time taking very good care that he should not be taken unawares. Nelson started to sell more papers, when another boy, who had been selling papers further down the block, came hurrying toward him. "Wot did de old gent give yer, Nelse?" he asked. "Gave me two dollars." "Two dollars! Jest fer hauling him back out of de gutter?" "I kept him from being run over by a truck." "Den he oughter give yer ten or twenty." "Two was more than enough, Billy." At this Billy Darnley drew down his mouth. "I would have struck him fer a twenty, sure," he went on. "You always were greedy, Billy," answered Nelson. "Do you mean dat fer an insult, Nelse?" "I mean it for the truth." "You're gittin' too high-toned fer dis business, Nelse." "I don't think I am." "Lend me a dollar of dat money, will yer? I'll pay yer back ter-morrow." At this Nelson shook his head. "I'm sorry, Billy, but I'd rather keep my money." "Are you afraid to trust me?" "I don't see why I should trust you. You earn as much money as I do." "You didn't earn dat two dollars." "The gentleman thought I did." "He was a soft one." "He was a very nice man," retorted Nelson promptly. "O' course you'd stick up fer him. Let me have de dollar." "What do you want to do with it?" Now in truth Billy thought of nothing but to have a good time with the money, but he did not deem it prudent to tell Nelson so. "I--I want to buy myself a new pair of pants," he stammered. "Your pants are better than mine." "No, da aint--d'are full o' holes." "Why don't you sew them up, as I do?" "I aint no woman, to use a needle. Come, hand over de dollar!" And Billy held out his dirty fingers. "I shan't let you have it, and that ends it," said Nelson firmly. He started to move on, but in a moment more Billy Darnley was beside him and had him clutched firmly by the arm. CHAPTER II. A QUARREL OVER A DOLLAR. As Nelson had said, he was of unknown parentage and practically alone in the world. As far back as he could remember he had lived with Sam Pepper, a shiftless, unprincipled man, who in the last ten years had followed the sea and a dozen other callings, and who was at present the proprietor of a lunch-room on the East Side--a place frequented by many persons of shady reputation. Where he had come from, and what his real name was, were complete mysteries to Nelson, and it must be confessed that in the past he had paid scant attention to them; this being largely due to his immature years. Now, however, he was growing older, and he often found himself wondering how it was that he was living with Sam Pepper. Once he had asked the man, but the only answer he received was a growl and a demand that he stop asking foolish questions. "You're only a kid yet," said Pepper. "Wait till you're old enough; maybe then you'll learn a thing or two." And so Nelson waited, but did not cease to wonder. Many of Sam Pepper's intimates were hard customers, and Nelson was of the opinion that Pepper himself was no better, although he was not in a position to prove it. The boy was driven out to earn his own living, and the only time that Pepper was liberal with him was when the man was in liquor. More than once Nelson had thought to run away from the man and his evil associates, but found himself unable to do so. The main reason for his remaining was that he felt Pepper held the mystery of his past, and if he went away that mystery would remain forever unsolved. As Nelson had said, he had gained a scanty education by attending night school. To this education he had added some useful reading, so he was advanced as far as most boys in much better circumstances. Learning appeared to come easy to him, showing that his mind was of the superior sort. Nelson had started out that morning with a determination to sell all the papers possible, and keep on with his efforts until he had eight or ten dollars to his credit. With this amount he intended to invest in a suit which he had seen advertised for six dollars, a cap, and a cheap pair of shoes. He did not know but what Pepper might find fault with him for "cutting such a swell," but he was willing to risk it. Before meeting the stout gentleman Nelson's assets amounted to three dollars and forty cents. With the ten cents for papers and the two dollars extra, he now found himself with five dollars and half to his credit. This was not a fortune, but as Nelson had never before possessed more than three dollars at one time, it was, to his way of thinking, considerable. The suggestion that he lend Billy Darnley a dollar did not appeal to him. In the first place he knew Billy to be both a bully and a spendthrift, who was more than likely to squander the money on pie, ice cream, cigarettes, and a ticket to some cheap burlesque show, and in the second place he was more than satisfied that Billy would never refund the loan, not having returned a quarter loaned him months before. "Let go my arm, Billy!" he cried, as the big newsboy brought him to a halt. "Why can't yer let me have de dollar?" questioned Billy. "I'll make it right wid yer, Nelse; take me word on it." "How is it you haven't paid back that quarter I let you have?" "I did pay it back." "No, you didn't." "Yes, I did. I--I give it to Sam one day to give to yer." By the look on his face Nelson knew that the bully was falsifying. "Sam never told me, and I guess he would if it was so. Now let me go." "I want dat dollar first." "You shan't have it." Nelson had scarcely spoken when Billy Darnley made a sudden clutch for the pocket of his vest. Much dilapidated, the pocket gave way easily; and in a twinkle the bully was running up the street with five dollars in bills and a bit of cloth clutched tightly in his dirty fist. "Hi! stop!" cried Nelson, but instead of heeding the demand, the bully only ran the faster. Soon he passed around a corner and down a side street leading to the East River. Nelson was an excellent runner, and, papers under his arm, he lost no time in making after the thief. Thus block after block was passed, until pursued and pursuer were but a short distance from one of the ferry entrances. A boat was on the point of leaving, and without waiting to obtain a ferry ticket, Billy Darnley slipped in among the trucks going aboard. A gate-keeper tried in vain to catch him, and then came back and shut the gate, just as Nelson reached it. "Open the gate!" cried Nelson, so out of breath he could scarcely utter the words. "Open the gate, quick!" "Go around to the other entrance," replied the gate-keeper, and then added, "Are you after that other newsboy?" "I am. He stole five dollars from me." "Five dollars! That's a good one. You never had five dollars in your life. You can't get a free ride on any such fairy tale as that. You go around and buy a ticket, or I'll call a policeman." In despair Nelson looked through the high, slatted gate and saw that the gates on the ferryboat were already down. A bell jangled, and the big paddle wheels began to revolve. In another moment the boat had left the slip and was on its way to Brooklyn. "He's gone--and the five dollars is gone, too!" groaned Nelson, and his heart sank. He knew that it would be useless to attempt to follow the bully. Billy would keep out of sight so long as the money lasted. When it was spent he would re-appear in New York and deny everything, and to prove that he was a thief would be next to impossible, for, so far as Nelson knew, nobody had seen the money taken. He had now but fifty cents left, and a stock of papers worth half a dollar more, if sold. With a heavy heart he walked away from the ferryhouse in the direction from whence he had come. Nelson had scarcely taken his stand at the corner again when a young lady, very stylishly dressed, came out of a neighboring store, looked at him, and smiled. "Did you catch him?" she asked sweetly. "Who, miss; the big boy who stole my money?" questioned Nelson quickly. "Yes." "No, ma'am; he got away, on a Brooklyn ferryboat." "And how much did he steal from you?" "Five dollars." "Why, I didn't think--that is, five dollars is a nice sum for a newsboy, isn't it?" "Yes, ma'am; but I was saving up for a new suit of clothes." "And he got away from you? Too bad! I wish I could help you, but unfortunately I have spent all of my money but this." She held out a quarter. "Will you accept it?" Nelson looked at her, and something compelled him to draw back. "Excuse me--but I'd rather not," he stammered. "Much obliged, just the same." "You had better take the money," went on the young lady, whose name was Gertrude Horton. But Nelson would not listen to it, and so she had to place the piece in her purse again. Then she entered the coach standing near and was driven rapidly away. The newsboy gazed after the coach curiously. "What a lot of money it must take to keep up such style!" he thought. "Those folks spend more in a week, I guess, than some folks on the East Side spend in a year. I don't wonder Sam is always growling about not being rich--after he's been out among the wealthy people he knows. I must say I'd like to be rich myself, just for once, to see how it feels." Long before noon Nelson's stock of newspapers was exhausted. Without going to Sam Pepper's restaurant for lunch he stopped at a small stand on a side street, where he obtained several crullers and a cup of coffee for five cents. His scanty meal over he purchased a supply of evening papers and set to work to sell these, with the result, by nightfall, that all were gone, and he was thirty-five cents richer. Sam Pepper's place on the East Side was half a dozen steps below the pavement, in a semi-basement, which was narrow and low and suffering greatly for a thorough cleaning. In the front was a small show window, filled with pies and vegetables, and behind this eight or ten tables for diners. To one side was a lunch counter for those who were in a hurry, and at the back was a small bar. The cooking was done in a shed in the rear, and beside this shed were two rooms which Nelson and Sam Pepper called their home. The whole place was so uninviting it is a wonder that Sam Pepper had any trade at all. But his prices were low, and this was a large attraction to those whose purses were slim. Besides this Sam never interfered with those who came to patronize him, and it may as well be stated here that many a crime was concocted at those tables, without the police of the metropolis being the wiser. To Sam it made no difference if his customer was the worst criminal on the East Side so long as he paid his way. "We've all got to live," he would say. "The world owes every man a living, and if he can't git it one way he must git it in another." The secret of Sam Pepper's looseness of morals was the fact that he had seen better days, and his coming down in the world had caused him to become more and more reckless. At the present time money was tight with him, and he was fast approaching that point when, as we shall soon see, he would be fit for any desperate deed. CHAPTER III. SAM PEPPER'S RESORT. "Well, how have you done to-day?" asked Sam Pepper, when Nelson entered the lunch-room and came to the rear, where Pepper stood mixing some liquors. "Oh, I sold quite a few papers," answered Nelson. "How many?" "Over a hundred." "Then I guess you made over a dollar?" "I did." "That's more than I've made to-day," growled Pepper. "Business is growing worse and worse." Nelson knew that he must have made more than a dollar, but he did not say anything on the point. He saw that Sam Pepper was in an ugly mood. "It seems to me you ought to begin paying something for your keep," went on the lunch-room keeper, after he had returned from serving the drinks he had been mixing. "All right, I'm willing," said Nelson readily. "But I don't get much from here now, remember." "It's not my fault if you are not here at dinner time. Plenty of eating going to waste." "I am not going to eat other folks' left-overs," said the newsboy, remembering the offer made to him several days before. "Those left-overs are good enough for the likes of you, Nelson. Don't git high-toned before you can afford it." "What do you want me to pay?" "You ought to pay me at least five dollars a week," growled Sam Pepper, after a crafty look into the boy's face. "Five dollars a week!" ejaculated Nelson in surprise. "Why, I don't make it, excepting when business is good." "Well, it's got to be five dollars a week after this." "I can get board at other places for three." "You won't go to no other place. You'll stay here, and if you make a dollar or more a day you'll pay me the five dollars." "But who will buy me any clothes?" "Aint that suit good enough?" "No, it's not. I was saving up to buy another suit, but Billy Darnley stole five dollars of the savings from me this morning," went on Nelson bitterly. "Stole five dollars from you? I don't believe you." "It's true." "Then you ought to lose the money, seeing that you didn't pass it over to me," grumbled Sam Pepper. "After this, you let me save your money for you." At this point some customers came in, and Sam had to wait on them. Seeing this, the newsboy passed around the bar and into the two rooms which he and Pepper called home. They were gloomy and foul-smelling, but the newsboy did not mind this, for he was used to the surroundings. Yet his heart was heavy, as he threw himself into a dilapidated chair and gave himself up to his thoughts. The new suit of clothes seemed further off than ever, for, if he must pay Sam Pepper five dollars a week for his board, it would be utterly impossible for him to save a cent. The extra money would be needed to buy fresh papers each day. "It isn't fair!" he muttered. "It isn't fair, and I won't stand it! I'll run away first; that's what I'll do!" Running away was no new idea, but, as before, he thought of the past and of what Sam Pepper might have locked up in his breast. No, it would not do to go away. He must unlock the mystery of the past first. "I'll question Sam to-night, and I'll make him tell something," he said. The resolve had hardly crossed his mind when Pepper opened the door with a bang, as it flew back against the wall. "Come out here and help me," he snarled. "There is plenty of work to do. The kitchen woman has left me in the lurch. Throw off your coat and git into that dishpan, and be lively about it." Without a word, Nelson did as bidden. He had washed dishes before, and though the pile beside him was by no means small, he soon made away with them. Then Pepper set him to polishing up the knives, forks, and spoons, and this task took until it was time to close for the night. After the lunch-room had been locked up, and most of the lights put out, Sam Pepper went to the bar and mixed himself an extra-large glass of liquor. This was his "nightcap," as he called it, and usually, after drinking it, he would retire. To-night, however, after consuming the liquor, he went into one of the back rooms and got out his best coat and his hat. "I'm going out an hour or so," he said. "You keep good watch while I'm away." "All right," answered Nelson. He was disappointed at not being able to question Pepper, but saw there was no help for it. Soon the man was gone, and Nelson was left alone. Pepper had locked the street door and taken the key with him. The day's work had made Nelson tired, but he was in no humor for sleeping, and tumbled and tossed for a long while after lying down upon his hard couch. He thought of the stout gentleman, of the big newsboy who had robbed him, and of the kind young lady who had offered him assistance. For some reason he could not get the young lady out of his mind, and he half wished he might see her again. Then his thoughts came back to himself. Who was he, and how had he come into Sam Pepper's care? Surely the man must know all about the past. What could Pepper be hiding from him? At last he fell asleep, and did not rouse up until early morning. Sam Pepper was just returning, and a glance showed that the man was more than half under the influence of liquor. "It's a good game," muttered Pepper to himself, as he stumbled around, preparing to retire, "A good game, and it will make me rich. And Nelson shall help me, too." "Help you at what?" asked the newsboy sleepily. "Never mind now, you go to sleep," answered Pepper sharply. He pitched himself on his bed and was soon snoring lustily, and seeing this Nelson did not attempt to disturb him. He slept soundly for the rest of the night, and by six o'clock was outdoors and on his way to get his supply of morning papers. Pepper had warned him to come back by eleven o'clock, to go at the dishes again, for the kitchen woman was not coming back. This made him cautious about investing in newspapers. However, trade proved brisk, and by ten o'clock he had sold out, and cleared sixty cents. "I won't buy any more papers until after dinner," he said to himself. "I'll walk down to the ferry and see if I can find out anything about Billy Darnley." At the ferry there was the usual rush of passengers, the noise of the heavy trucks coming and going, and the shrill cries of the newsboys. Nelson stopped near the ferryhouse to view the scene. Hardly had he paused when his attention was attracted to a quarrel between a large newsboy and a small one. The larger lad was shaking his fist in the face of the smaller. "You keep away from dis corner, Paul Randall!" said the big newsboy. "If yer don't I'll fix yer, remember dat!" "I have as much right here as you, Len Snocks!" replied the little fellow. "Yer aint got no right here at all!" blustered Len Snocks. "Dis is my spot, see?" "You didn't pay for it." "Don't yer talk back ter me!" howled Len Snocks, and catching the little lad's stock of papers he threw them down in the mud of the street. "Now clear out, or I'll t'row you down de same way," he went on. The scene made Nelson's blood boil. He recognized both boys, and knew that Paul Randall helped support a mother who was half blind. Len Snocks was a bully belonging to the crowd with whom Billy Darnley associated. Rushing across the roadway, Nelson caught Len Snocks by the arm and held him tightly. "You big brute!" he cried. "Why don't you tackle a fellow your own size?" "Oh, Nelson, he has spoiled my papers!" sobbed Paul, running to save what was left of the stock. "Lemme go!" snarled Len Snocks. "Lemme go, do yer hear?" "You must give Paul clean papers for the dirty ones," returned Nelson firmly. "I won't do it!" "I'll make you do it." "Make me?" roared Len. "I'd like to see you try it." In a twinkle Nelson placed one foot behind the bully. Then he gave the big newsboy a shove which landed him flat on his back. On the instant he was down on top of Len. "How many papers are dirty, Paul?" he asked. "Two _Suns_, a _World_, and a _Journal_," was the quick answer. "Take 'em out of Len's pile." "Lemme up, or I'll kill you!" howled the bully, and struggled to arise. But Nelson was master of the situation. He continued to hold Len down, and did not let go until Paul had the papers he wished. Then he leaped up, squared off on the defensive, and awaited the outcome of the encounter. Paul lost no time in placing himself behind his newly found champion. CHAPTER IV. DOWN AT THE FERRY. Len Snocks' eyes flashed dangerously when he confronted Nelson. For a long time he had had matters all his own way around the ferryhouse, and the only boys who were allowed to sell papers there besides himself were such as would toady to him and help him sell his over-supply when trade was dull with him. Often he made the lads pay him five or ten cents for selling papers there, when trade was extra lively. Paul Randall had no father, and his mother being half blind and quite feeble, the lad felt that every cent he earned must be brought home. Consequently he refused to give Len anything, and this made the big newsboy come to the conclusion that Paul must be driven to seek sales elsewhere. In matters of business newsboys are often as scheming and unfair as are certain men in higher walks of life. Money is everything to them, and they will do almost anything to obtain it. "Wot do yer mean by t'rowin' me down?" cried Len, as he doubled up his grimy fists, which had not seen soap or water for many a day. "You know what I mean, Len Snocks," retorted Nelson. "Paul has as much right to sell papers here as you have." "No, he haint!" "I say he has, and he'll sell papers here, too, and you shan't stop him." "Won't I?" "If you try it, you'll run against me again, remember that." "I've a good mind to give you a lickin' fer t'rowin' me down," blustered Len, but he made no effort to begin the chastisement. "If you want to fight, I'm here now," answered Nelson calmly. He understood fully that Len was as much of a coward as he was of a bully. Len looked around, to see if there was anybody at hand to give him assistance. But all the boys were small, and he felt they could not do much against Nelson, who was known to be strong. "Yer want to make me lose me trade," he muttered. "I'll fight yer when de rush is over." And he moved toward the ferry entrance. "All right, I'll be ready for you any time," called Nelson after him. "And, remember, leave Paul alone after this." "Oh, Nelson, how good you are!" cried Paul impulsively. "I don't know what he wouldn't have done to me if you hadn't come up." "If he tackles you again let me know, Paul." "I will." "How is your mother?" "She isn't much better. She can just get around our rooms, and that's all." "Can she see?" "Not much. The landlord said she ought to go to the hospital and have her eyes operated on, but she doesn't want to go and leave me." "But maybe it would be best for her, Paul." "Well, I'm willing, Nelson. But how is it you aint selling papers to-day?" went on Paul curiously. "I've sold out. What have you got left?" Our hero surveyed the stock. "Phew! Eighteen! That's a lot." "Len kept chasing me, so I couldn't sell much," answered the little boy, with a look of concern on his pale face. "Give me ten of them," said Nelson, and took that number. "Now you go over there and I'll stay around here. We ought to get rid of 'em between us." "Good for you, Nelson!" cried Paul, and his face brightened. Soon both were at it, crying their wares with the other boys. Len Snocks saw the move, and scowled more than ever, but did not dare to interfere. In half an hour the papers were all sold, and our hero turned the money over to Paul. "You ought to have something for selling the ten," said the little fellow. "Never mind; you keep the money, Paul. You'll need it, I know." "Thank you." "By the way, have you seen anything of Billy Darnley since yesterday noon?" "I saw him about two hours ago." "Here?" "Yes, he came off the boat from Brooklyn." "I'm sorry I missed him. Do you know where he went?" "Went to get some papers, I think. He stopped to talk to Len Snocks for a few minutes." "Humph! Did he give Len anything?" "I think he gave him a quarter." "I'm sorry I missed him. He stole five dollars from me yesterday--nearly all I had saved up." "Oh, Nelson! He ought to be arrested." "It wouldn't do any good. The police wouldn't believe me, and I haven't any witnesses, excepting a young lady I don't know." Len Snocks was leaving the vicinity, and now Nelson hastened after him. Soon he ranged up beside the big newsboy. "Len, I want to ask you a question." "Wot do you want now?" growled Len. "Where did Billy Darnley go after he came off the ferry?" At this question a crafty look came into Len Snocks' eyes. "Find out fer yerself--I haint answerin' questions," he growled. "Billy stole some of my money yesterday." "Dat aint none o' my affair, is it?" "I suppose not. But he gave some of it to you?" "Didn't give me a cent." "He was seen to give you money." "Ha! has dat Paul Randall been a-blabbin'?" cried Len savagely. "I'll fix him, if he has!" "You let Paul alone, or it will be the worse for you. Then you won't tell me where Billy went?" "I don't know. He didn't tell me nuthin'." Len Snocks would say no more, and satisfied that it would be time lost to question him further. Nelson hurried on and made his way back to the lunch-room. He was somewhat late, and as soon as he entered Sam Pepper began to storm at him. The man was in a worse humor than ever, and lashed our hero with his tongue every time he entered the kitchen. "Here I am a-breaking my back to make a living, and everything going wrong!" he muttered. "You ought to have been here an hour ago. I wanted some more meat from the butcher shop and two dozen more of pies. I think I'll shut up the place at the end of the week. An honest man can't git along, no matter how hard he tries. Now look out, or you'll smash those plates and glasses, and that'll be more money out of my pocket. Hang the lunch business, anyway!" But his troubles were not yet at an end. In his ill humor he served a customer with a steak that was both tough and half burnt. The customer refused to pay for the meat, and a quarrel ensued which ended in a fight. Two tables were overturned and the crockery smashed before the troublesome customer was ejected, and, in the meantime, several other customers slipped out without paying. "It's no use, Nelson; I'm going to give it up," growled Sam Pepper, when it was after two o'clock, and the run of midday trade had come to an end. "There are easier ways to make a living than by running a lunch-room." "Last night you spoke about a good game to make you rich," answered Nelson curiously, "What did you mean by that?" "When did I say that?" "When you came in and went to bed." "I don't remember it." "Well, you said it, and you said something about getting me to help you." "Did I say anything else?" asked Pepper in some alarm. "No." The man drew a breath of relief. "I must have been a bit off in my head, Nelson. You see I met some old friends, and they treated to champagne--and I'm not used to that any more. They make an easy living, they do." "Perhaps they can help you to something better." "They won't have to help me--if I've a mind to work as they work." "What do they do?" "Oh, they work on the principle that the world owes them a living, and they are bound to have it." "Of course they don't beg?" At this Sam Pepper burst into a loud laugh. "You're not so green as all that, Nelson." "Well, what do they do then?" persisted the boy. "Oh, a number of things! One runs a mail-order business. He is advertising two things just now. One is a steel engraving of Washington, indorsed by the government as a true picture of the first President, mounted on cardboard, all ready for framing, for fifty cents, and the other is a complete sewing machine for one dollar." "How can he sell a sewing machine for a dollar?" "When some fool sends on a dollar for the machine he sends him a needle, and when another fool sends fifty cents for the steel engraving he sends him a postage stamp picture of Washington stuck on a bit of cardboard." "Oh!" "He's smart, and the law can't get hold of him," went on Sam Pepper. "Another of the men is selling tips on the races. If his customer wins he gets a percentage. He gets one fool to bet one way and another fool to bet the other way, and no matter which wins he gets his share of the prize." "I should think he would have a job, looking for fools," said the newsboy. "Folks ought to know better." "The world is full of people who want to get something for nothing, and these men know it. But they don't make much of a pile. That's got to be made in another way." "What way?" "There are lots of ways, Nelson; some good and some bad. Ever been down in Wall Street?" "Yes, but I don't know anything of the business there." "Folks down there gamble in stocks and bonds, and such like. Sometimes they squeeze a poor man out of everything he's got, but they do it so as the law can't touch 'em--and there's where they have the advantage over an East Side gambler, who runs the risk of being arrested if his victim squeals. But Wall Street aint any better than the East Side, for all that." "Some nice gentlemen in Wall Street, though," said Nelson reflectively. "A high hat don't make an honest man, Nelson; you ought to know that by this time. They are all thieves and swindlers, and an honest man has no show against 'em. If you want to be rich, you've got to be like 'em!" went on Sam Pepper, bringing his fist down on the table at which he sat. "You can't make anything bein' honest." To this the newsboy remained silent. He had heard such talk before, so he was not as much shocked as he might otherwise have been. "I guess I'll go out and sell some evening papers," he said, after a pause, during which Sam Pepper seemed to sink into deep thought. "No, I don't want you to go out; I want to have a talk with you," answered Pepper. "There won't be no business for an hour or two, and I'll lock the door, so nobody can interrupt us. It's got to come sooner or later, and it might as well come now." CHAPTER V. NELSON SPEAKS HIS MIND. Locking the front door to the lunch-room, Pepper came to the rear of the place, poured himself a glass of liquor and tossed it off, and then sank in a chair by the last table. "Sit down, Nelson," he said. The boy sat down and gazed curiously at the man before him. Instinctively he realized that a crisis in his life was approaching. He felt that the old life was speedily to become a thing of the past. "Nelson, aint you often wondered who you was?" went on Pepper. "To be sure I have!" cried the boy. "But you will never tell me anything," he added bitterly. "Well, I kept the secret for your own good, my boy." "How?" "When I came to New York and settled on the East Side I made up my mind to lead an honest life and bring you up honestly. I did it, too; didn't I?" "So far as I know, yes." "I did it, but it was hard scratching, and you know it. Many were the times I didn't know how to turn myself, and if it hadn't been for some friends helping me, I would have gone under. Those friends were the only ones I ever knew. They weren't honest, but--well, we'll let that pass. They helped me, and I aint going back on 'em." "But what about me?" "I'm coming to that, Nelson. As I said before, I wanted to bring you up honestly; for your mother was honest, even if your father wasn't." "My father!" ejaculated the newsboy. "What was he?" "He was a good-hearted man, Nelson--a fine-hearted man, who did lots of good." "But you said he wasn't honest." "No, he wasn't, if you must know. He was a burglar, and made his living by taking from the rich what they didn't deserve to have. He was my friend, and he was one of the men who helped me when I lost all I had at the yacht races." "But--but I don't understand," faltered Nelson. "What was his name?" "I can't tell you that." "Is he dead?" "Yes; he died when you was a little kid not more than three years old. We both lived in another city then--I won't tell you where. Your father was shot while entering a house to rob a man who had once robbed him when he was in business. Your father died in a hospital, and I was with him. Your mother was dead, and he didn't know what to do with you. I said I'd take you, and he made me promise to go to sea first and then to another city and bring you up the best I could. He didn't want you to know your name, and so I got to calling you Nelson after the English admiral, and you can sign yourself Nelson Pepper after this, if you want to." "Then you won't tell me where I came from?" "No; excepting that it was a good many miles from here. It wouldn't do any good to rake up old scores. If your father hadn't died of the shot, he would have been sent to prison for ten or fifteen years." "What was the name of the man who shot him?" "It won't do you any good to know that, either--he's dead and gone, too." There was a pause, and the newsboy gave something like an inward groan. The revelation that Pepper had made was truly a shocking one, and the boy was so dazed and bewildered he could scarcely think. His father a burglar, and shot down while in the act of committing a robbery! What a degradation! "I've told you all this for a purpose," went on the man. "Now I've got some more to tell you, if you'll promise to keep your mouth shut." "What else is there?" "Will you keep silent if I tell you?" "Yes." "And do you promise not to say a word of what I have just told you?" "Why should I--it wouldn't be anything to my credit," answered Nelson. "But I want you to promise." "All right; I promise." "That's good. I know if you give your word you'll keep it. Now, I've got a plan in my head to square accounts, so to speak, and git rich at the same time." "What plan?" "Well, you see, it's like this: There's a rich gent lives up near Central Park. I won't give you his name, but I don't mind telling you that he's a distant relative of the fellow who shot your father, and he used to help that other man in his dealings against your father. I don't know as he remembers your father now, but he's a man you ought to get square on, anyway." "How?" "I'm coming to that, my boy. This man is old and feeble and has something of an office in his library at home. There is a safe in the library, but it's old-fashioned and can easily be opened. In that safe the old man keeps thousands of dollars all the time, for it's too much for him to go back and forth to the bank, and he aint the one to trust anybody else." Sam Pepper paused suggestively and looked Nelson full in the eyes. Then he began to whistle softly to himself. "Do you mean that you think I ought to rob that safe?" questioned our hero. "You won't have to do the job alone, lad; I'll be on hand to help you." "But I--I never stole anything in my life." "It won't be stealing, exactly. That man owes you something. If it hadn't been for him and his relative your father might have been rich and never got into any burglary. I have looked the ground over, and the job will be dead easy. There is a back alley and an iron fence that both of us can climb over without half trying. Then I can git a diamond cutter for the window glass, and the rest will be just as easy as wink." "And if you are caught, what then?" "We won't git caught, Nelson. The old man has only a niece living with him, a girl of seventeen or eighteen, and an old housekeeper who is half deaf. The rest of the help comes in the morning and leaves after supper." There was another pause. Nelson sank beside the table, with his face in his hands. Suddenly he looked at Sam Pepper again. "Did you say that man had robbed my father--I mean the man who shot him?" "Sure he did, Nelson." "Then perhaps my father wasn't a burglar, after all. Perhaps he was entering the house to get evidence against the man." "No, he went in to--er--well, to steal, if you must have it straight." "Sam Pepper, I don't believe you!" "Nelson!" "I don't believe you, so there! You won't tell me my name, or where I came from, or anything, and you are only trying to make out my father was a thief so as to get me to turn thief, too." "I've told you the truth, lad." "And I repeat I don't believe you. What is more, I won't help you in your plans of robbery. I've been honest so far, and I mean to remain honest. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for trying to make me a thief." The newsboy had risen to his feet and, as he spoke, his face glowed with earnestness. Now Sam Pepper sprang up, his features full of baffled passion. "How dare you talk to me, you miserable pup?" he roared. "I've a good mind to thrash you well for this! Haven't I clothed and fed you for years? And this is what I git for it! I've told you the truth about yourself, only I didn't paint your father as black as I might, not wishing to hurt your feelings. He was a burglar, and before he was shot he served two sentences in prison." "I don't believe it--and I never will," retorted Nelson, but with quivering lips. "Where was this? Tell me, and I'll soon find out if it is true." "I won't tell you a thing more--unless you promise to help me as you should." "I won't help you--and that's the end of it." "You owe me something for keeping you all these years." "I don't believe you would have kept me if you weren't paid for it." "I never received a cent--not a penny. You've got to pay me back somehow." "Well, I am not going to do it by stealing," answered Nelson doggedly. "Then how are you going to do it?" "I don't know yet." "I'm going to give this place up soon, and of course the living rooms will go, too." "I can find another place to live." "You want to git out of paying me that five dollars a week, don't you?" sneered Pepper. "I can't pay five dollars. But I'll pay what I can. How much do you think I owe you?" "A good deal--seeing that I've kept you ten years or longer." "Didn't my father leave anything?" "About forty dollars--not enough to keep you three months." "He hadn't any property?" "Nothing." "Well, as I said before, I'll do what I can--when I am able." "And you won't help me to----" Pepper paused. "I won't steal--I'll starve first," returned Nelson, and taking up his hat, he unlocked the door, and walked away from the lunch-room. CHAPTER VI. A BOOK AGENT'S TRIALS. When Nelson left the lunch-room he scarcely knew what he was doing. The conversation which had occurred had been an important one, but his head was in such a whirl that just now he could make little or nothing out of it. He had no desire to sell papers,--indeed, he had no desire to do anything,--and all he did was to walk up the street and keep on walking until he was well uptown. Then he began to cross the city in the direction of Broadway. At last he began to "cool off" a bit, and then he went over all that had been said with care. As he did this he became more and more convinced that Sam Pepper had not told him the truth concerning his parent. "He is holding something back," he told himself. "And he has some object in doing it. He shall never make me a thief, and some day I'll force him to tell his secret." "Hullo, Nelson! what brings you up here?" The question was asked by a young man who carried a flat bag in his hand. The man was an agent for books, and the boy had met him many times before. "Oh, I just came up for a walk," answered our hero. "How is business, Van Pelt?" "Poor," answered George Van Pelt, as he set down his bag, which was heavy. "Haven't made but half a dollar so far to-day." "That's no better than selling newspapers." "I don't suppose it is, and you don't have to carry around such a bag as this, either. But I would have made more to-day if a customer hadn't tripped me up." "How was that?" "There was a young gent living near Central Park named Homer Bulson, wanted me to get certain French books for him. I got the books, but when I went to deliver them he refused to take them, saying they were not what he had ordered." "Were they?" "They were. I could make him take them, according to law, but to sue a man is expensive. But now I've got the books on my hands, and they cost me over three dollars." "Can't you sell them to somebody else?" "I hardly think so. You see, they are books on poisons, and there isn't much call for that sort of thing." "Poisons! What did he want to do with them?" "He said when he ordered them, that he was studying to be a doctor, and was going to make poisons a specialty." "It's a shame you can't make him take the books." "So it is. I suppose I could make him take them, if I wanted to create a row. But I can't do that. I haven't the cheek." "I'd make him take them, if I was in your place. Anyway, I'd tell him I was going to sue him if he didn't pay up. Perhaps that might scare him." "I was thinking something of doing so. Do you really think it might make him come down?" "I know some folks hate to think they are going to be sued. And if he lives in a fine house he must be pretty high-toned." "Oh, he is! He's a young bachelor, and lives in fine style, directly opposite the home of his rich uncle." "Then I'd try him again, before I'd give up." "I will. Do you want to come along?" went on George Van Pelt, who hated a quarrel. "I might as well. I'm not doing much just now," answered Nelson. "Of course you haven't given up selling papers?" went on George Van Pelt, as the two walked along. "No. But I wish I could get something better to do." "That's hard these times, Nelson. How much a day can you make at it?" "From seventy-five cents to a dollar and a quarter. Sometimes I make a dollar and a half, but that's not often." "The books used to bring me in from three to five dollars a day. But the department stores cut the prices now, and soon the whole book-agent business will be ruined." "What will you go into then?" "I don't know. If I had the money I'd start a newsstand--for papers and books, too." "That would pay, if you could get hold of the right corner," said our hero, with interest. "I know of a good corner on Third Avenue. The man who keeps it now is old and wants to sell out." "What does he want for the stand?" "A hundred dollars. Of course the stock isn't worth it, but the business is." "That depends on what he takes in a day." "He averages seventy-five dollars a week. But it would be more, if he was able to get around and attend to it." "A hundred dollars a week would mean about thirty dollars profit," said Nelson, who was quick at figures. "How much is the rent?" "Five dollars a week." "That would leave twenty-five dollars for the stand-keeper. Does he have a boy?" "Yes, and pays him three dollars a week." "Maybe we could buy the stand together, Van Pelt. You know all about books, and I know about the newspapers. We ought to make a go of it." "That's so, but----" The book agent looked rather dubiously at our hero's clothes. "How about the cash?" "We might save it somehow. I'm saving up for a suit now." "You need the suit." "I expected to get it in a few days. But Billy Darnley robbed me of five dollars, so I've got to wait a bit." "Well, if we could raise that money we might buy out the stand and try our luck," continued George Van Pelt, after a thoughtful pause. "I think we'd get along. How much have you." "Only a dollar or two now." "I've got fifteen dollars, and about ten dollars' worth of books." "Couldn't we get the man to trust us for the stand?" "He said he might trust me for half the amount he asks, but fifty dollars would have to be a cash payment." "We'll raise it somehow!" cried Nelson enthusiastically. The idea of owning a half interest in a regular stand appealed to him strongly. In his eyes the proprietor of such a stand was a regular man of business. The pair hurried on, and at length reached the vicinity of Central Park, and Van Pelt pointed out the house in which the rich young man who had refused to take the books lived. "Perhaps he won't let me in," he said. "Wait--somebody is coming out of the house," returned our hero. "It's Mr. Bulson himself," said George Van Pelt. He hurried forward, followed by Nelson, and the pair met the young man on the steps of his bachelor abode. Homer Bulson was a tall, slim young fellow, with light hair and blue eyes. His face was somewhat weak, but in his eyes was a look full of scheming cunning. He was faultlessly dressed in the latest fashion, wore a silk hat, and carried a gold-headed cane. "Mr. Bulson, I must see you about these books," said George Van Pelt, coming to a halt on the steps of the stone porch. "I told you before that I did not wish to be bothered," answered the young man coldly. "But you ordered the books, sir." "I will not discuss the matter with you. Go away, and if you bother me again I shall call a policeman." "My friend hasn't done anything wrong," put in Nelson boldly. "You ordered some books from him, and you ought to pay for 'em." "What have you to do with this matter?" demanded the rich young man, staring harshly at our hero. "This man is my friend, and I don't want to see him swindled," said our hero. "Swindled!" "That's it. You ordered some books on poisons from him, and now you don't want to pay for 'em. It's a swindle and an outrage. He's a poor man, and you haven't any right to treat him so." "Boy, if you speak like that to me, I'll have you put under arrest," stormed Homer Bulson in a rage. "You must take the books," put in George Van Pelt, growing braver through what Nelson was saying. "If you won't take them, I'll sue you for the amount." "Sue me?" "Yes, sue you." "And I'll put the reporters on the game," added the newsboy. "They like to get hold of society notes." And he grinned suggestively. At this Homer Bulson's face became filled with horror. For more reasons than one he did not wish this affair to become public property. "To sue me will do no good," he said lamely. "Yes, it will," said the book agent. "You have money and will have to pay up." "Or else your rich uncle will pay for you," said Nelson, never dreaming of how the shot would tell. Bulson grew very pale. "I--I will take the books and pay for them," he stammered. "Not because I think I ought to take them, mind you," he added, "but because I wish no trouble in public. Where are the books?" "Here." And George Van Pelt brought two volumes from his satchel. "How much?" "Just what I told you before, Mr. Bulson--five dollars." "It's a very high price for such small books." "They are imported from France, remember, and besides, books on poisons----" "Give them to me." The books were passed over, and Homer Bulson drew from his vest pocket a small roll of bills. He handed over a five to George Van Pelt. "Now begone with you," he said sourly. "And don't ever come near me again for another order." "Don't worry, I won't come," answered the book agent. "You are too hard a customer to suit." He pocketed the money and rejoined Nelson on the sidewalk. Then both started to walk away. As they did so our hero glanced across the way and saw, in a window of the house opposite, the young lady who had offered her assistance after Billy Darnley had robbed him. She recognized him and smiled, and he promptly touched his hat respectfully. Homer Bulson saw the act and so did George Van Pelt, and both stared at Nelson. "Whom did you see?" asked Van Pelt, as they walked down the street. "A lady who once offered to help me," said Nelson. "She was in that house. She has left the window now." "Why, that is where that man's rich uncle lives!" exclaimed the book agent. "Is it?" cried our hero. "Then perhaps the lady is a relative to him." "Perhaps." "What is the uncle's name?" "Mark Horton. I understood that he was once a rich merchant of Philadelphia. But he's a sickly old man now. I wanted to sell him some books, but they wouldn't let me see him." "I hope that young lady isn't a relative to that Homer Bulson," mused Nelson. "If he is, he can't be very nice company for her." "That's true, Nelson." "You said you tried to sell books there but they wouldn't let you in." "No, the gentleman was too sick to see me--at least that is what they said. But perhaps it was only a dodge to keep me out." "I suppose they play all sorts of tricks on you--to keep you out of folks' houses," went on the newsboy thoughtfully. "Sometimes they do. Some folks won't be bothered with a book agent." "And yet you've got to live," laughed Nelson. "Yes, all of us have got to live. But lots of folks, especially those with money, won't reason that way. They'll set a dog on you, or do worse, just to get rid of you. Why, once I had a man in Paterson accuse me of stealing." "How was that?" "It was the first week I went out selling books. I was down on my luck and didn't have any clothes worth mentioning." "Like myself, for instance," interrupted the newsboy, with a laugh. "If anything my clothes were worse. Well, I was traveling around Paterson when I struck a clothing shop on a side street. I went in and found the proprietor busy with a customer, and while I waited for him I picked up a cheap suit of clothes to examine it. All of a sudden the proprietor's clerk came rushing out of a back room and caught me by the arm. "'You vos goin' to steal dot coat!' he roared. "'No, I wasn't,' I said. 'I was just looking at it.' "'I know petter,' he went on, and then he called the proprietor and both of them held me." "I reckon you were scared." "I was, for I didn't know a soul in the town. I said I wasn't a thief, and had come in to sell books, and I showed them my samples. At first they wouldn't believe a word, and they talked a whole lot of German that I couldn't understand. Then one went out for a policeman." "And what did you do then?" "I didn't know what to do, and was studying the situation when the other man suddenly said I could go--that he didn't want any bother with going to court, and all that. Then I dusted away, and I never stopped until I was safe on the train and on my way back to New York." "Did you ever go to Paterson after that?" "No, I never wanted to see that town again," concluded George Van Pelt. CHAPTER VII. A HARSH ALTERNATIVE. Homer Bulson was a fashionable man of the world. He had traveled a good deal and seen far more of a certain kind of "high life" than was good for him, either mentally or morally. He was fond of liquor and of gambling, and had almost run through the money which an indulgent parent had left him. He was alone in the world, so far as immediate members of his family were concerned, but he had an uncle, Mark Horton, just mentioned, and also a cousin, Gertrude Horton, who was the ward of the retired merchant. This Gertrude Horton was the young lady who had offered to assist Nelson, and who had just recognized our hero from her seat at the window opposite. In the fashionable world Homer Bulson cut a "wide swath," as it is commonly called, but he managed to keep his doings pretty well hidden from his uncle, who supposed him to be a model young man. The young man's reason for this was, his uncle was rich and at his death would leave a large property, and he wished to become heir to a large portion of what Mark Horton left behind him. He knew his uncle was a strict man, and would not countenance his high mode of living, should he hear of it. Homer Bulson watched Nelson curiously, and then looked across the street to see if he could catch his cousin Gertrude's eye. But the young lady was now out of sight. "How is it that she knows that street boy?" Bulson asked himself, as he walked into the house to stow away the books he had purchased. "I don't like it at all--seeing that he was with the man who sold me these books. I hope he doesn't ever tell her I've been buying books on poisons." Entering one of his rooms--he occupied several--he locked the door and threw himself into an easy-chair. Soon he was looking over the books, and reading slowly, for his knowledge of French was decidedly limited. "Oh, pshaw! I can't make anything out of this," he exclaimed at last. "That English book on poisons I picked up at the second-hand book store is good enough for me. I might as well put these in a fire." But instead he hid them away at the bottom of a trunk. With the books on poisons out of his sight, Homer Bulson turned to his wardrobe and made a new selection of a suit of light brown which his tailor had just brought to him. He was putting on the suit when there came a knock on the door. "Who's there?" asked the young man. "Mr. Grodell, sir," was the answer. Mr. Grodell was the agent of the apartment house, and had come for his rent. Homer Bulson was behind four months in payments, and the agent was growing anxious for his money. "Very sorry, Mr. Grodell, but I am just changing my clothes," said the spendthrift. "Then I'll wait," was the answer. "Better not, it will take some time." "I am in no hurry, Mr. Bulson," said the agent. "Oh, pshaw! why does he bother me!" muttered Homer Bulson. "I haven't got any money for him." He did not know what to do, and scratched his head in perplexity. "Come around Saturday and I will pay you in full," he called out. "You told me you would pay me last Saturday, Mr. Bulson." "I know I did, but I was disappointed about a remittance. I will surely have your money this coming Saturday." "Without fail?" "Without fail." "All right, Mr. Bulson. But I must have it then, or else take possession of the rooms." And with this parting shot the agent departed. "The impudent fellow!" muttered Homer Bulson. "To talk to me in that fashion! He shall wait until I get good and ready to pay him!" Nevertheless, the young man's pocketbook was very nearly empty, and this worried him not a little. Several times he had thought of applying to his uncle for a loan, but each time had hesitated, being afraid that Mark Horton would suspect his extravagant mode of living. "But I must get money somehow," he told himself. At last he was dressed, and then he peered out into the hallway. The agent had really gone, and satisfied on this point Homer Bulson left the residence for a stroll on Fifth Avenue. This occupied over an hour, and then he walked over to one of the clubs to which he was attached, where he dined in the best of style. After dinner came a game or two of billiards, and then he took a cab to his uncle's mansion near the Park. He found Mark Horton seated in an invalid's chair in the library, and nearby was Gertrude trying her best to make the elderly man comfortable. Evidently the elderly man was in a bad humor, for his eyes flashed angrily as the nephew entered. The trouble was Mark Horton and his niece Gertrude had had something of a quarrel. The invalid wished Gertrude to marry her cousin Homer, and the girl did not desire the match, for she realized what a spendthrift and generally worthless fellow Bulson was. Both knew that their uncle had made a will leaving his property divided equally between them, and Gertrude was almost certain that Bulson wished to marry her simply in order to gain control of everything. The girl hated very much to displease her uncle, for she realized what troubles he had had in the past. A fearful railroad accident had deprived the man of his beloved wife years before, and shortly after this happening other trials had come to him, which had broken him down completely. What these trials were will be revealed as our story progresses. "Well, Uncle Mark, how goes it to-day?" asked Homer Bulson, on walking in. "Not very well, Homer," was the feeble answer. "Uncle Mark had quite a bad attack about two hours ago," put in Gertrude Horton. "I had to send for the doctor." "Wasn't he here this morning?" "Yes, but I thought best to have him again," answered the girl. "That's right." "The doctor seems to do me small good," put in the invalid, in a feeble voice. "He doesn't seem to understand my case at all." "He is one of the best physicians in New York," answered Homer Bulson. "So you said before, Homer. Well, I doubt if I ever get any better." "Oh, Uncle Mark!" cried Gertrude, much shocked. "I seem to be completely broken down," went on the invalid. "At times the strangest of sinking spells come over me. I feel very, very old." There was a painful silence, and Gertrude rearranged the pillow behind the invalid's head. "Did you see about those stocks to-day, Homer?" went on Mark Horton. "I had forgotten about them." "I did, sir." "And what did the broker say?" "He urged me to hold on awhile longer." "And you have them still?" "Yes, uncle." "Very well; do as he advises. Some day, when I am stronger, I must attend to many other business matters." "Oh, Uncle Mark, don't worry about business," pleaded Gertrude, passing her arm around his neck. There was another pause and Mark Horton gazed sharply at Gertrude. Then he turned to Homer Bulson. "She won't marry you, Homer--I don't know why," he said. The face of the young man fell, and he bit his lip. "Well, I suppose she will do as she pleases," he remarked, somewhat sarcastically. "I think I should be allowed to make my own choice," said Gertrude. She had already refused Bulson several times. "I can't understand it," said the invalid. "To my mind you are just suited to each other." "I do not think so," answered Gertrude. "And why not?" "I would rather not say, Uncle Mark." "You can't have anything against me personally," put in Bulson, with a scowl. "But I have!" cried the girl. "You go to the race-track, and drink, and gamble, and I do not like it." A stormy scene followed, in which all three in the room took part. Strange to say, Mark Horton sided with his nephew, for he did not realize the blackness of Bulson's character. "You are prejudiced and foolish," cried the invalid at last, turning to his niece. "You do not wish to please me in anything." And so speaking, he arose and tottered from the room. Homer Bulson made as if to follow him, then reconsidered the matter and sank back into a chair. Poor Gertrude burst into a flood of tears. CHAPTER VIII. THE COMBINATION OF THE SAFE. "Gertrude, you are making a great mistake," said Homer Bulson, after a pause broken only by the sobbing of the girl. "Please don't speak to me, Homer," she answered. "I have heard enough for one day." "You have no right to blacken my character," he said with assumed dignity. "Uncle Mark forced me to speak the truth." "It was not the truth. But let that pass. Why didn't you tell him you would marry me?" "Because I don't want to marry you." "But you might let him think that you----" "I am above practicing a deception upon him, Homer." "Oh, you aren't a saint!" he sneered. "I know why you are so loving to him--you thought to get all of his money. Now you are trying to blacken my character, so that you may get all of it, anyway. But the game won't work." "I told him what I did simply to let him know why I didn't care to marry you, Cousin Homer." "And why are you so opposed to me?" "I do not like your ways. Isn't that enough? As for Uncle Mark's money, I trust he will live a long time to enjoy it himself." "Uncle Mark can live but a short while longer. Anybody can see that. He is exceedingly feeble." "You seem to wish his death," replied Gertrude sharply. "I? No, indeed; I hope he does live. Haven't I done what I could for him--giving him wines and the like? And he has the best of doctors--on my recommendation." "I don't think the wine you gave him is doing any good. He seems to become weaker after it, instead of stronger." "Bosh! If he hadn't the wine, he would collapse utterly." At this the girl merely shrugged her shoulders. This was not the first time that Homer Bulson and herself had quarreled over the care their uncle should have. To the girl the retired merchant seemed to grow unexpectedly weak in spite of all she could do. The doctor, too, was baffled, and said he had never come across such a strange case before. "If you won't marry me, you shall not turn Uncle Mark against me," went on Bulson sternly. "If you try it, you will repent it as long as you live." So speaking, he strode from the room and made after Mark Horton, who had gone to his private apartment on the second floor. He found the retired merchant resting in an easy-chair by the window, his head bowed low. "Cheer up, uncle," he said, placing his hand on the other's shoulder. "Let me pour you a glass of wine." And he walked to a medicine closet in a corner and got out a bottle he had brought a few days before. "Thank you, Homer; I will have a little wine," replied the retired merchant. The wine was poured out and Mark Horton gulped it down. Homer Bulson watched him closely, and then turned away his face to hide a sinister smile. "I cannot understand Gertrude," said Mark Horton. "I always thought she preferred you." "I think she has another person in view," answered Bulson, struck with a certain idea. "Another? Who is it?" "I would rather not say, uncle." "But I demand to know." "I cannot tell you his name. But he is a common sort of person. He went past the house a while ago and she nodded and smiled to him." "And how long has this been going on?" "Oh, several months, I dare say. They meet in the evening on the sly. But please don't tell Gertrude that I spoke of this." "What does the man do?" "I am not sure, but I think he is in the theatrical business, when he has an engagement--something on the variety stage." "What! My Gertrude the wife of a variety actor? Never, Homer, never!" groaned Mark Horton. "This is too much! I will speak to her at once!" "Uncle, you just promised not to let her know----" "You'll be safe, Homer, never fear. But I won't have this--I'll cast her out first." "I suppose she wanted to keep this a secret until after you--that is----" "Until after I am dead, so that she can use up my money on her actor husband," finished Mark Horton bitterly. He suddenly sprang to his feet. "But she shall marry you, Homer, and nobody else. That is final." "Pray do not excite yourself too much, uncle. Let the matter rest for a few days." "And if I should die in the meantime, what then? No, Homer; delays are dangerous. I--I--feel as if I cannot last much longer. Who knows but what this night may prove my last?" And Mark Horton sank back again in his chair and covered his face with his hands. "Uncle, in case anything should happen to you, may I ask what you have done with your will?" asked Bulson, after a long pause. "Or, perhaps Gertrude knows about this?" "Yes, she knows, but you must know, too. Both the old will and the new one are in the safe in the library, in the upper compartment on the right side. On the left side are two gold pieces which I brought home with me when I visited the mint in California." "Is that all the money there is in the safe?" "No, there is more gold than that--in a secret compartment at the bottom. There is a spring to open this compartment on the left side, a small gilded knob. It is right I should tell you of this, otherwise you might never find the secret compartment." "And the combination of the safe?" went on Bulson, more anxiously than ever. "The combination is 0, 4, 25, 12, 32, and once around to the left to 0 again. You had better put it down. I have it written on a slip in my pocketbook." "Then it won't be necessary for me to put it down," answered the nephew, but he took good care to remember the combination, nevertheless. It was now time for Mark Horton to retire, and, the wine having made him drowsy, he soon forgot his anger against Gertrude and went to sleep. When Homer Bulson went below he paused in the hallway and glanced through the doorway into the library. He saw that Gertrude had left the apartment and that it was empty. None of the servants were about, and the housekeeper, an elderly lady, was also nowhere to be seen. "I wonder if I dare do it so soon?" he muttered to himself. Then he shut his teeth hard. "I must do something! I have used up my last dollar, and I can't go around empty-handed. Uncle Mark will never grow strong enough to know." Going to the front door he opened it, then slammed it violently and made a noise as if he was descending the steps. Then he closed the door with care and stole back into the gloom of the library. It was now after midnight, a fitting time for the desperate deed this misguided young man had undertaken. CHAPTER IX. A PAIR WELL MATCHED. After leaving George Van Pelt Nelson felt more like working, and buying a large supply of evening papers he was soon hard at it, crying his wares as loudly as possible. Business proved brisk, and by seven o'clock he had sold out. Then he went back to the lunch-room. Sam Pepper met him with a scowl. "Concluded to come back after all, eh?" he said. "Work piling up on me and nobody to help. Pitch in, quick, or I'll thrash you good; do you hear?" The rest of the evening passed in almost utter silence between them. By ten o'clock the most of the lunch trade came to an end. At eleven Sam Pepper began to lock up. "I'm going out," he said. "An old friend is sick. Maybe I won't be back till morning. Watch things good while I'm gone." "Who is sick?" asked our hero. "None of your business. You mind what I told you, and keep your mouth closed," growled the lunch-room keeper. Nelson had noticed a heavy handbag lying in the corner of the back room, and now he saw Sam Pepper pick the bag up. As the man moved it, something inside struck together with a hard, metallic sound, as if the bag might contain tools. When Sam Pepper went out he wore a big slouch hat and a coat which he had not donned for years. He usually wore a derby hat, and his general appearance surprised the newsboy not a little. "He acts as if he wanted to be disguised," thought the boy. "Something is up, sure." Then of a sudden he remembered the talk he had had with Pepper about robbing an old man--the man who had in some way been connected with his father's downfall, if Pepper's story was true. Was it possible Pepper was going to undertake the job that very night, and alone? "I believe he is!" thought Nelson. "And if that's so, I'll follow him!" With the boy, to think was to act, and in a few minutes he was prepared to follow Sam Pepper. The man had locked the front door and taken the key with him. Nelson slipped out of a rear window and fastened the window from the outside by means of a nail shoved into a hole in a corner--a trick he had learned some time before. When the boy came out on the street he ran up the thoroughfare for a couple of blocks, and was just in time to see Sam Pepper making his way up the stairs of the elevated railroad station. When the train came along Pepper entered the front car, and our hero took the car behind it. Nelson buttoned up his coat and pulled his hat far down over his eyes to escape recognition, but Sam Pepper never once looked around to see if he was being followed. Leaving the Bowery, the elevated train continued up Third Avenue until Fifty-ninth Street was reached. Here Sam Pepper got off, and Nelson, who was on the watch, did the same. The man descended to the street and walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue. Our hero followed like a shadow. He was now certain that Pepper was bent on the robbery of the place he had mentioned that afternoon. Mark Horton's residence stood on the avenue, but a few blocks below Central Park. As Sam Pepper had said, there was an alleyway in the rear, with a small iron fence. Beyond was a small courtyard, and here there was a balcony with an alcove window opening into the library. Over the window was a heavy curtain, which the retired merchant sometimes closed when at the safe, so that curious neighbors might not pry into his affairs. But the neighbors were now away on a vacation in Europe--something which Sam Pepper had noted with considerable satisfaction. It did not take the man long to climb over the iron fence and on to the little balcony. Noiselessly he tried the window, to find it locked. But the catch was an old-fashioned one, and he readily pushed it aside with a blade of his knife. Then he raised the window inch by inch. At last he had it high enough, and he stepped into the room, behind the heavy curtain before mentioned. Sam Pepper was hardly in the room when something happened to give him a temporary shock. He heard the scratch of a match, and then a gas jet was lit and turned low in the room. "I've put my foot into it," he groaned. "Maybe I had better git out as fast as I came in." Cautiously he peeped from behind the curtain, and to his astonishment saw Homer Bulson approach the safe and kneel down before it. He also saw that Bulson was alone, and that the doors to the other parts of the mansion were tightly closed. "Something is up that's not on the level," he told himself. "This man don't live here." Scarcely daring to breathe, he watched Homer Bulson work at the combination of the safe. To get the strong box open was not easy, and soon the fashionable young man uttered a low exclamation of impatience. "I must have it wrong," Pepper heard him say. "Confound the luck! And I wanted that money to-night, too." At last the safe came open, and Homer Bulson breathed a sigh of satisfaction. With trembling fingers he pulled open one of the upper drawers. "Found!" he murmured. "I wonder if I have time to read them over, to make sure they are all right? Uncle is a queer stick and he may have made some mistake." He brought some documents forth and began to unfold them. Then he reconsidered the matter and placed the papers on a chair beside the safe. In a moment more he had found the gilded knob, pressed upon it, and opened the secret compartment at the bottom of the strong box. The sight that met his gaze caused his eyes to glisten. There were several stacks of ten- and twenty-dollar gold pieces--at least two thousand dollars in all. Without waiting he placed a large handful of the coins in the outer pocket of his coat. "I won't take it all--it won't be safe," he murmured. "I can get more some other time--if I need it." Then he shut the compartment. Sam Pepper had seen the gold, and it set his heart to thumping madly. Here was more wealth than he had seen in many a day--right within his reach. Why had not the young man taken it all? "He's chicken-hearted and a fool," thought Pepper. A second later a big fly, awakened by the swinging of the curtain and the light, buzzed close to Pepper's ear and caused him to start. At the same moment Homer Bulson glanced up and caught sight of the other's face. "Who--what--who are you?" stammered Bulson, leaping to his feet. "Hush!" cried Sam Pepper warningly. "Hush, unless you want to wake up the whole house." "But who are you, and where did you come from?" "Never mind about that. Why didn't you take all of the gold from the safe while you were at it?" "I--er--what do you know of the gold?" stammered Homer Bulson. He was pale and confused. "I saw you open the safe and take it. Is that your uncle's money?" "Ye--yes." "What are you going to do with it?" "What business is that of yours?" "I am going to make this job my business." "You look like a burglar." "Well, if I am a burglar, you won't give me away, for you are a burglar yourself." The shot told, and Homer Bulson became paler than before. "I reckon we might divide up on this job," went on Sam Pepper with a boldness that was astonishing. "I don't understand." "Give me half the gold and I won't say anything about this to anybody." "And if I refuse?" "If you refuse, perhaps I'll make it mighty unpleasant for you. I know you. You are Homer Bulson, the fashionable nephew of Mark Horton, and the man who expects to come into a good share of his property when he dies." "And who are you?" "I am a man who used to be up in the world, but one who is now down on his luck. I want you to help me. If you will, I'll help you." At this Homer Bulson was a good deal bewildered. "I don't understand you. I am not of your kind, my man." At this Sam Pepper gave a contemptuous sniff. "If you aint, you aint any better," he growled. "Let me tell you I know a thing or two. I didn't come here blindly. I know all about Mark Horton and his niece, and you--and I know a good deal more--about the past. You and that girl expect to get his property. Well, maybe you will, and then, again, maybe you won't." "And why won't we get his property?" asked Homer Bulson, in deep interest. "Hush! not so loud, or you'll have the rest of the house down on us," Sam Pepper leaned forward and whispered something into the young man's ear. "There, how do you like that?" Homer Bulson fell back as if shot. "You--you speak the truth?" he faltered. "I do." "But after all these years! Impossible!" "It's true, I tell you, and I can prove it--if I want to. But I'm not his friend. Now are you willing to make a deal with me?" "Yes! yes!" groaned the young man. "First, however, you must prove your words. But that can't be done here. Come to my bachelor apartment, across the way. There we will be perfectly safe." "All right. But I must have some of that gold first." "Well, you shall have some--as much as I took, but no more," concluded Homer Bulson, and opened the secret compartment again. CHAPTER X. GERTRUDE LEAVES HER HOME. Left to himself in the alleyway, our hero scarcely knew what to do next. Under ordinary circumstances he would have notified a policeman of what was going on. But he reflected that Pepper had done him many kindnesses in the past, and that it was barely possible the man was not doing as much of a wrong as he imagined. "I'll wait a while and see what turns up," he soliloquized, and hid himself in a dark corner, where he could watch not only the library window, but also the side alleyway leading to the street in front of the mansion. Slowly the minutes wore away until Nelson felt certain that Sam Pepper was going to remain inside all night. "Perhaps something happened to him," he thought. "Maybe he got a fit, or somebody caught him." He waited a while longer, then, impelled by curiosity, approached the balcony, climbed up, and tried to look into the window of the library. As he did this the curtain was suddenly thrust aside, and in the dim light he found himself face to face with Gertrude Horton! He was so astonished that, for the moment, he did not know what to say or do. Gertrude was equally amazed. She quickly raised the window. "What brought you here?" she questioned. "Did you make the noise I heard a while ago?" "No, miss. I--er--I just came," stammered our hero. He knew not what to say. "But I heard a noise. It was that which brought me downstairs. What are you doing here?" "I came to see if--if your home was safe." "To see if it was safe?" "Yes. I was on the street a while ago and a man sneaked in here. Is he around?" "I saw nobody. But I heard a noise, as I said before. I guess I had better investigate. Did the man look like a thief?" "He looked like lots of men," answered Nelson noncommittally. It must be confessed that our hero's head was in a whirl. What had become of Sam Pepper? Was it possible that he had robbed the mansion and made his escape without discovery? And if he was gone, should he expose the man who, good or bad, had cared for him so many years? Gertrude was looking around for a match, and now she lit the gas and turned it up full. She had scarcely done so when her eyes rested on a ten-dollar gold piece lying in front of the safe. "A gold piece!" she cried. "Here is another, miss," returned Nelson, stepping into the room and picking it up from where it had rolled behind a footstool. "Twenty dollars! Gracious!" "Gertrude! What is the meaning of this?" The voice came from the hallway, and looking around the girl and our hero saw Mark Horton standing there, clad in his dressing gown and slippers. His face was filled with anger. "Oh, uncle!" cried the girl. Just then she could say no more. "So I have caught you, have I?" went on the retired merchant. He turned to our hero. "Who are you, young man?" "I? I'm Nelson, sir." "Nelson? Is that your name?" "Yes, sir." "Fine company you keep, Gertrude, I must say," sneered Mark Horton. "I would not have believed it, had I not seen it with my own eyes." "Why, uncle----" "Don't talk back to me. I know all about your doings. You wish----" The retired merchant broke off short. "What is that in your hand? A gold piece, as I live! And this young man has another! Ha! you have been at my safe!" Pale with rage, Mark Horton tottered into the room and clutched Gertrude by the arm. "Oh, Uncle Mark, let me go!" she gasped in horror. "To think it has come to this!" groaned the invalid. "My own niece turned robber! It is too much! Too much!" And he sank into an armchair, overcome. "Hold on, sir; you're making a mistake," put in Nelson. "Silence, you shameful boy! I know her perhaps better than you do, even though you do come to see her on the sly." "Me? On the sly?" repeated our hero, puzzled. "You talk in riddles, uncle," put in Gertrude faintly. "I know what I am saying. I will not argue with you. How much have you taken from the safe?" "Nothing," said Gertrude. "I haven't touched your safe," added our hero stoutly. "I will soon see." Mark Horton glanced at the window, which was still wide open. "Is anybody else outside?" "I guess not," said Nelson. Arising with an effort, the retired merchant staggered to the safe and opened it. Then he opened the secret compartment. "Gone! At least six hundred dollars stolen!" he muttered. He turned upon both of the others. "What have you done with that gold?" [Illustration: "'AT LEAST SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS STOLEN,' HE MUTTERED."] "Uncle, I have not touched it," sobbed Gertrude. "This is all I have, and I just picked that up," added our hero and flung the piece on the table, beside that which the girl had picked up. "I will not believe it!" stormed Mark Horton, more in a rage than ever. He turned to Nelson. "You took that money away and then thought to come back for more. Or perhaps you came back to see Gertrude." "I am no thief!" cried Nelson. "I never stole in my life." "You are a thief, and this girl is your accomplice. Stop, did you not go past the house this afternoon?" "I did, but----" "And you saw Gertrude?" "I saw this young lady, but----" "As I suspected. You planned this thing." "Oh, Uncle Mark! what are you saying?" sobbed Gertrude. Her heart was so full she could scarcely speak. She had always treated her uncle with every consideration, and to have him turn against her in this fashion cut her to the quick. "Gertrude, my eyes are open at last. From to-night you leave me!" "What, going to throw her out of this house--out of her home!" ejaculated Nelson. "Sir, I don't know you, but I think you must be off in your mind." "I am not so crazy as you imagine. I am sick--nay, I have one foot in the grave. But this shameless girl shall no longer hoodwink me. As soon as daylight comes she shall leave this house, and she shall never set foot in it again." "But, sir----" "I will waste no further words on you, young man. Out you go, or I will call a policeman at once." "Oh, uncle, don't do that!" burst out Gertrude. "I will go away, if you insist upon it." "I do insist upon it. Pack your things at once. If it were not night I would insist upon your leaving now." Gertrude looked at him, and then drew herself up with an effort. "I will go now, I will not wait," she said. "But if ever you need me----" "I'll not send for you," finished Mark Horton quickly. "I never want to see you again." He turned to our hero. "Are you going, or must I call an officer?" he added harshly. "I will go," said Nelson. He paused as if wishing to say more, then leaped through the window and disappeared into the darkness of the alleyway. As our hero left the library by the window, Gertrude left by the hall door. Slowly she mounted the steps to her own room. Once inside, she threw herself on the bed in a passionate fit of weeping. But this did not last long. Inside of half an hour she was packing a traveling case with such things as she absolutely needed. "I will take nothing else," she told herself. "His money bought them and they shall remain here." At last her preparations were complete, and she stole downstairs with her traveling case in her hand. She looked into the library, to see her uncle sitting in a heap in the armchair. "Good-by, Uncle Mark," she said sadly. "Go away!" he returned bitterly. "Go away!" He would say no more, and she turned, opened the door to the street, and passed outside. He listened as she hurried down the steps and along the silent street. When he could no longer hear her footsteps he sank back again into the armchair. "Gone!" he muttered. "Gone, and I drove her away! What a miserable man I am! What a miserable man!" And then he threw himself down again. He remained in the armchair for the rest of the night, weaker than ever, and tortured by an anguish he could not put into words. CHAPTER XI. AFLOAT IN NEW YORK. Once out on the street again, Nelson did not know which way to turn or what to do. He was bewildered, for the scene between Gertrude and her uncle had been more than half a mystery to him. "He suspects her of stealing, but I don't," he told himself bluntly. "Such a girl, with such eyes, would never steal. He wouldn't think so if he was in his right mind. I guess his sickness has turned his brain." And in the latter surmise our hero was partly correct. Slowly he walked to the end of the block, then, struck by a sudden thought, came back. If the young lady did really come out, he meant to see her and have another talk with her. The newsboy was still some distance from the mansion when, on looking across the way, he saw the door of the house in which Homer Bulson lived open, and a second later beheld Sam Pepper come out. "Gracious--Sam!" he cried to himself, and lost no time in hiding behind a convenient stoop. Soon Pepper passed by, and our hero saw him continue on his way along Fifth Avenue until Fifty-ninth Street was reached. "He's going home," thought Nelson. "I ought to get down there before him. What will he say if he finds me missing?" He was now more perplexed than ever. What had Sam Pepper been doing in the house in which Homer Bulson lived? Had the man robbed that place, and had he himself made a mistake in regard to the Horton mansion? "It's too deep for me," he mused. "I'll never get to the bottom of it. But that young lady--hullo, here she comes, sure enough!" He stepped behind the stoop again and waited. In a moment Gertrude passed him. Evidently the darkness and the strange silence frightened her. When Nelson came out of his hiding place she started back. "Oh!" she gasped. "Is it you?" "Yes, miss. I--I was wondering if you would really leave," he answered. "There was nothing else for me to do." "He is your uncle?" "Yes. He is Mark Horton and I am Gertrude Horton, his dead brother's only child." "He treated you mighty bad for a brother's child." "My father was poor and Uncle Mark has taken care of me for years. He wanted me to marry my cousin, Homer Bulson, and it made him angry when I refused." "Homer Bulson!" cried Nelson. "I don't wonder you didn't want to marry him." "Do you know my cousin?" "I've met him. He tried to cheat a friend of mine out of a sale of some books. He acted the sneak." "It seems my uncle's heart has been set on this marriage," went on Gertrude. "But that didn't give him the right to call you a thief," put in our hero warmly. "To be sure it did not. But--but--who are you?" "I'm Nelson." "You said that before. What is your real name?" At this Nelson hung his head. "I don't know what my real name is, Miss Gertrude. They all call me Nelson the Newsboy. I live with a man named Pepper. He keeps a lunch-room on the East Side, and I sell papers for a living. I don't know where I came from." "It is too bad. But you are better off than I am--you have a home," she added, her eyes filling again with tears. "Don't you worry. I'll help you all I can," said Nelson sympathetically. "But about this affair of the safe--I can't make head or tail of that." "Nor can I, Nelson. I came downstairs, having heard some strange noises. But everything seemed to be all right. Then I looked out of the window and saw you." "I saw a man go into the alleyway, back of the house," answered our hero lamely. "I'll be real truthful with you and tell you that I know the man, and that he has done lots of good things for me. Well, I thought the man got into that library window, although it was pretty dark and I might have been mistaken." "The window was locked when I went to open it." "You are certain of that?" "I am." "Then I must have made a mistake." And our hero drew a sigh of relief. Perhaps, after all, Sam Pepper was innocent. "One thing is sure, some money was gone, and we found those gold pieces on the floor," went on Gertrude. "Who could have opened the safe?" "Who knew the combination beside your uncle?" "Myself--he told me last month--when he had his last bad spell." "Nobody else--that cousin, for instance?" "I don't believe Mr. Bulson knew it." "Then that's what made it look black for you. The safe wasn't forced open, that's sure. Somebody opened it who knew the combination." "The money might have been taken some time ago," said Gertrude. "Anyway, it is gone, and you and I are supposed to be the thieves." She smiled bitterly. "How strange! and we hardly know each other!" "And I don't see any way of clearing ourselves," said the newsboy, with equal bitterness. "But let that drop. What are you going to do? Going to some friend's house?" "I have no friends here. You see, we came from Philadelphia, and I am not much acquainted as yet." "Then you'll go to Philadelphia? If you wish, I'll carry that bag and see you to the train." "No, I'm not going to Philadelphia. I would rather remain in New York, near my uncle. He may need me some day." "He's a hard-hearted man!" burst out the newsboy. "I don't see how he could treat you so mean!" "It is his sickness makes him so, Nelson; he was never so before." Gertrude heaved a long sigh. "I must say I really do not know what to do." "I know a hotel on Third Avenue, but it's not a very nice place." "No, I don't wish to go there. If I could think of some friend----" "Did your uncle send you away without any money?" "I took only the clothing I needed, nothing more." "Then I'll give you what I've got," answered Nelson promptly, and drew out what little money he possessed. "No; I won't rob you, Nelson. But you are very, very kind." "It aint any robbery," he answered. "Come, you must take it." And he forced it into her hand. "I know an old lady who'll take you in," he continued suddenly. "Her name is Mrs. Kennedy. She's only a fruit and candy woman, but she's got a heart as big as a balloon. She's a nice, neat woman, too." The matter was talked over for a few minutes, and Gertrude consented to go to the two rooms which Mrs. Kennedy called her home. These were close to Third Avenue, and late as it was, they boarded a train and rode down. The building was dark, and Nelson had some trouble in rousing the old woman. "To be sure I'll take the lady in, Nelson," said Mrs. Kennedy, when the situation was partly explained. "Come in, miss, and welcome." Gertrude was glad enough to enter and drop into a chair, and here our hero left her, and at once hurried down to the lunch-room with all speed. Not wishing to arouse Sam Pepper if he was asleep, he went around to the rear window, opened that, and crawled through. To his surprise Pepper was not there. "I'm lucky, after all," he thought, and undressed with all speed. Hardly had he crawled into bed when Pepper came in. He lit the gas and looked at our hero, but Nelson snored and pretended to be fast asleep. Sam appeared relieved at this, and soon retired. His bag, which he had brought with him, he placed under his bed, in a corner next to the wall. The newsboy could not sleep, and from the time he lay down until daylight appeared he turned and tossed on his cot, reviewing in a hundred ways all that had occurred. But he could reach no satisfactory conclusion. The one thing, however, which remained fixed in his mind was that Gertrude Horton was now homeless, and he felt that he must, in some measure at least, look out for her. "I don't suppose I can do much," he thought dismally. "But what I can do I will, that's certain." Long before Sam Pepper was stirring Nelson was up and dressed. As he was going out Pepper roused up. "Where are you bound?" he asked. "Going to sell papers." "You're starting early to-day." "I've got to hustle, if I want to make any money." And so speaking, Nelson left the place. He was soon down at "Newspaper Row," as it is commonly called, that part of Park Row and Nassau Street where are congregated the offices of nearly all of the metropolitan dailies. He had not a cent in his pocket, but this did not bother him. He soon found Paul Randall, who was being shoved right and left in the big crowd of boys who all wanted to get papers at once. "What papers do you want, Paul?" he asked. The little newsboy told him, and Nelson said he would get them for him. "And I'd like to borrow a dollar, Paul," he went on. "I had to give up every cent I had." "That's too bad, Nelson," replied Paul. "I can't loan you a dollar. All I've got extra is sixty-five cents. You can have that." "Then I'll make that do," said our hero. He took all of Paul's money and started into the crowd, to get papers for his friend and himself. He was struggling to get to the front when, on chancing to look to one side, he caught sight of Billy Darnley, the newsboy bully who had robbed him of the five dollars. CHAPTER XII. NELSON RECOVERS SOME MONEY. "Billy Darnley!" gasped our hero, in astonishment. The bully saw Nelson and instantly ducked his head. He, too, was after newspapers, but now thought it best to quit the scene. "I didn't t'ink he'd be here so early," he muttered, and pushed to the rear of the crowd. Once in the open, he took to his heels and dashed down Frankfort Street in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge arches. But Nelson was not to be "lost" so readily, and he was out of the crowd almost as soon as the bully. "I'm after Billy Darnley!" he shouted to Paul. "Come on!" There now ensued a race which was highly exciting, even if not of long duration. Darnley was swift of foot, and the fear of what might follow lent speed to his flying feet. But Nelson was also a good runner. At the corner of Rose Street were a number of heavy trucks. Darnley managed to pass these, but it took time. When our hero came up, the trucks blocked the street completely. In and out Nelson dodged among the trucks, between the wheels and under the very hoofs of the heavy horses. In a twinkle he was clear of the mass and again making after Darnley, who was now flying toward Vandewater Street. At this point there is a large archway under the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge, and toward this archway the bully directed his footsteps. But Nelson was now close at hand, and underneath the archway he succeeded in reaching the big newsboy, catching him firmly by the arm. "Lemme go!" growled Billy Darnley. "Lemme go, Nelse, or I'll hammer yer good." "Maybe I'll do the hammering," retorted Nelson. "Where's my five dollars?" "I aint got no money of yours." "You have, and I want you to hand it over." "Aint got it, I say. Lemme go!" Instead of complying our hero grasped the bully by the throat and ran him up against the stonework of the arch. "I want my money," he said sternly. "If you don't give it to me----" "Let up--yer--yer chokin' me!" gasped Billy Darnley. "Will you give me the money?" "No." The bully struggled fiercely, and so did Nelson. Down went both on the pavement and rolled over and over. But our hero's blood was up, and he put forth every ounce of strength he possessed. At last he had Darnley flat on his back, and then he sat astride of the bully. "Now will you give up?" he panted. "Or must I hammer you some more?" "Oh, Nelson! have you got him?" asked Paul, running up. "Yes, and he's got to give me my money." "A fight! a fight!" cried some of the boys who began to collect. "This aint a fight," said Nelson loudly. "He's a thief, and stole five dollars from me. He's got to give it up." He caught Darnley by the throat again, and now the bully was only too glad to give in. "Let--let up!" he gasped. "Let up!" "Will you give me my money?" "I've only got two dollars and ten cents." "Hand it over." "Let me up first." "Not much!" With something like a groan Darnley brought out the money and passed it over. "Now I'm going to search you," went on Nelson, in as determined a voice as ever. "No, no!" pleaded Darnley in alarm. He did not like the crowd that was gathering. "Yes, search him, Nelse," said a boy named Marks. "That's right, search him," put in another newsboy, named Wilson. "I think he stole something from me last week." In spite of his protestations Billy Darnley's pockets were turned inside out. There were brought to light another dollar, which our hero also pocketed, a pearl-handled pocket-knife, a silver badge, and half a dozen other articles. "My knife!" shouted Nat Marks. "Boys, you all know it." "So it is, Nat," said Frank Wilson. "And this is my badge--the one I won in the newsboys' competition last month." The boys took the things, and then gathered around Billy Darnley with clenched fists. Nelson slipped outside of the crowd, and Paul went with him. In vain Billy Darnley tried to clear himself of the other lads. He struck one boy down, but the others pounced upon him front and rear, and soon had him again on his back. It looked like a football scrimmage, but the ball in this case seemed to be the bully's head. For ten minutes the tussle went on, and when at last the cry of "Cop! cop! run for it!" arose, Darnley found himself with his nose bleeding, two teeth loose, and his left eye all but closed. Moreover, his coat was torn to shreds. "What is the meaning of this?" demanded the policeman. "They all piled on top of me!" whined Darnley, looking the picture of misery. "He's a thief!" exclaimed one of the other boys, but from a safe distance. "He stole something from three of the boys, he did. He didn't git nuthin' but what was comin' to him, officer." "That's right; he ought to be locked up," put in another boy, also from a safe distance. "Begone with you!" said the policeman sternly, and gave Darnley a shove. "If I see any more fighting I'll run you all in," and he walked away, twirling his club as he did so. "Oh, me eye!" groaned Darnley, and limped away, a sadder if not a wiser youth. It was many a day before he dared to show himself in Newspaper Row again. "Well, I got back three dollars and ten cents," remarked Nelson, as he and Paul walked up Frankfort Street, "so I won't need your loan. But, just the same, I am much obliged." And he passed over the money. "I wish you had gotten it all, Nelson," said Paul earnestly. "Oh, but didn't they just pitch into Billy! And it served him right, too." "Yes, I showed him up in his true colors," returned our hero. He soon had the papers he and Paul wanted, and then the pair separated, and our hero hurried over to his old stand on Broadway. His clothing had suffered considerably from the encounter with the bully and, though he brushed himself off as best he could, he felt that he made far from a handsome appearance. "I must look better than this before I call on Miss Horton," he mused. "If I don't, she'll take me for a regular tramp." He wondered if there would be anything in the newspapers about the robbery in Fifth Avenue, and snatched a few moments to scan several sheets. But not a word appeared. "I guess they are too high-toned to let it get into print," he reasoned. "Well, it's a good thing. I guess it would almost kill Miss Gertrude to see it in the papers." When Nelson got back to the lunch-room he found business was poor, and he expected to see Sam Pepper ill-humored in consequence. On the contrary, however, Pepper was all smiles, and even hummed a tune to himself as he waited on his customers. "Something has happened to tickle him," thought the boy. "Or else he's got a new plan on hand." "How is the sick friend--any better?" he asked Pepper. "Much better, Nelson. And what do you think? He's loaned me money to turn this place into a first-class café. Don't you think that will pay better than a common lunch-room?" "I don't know. I'd rather be in the lunch business than running a saloon." "I wouldn't. I want to make money," responded Pepper. "What are you going to do?" "Rip out that old show window and put in a new and elegant glass front, and put in a new bar and buffet. It will be as fine as anything around here when it's finished." "I wish I had a friend to loan me money." "What would you do with it?" "I'd buy out a good news stand. There's money in that." "So there is." Sam Pepper mused for a moment. "Maybe my friend will advance enough for that, too." "Thank you, but you needn't bother him," said Nelson coldly. "And why not, if I can get the rocks?" "I'd rather get the money myself." "Won't the money be good enough?" demanded Pepper, his face darkening. "I'd rather know where it came from," returned the boy. The two were in the kitchen at the time, and Sam Pepper had a frying pan in his hand. "See here, Nelson, I'll whack you over the head with this, if you talk like that!" exclaimed the man, flying into a rage. "You won't whack me more than once, Sam Pepper." "Won't I?" "No, you won't." "Who is master around here, I'd like to know?" "You are, but I'm not your slave." "You talk as if you knew something," went on Pepper, growing suddenly suspicious. "Perhaps I do know something," replied the newsboy, and then hurried into the dining room to wait on a customer who had just entered. "I'll have it out with you later," muttered Pepper savagely. "If you know too much, I'll find a way to keep your mouth closed." CHAPTER XIII. A QUESTION OF BUSINESS. Sam Pepper got no chance to talk to Nelson further that day. As soon as the noon trade was over, our hero hurried off to sell afternoon papers. This time he went up the Bowery, to where Mrs. Kennedy kept her fruit-and-candy stand. It was a small stand, and the entire stock was not worth over ten dollars, but the old woman made enough to keep the wolf from the door, and she was content. "I was after thinking you'd come," she said, smiling broadly. "I knew you'd want to know about the young lady." "How is she?" "I left her this morning, sorrowful enough, I can tell ye that, Nelson. She don't know how to turn. She thinks she might take in sewing, or something like that, but, bless ye! how much would she make at that? Why, thim Jews that work night and day hardly make enough to keep 'em from starving!" "Yes, I know it, and it's a shame," said the boy. "They get about five cents for a pair of pants and ten cents for a coat, and some of 'em make shirts for three and four cents apiece. I don't see how they stand it. No, she wouldn't earn anything at that." "I was a-telling her of Gladys Summers, who sells flowers up on Fourteenth Street and at the theater doors, but she said she didn't want to go out on the street. She's afraid some of her friends would see her, I suppose." "She hasn't any friends--'cepting you and me, Mrs. Kennedy. We've got to do for her." "It's little I can offer, Nelson; ye know that well enough. She can stay under my roof, but to board her----" "I'll pay her board, until she finds something to do. I'll give you three dollars a week for keeping her." "Will ye now? Nelson, you're more than kind-hearted. But where will ye be after getting the money?" "I'll earn it," he answered resolutely. "I earn a dollar and over a day now, and I know I can make it more, if I try real hard." He soon left the fruit-and-candy stand and started in to sell papers. He felt that he had a new responsibility on his shoulders, and he determined to do his best. Soon his efforts began to tell, and by five o'clock he was sold out, and the day's earnings amounted to a dollar and thirty-two cents. "Half for Miss Horton and half for myself," he murmured. "That's the way it's got to be, after this." He was soon on his way to the tenement house in which Mrs. Kennedy's rooms were located. Ascending two flights of stairs, he knocked on one of the doors. "Who is it?" came from Gertrude Horton. "It's Nelson." "Oh!" And instantly the door was unlocked. A glance at the girl's face told the boy that she had been crying. More than this he saw she was far from well, and the hand she gave him was as hot as fire. "Oh, Miss Horton, you're sick!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?" "I have a severe headache," she answered. "I think it will pass away soon." She sank down on a dilapidated lounge, and he took a kitchen chair. He saw that she trembled from head to foot, and that she had been worrying ever since he had left her. "You mustn't worry too much," he said, as kindly as he could. "Mrs. Kennedy says you can stay here as long as you feel like it." "But she is poor, Nelson, and I--I haven't any money, excepting what you gave me, and you must take that back--you need it." "No, I don't need it, Miss Gertrude. See, I've got a lot of money now. I collared that thief and made him give up what he had left, over three dollars--and I've earned the rest selling papers. That's why I didn't come before. I've fixed it up with Mrs. Kennedy, and you can stay just as long as you please." "And you are going to pay her?" cried the girl warmly. "Oh, Nelson! you are indeed good-hearted. But, no; I must support myself." "Well, you needn't hurry about it. I can earn enough for both of us just now--and that's what I am going to do. Why shouldn't I? It was my fault that your uncle put you out." "No, Nelson; the fault, if it was a fault, was my own. The matter was of long standing. Homer Bulson had wished to marry me for a long time, but I have constantly refused him. Now he has gotten my uncle to side with him. They expect to bring me to terms, I suppose. More than likely my uncle thought I would come back to-day, to do as he wishes." "I wouldn't go back." "I shall not. I have made up my mind fully. I will support myself, and Homer Bulson can have Uncle Mark's whole estate, if he wishes it. Surely, in such a big city as this there is something I can do." "I wouldn't go at sewing--it don't pay." "What does pay--that I can do?" "You might get a position in a store. Or maybe you know how to play the piano?" went on our hero suddenly. "I do know how to play. I took instructions for several years, and have played at private concerts, in Philadelphia." "Then you can give piano lessons." "But where can I get pupils?" "We'll advertise in the papers," went on the newsboy, with some importance. "I know an advertising man down on the Row. He says anybody can do business by advertising. I'll ask him about it. Of course you'll want to give lessons at folks' houses--being as you haven't a piano of your own." "Yes," answered Gertrude, and her face brightened greatly. "I could do that, and I would go cheaply first, to get a start." "Do you want to put your name in the advertisement?" "No, have the letters sent to the newspaper offices, and sign the advertisement----" Gertrude paused in thought. "Weber," finished Nelson. "That's the name of a swell piano, isn't it?" "It might be too grand for the folks we wish to reach," said Gertrude. "Sign it 'Earnest.'" "And how much will the lessons be?" "I ought to get at least fifty cents." "Then I'll tell the advertising man that. Oh, he's a dandy to write the ads up--makes 'em look like regular bargains!" added the boy enthusiastically. Nelson remained at the rooms a while longer, and then hurried to Sam Pepper's place. To his surprise Pepper had locked up, and on the window was the sign: "_Closed for repairs. Will open as a first-class café in about two weeks._" "He hasn't lost any time in going ahead," thought our hero. "I wonder where he is?" "Sam's out of town," called out a bootblack who had some chairs close by. "Told me to give you this." And he passed over an envelope, containing a sheet of paper and the store key. On the sheet was written: "Am going away for two or three days on business. A man will be here at ten o'clock to-morrow morning to measure the place for new fixtures. You stay around while he is here. Then you keep the place locked up until I get back." "Gone away for two or three days," thought Nelson. "I wonder what he is up to now?" He went inside, and saw at once that many of the old fixtures had been removed, and that the little kitchen in the rear had been turned almost inside out. The living apartment, however, was as it had been, excepting that Sam Pepper had used it for packing purposes, and the floor was strewn with bits of paper and some excelsior. "If I'm to stay here, I might as well clean up," thought our hero, and set to work with a broom. "And then I'll take an hour off and clean and mend my clothes." In cleaning up Nelson came across several letters, which were old and mussed. Whether Sam Pepper had thought to throw them away or not, he did not know. To make sure, he picked the letters up and looked them over. "Hullo!" he cried. "Here's more of a mystery." The letters were addressed to Pepperill Sampson and were signed Mark Horton. The majority of them concerned some orders for dry goods to be shipped to various Western cities, but there was one which was not of that nature. This ran in part as follows: "I have watched your doings closely for three weeks, and I am now satisfied that you are no longer working for my interest, but in the interest of rival concerns. More than that, I find that you are putting down sums to your expense account which do not belong there. The books for the past month show that you are behind over a hundred and fifty dollars. At this rate I cannot help but wonder how far behind you must be on the year and two months you have been with our house. "You can consider yourself discharged from this date. Our Mr. Smith will come on immediately and take charge of your samples. Should you attempt to make any trouble for him or for us, I will immediately take steps to prosecute you. You need never apply to our house for a recommendation, for it will not be a satisfactory one." The letter was dated twelve years back, and had been sent to Pepperill Sampson while he was stopping in Cleveland. Nelson read the communication twice before he put it away. Who was Pepperill Sampson? The name sounded as if it might belong to Sam Pepper. Were the two one and the same person? "They must be the same," thought Nelson. "Sam was once a commercial traveler after he gave up the sea, and I've heard him speak of Cleveland and other Western towns. But to think he once worked for Mark Horton!" He scratched his head reflectively. "Let me see, what did Sam say about the man he wanted me to rob? That he had helped the man who had shot my father. Is there really something in this? And if there is, what can Mark Horton know about the past?" CHAPTER XIV. BULSON RECEIVES A SETBACK. The mystery was too much for Nelson, and at last he put the letters on a shelf and finished the cleaning. Then he sat down to mend his clothing, and never did a seamstress work more faithfully than did this newsboy. The garments mended, he brushed them carefully. "There, they look a little better, anyway," he told himself. "And sooner or later I'll have a new suit." Having finished his toilet, he walked down to Newspaper Row. The tall buildings were now a blaze of lights, and many men of business were departing for their homes. But the newsboy found his friend in his office, a little box of a place on an upper floor of the _World_ building. The advertising man had always taken an interest in our hero, and he readily consented to transact the business gratis. The advertisements were written out to the boy's satisfaction, and Nelson paid two dollars to have them inserted in several papers the next day and that following. "If the young lady is a good teacher, I might get her to give my little girl lessons," said Mr. Lamson, as Nelson was leaving. "I know she's all right, sir," answered the boy. "Just give her a trial and see. She's a real lady, too, even if she is down on her luck." "Then let her call on my wife to-morrow morning. I'll speak to my wife about it to-night." "I will, sir, and thank you very much, Mr. Lamson." And our hero went off, greatly pleased. Late as it was, he walked up to Mrs. Kennedy's rooms again. This time the old Irishwoman herself let him in. "Sure and it's Nelson," she said. "I've got good news, Miss Gertrude," he said, on entering. "I put the advertisements in the papers through Mr. Lamson, and he told me that you might call on his wife to-morrow morning about giving his little girl lessons." "Hear that now!" exclaimed Mrs. Kennedy proudly. "Sure, and it takes Nelson to do things, so it does! It meself wishes I had such a b'y." "I am very thankful," said the girl. "Have you the address?" "Yes, here it is, on the back of his business card. I know you'll like the place, and maybe they can put you in the way of other places." "Av course," said Mrs. Kennedy. "Before I had rheumatism I wint out washing, and wan place always brought me another, from some rilative or friend of the family." "I will go directly after breakfast," said Gertrude. "And I hope I shall prove satisfactory." Knowing the girl must be tired, Nelson did not stay long, and as soon as he had departed Mrs. Kennedy made Gertrude retire. Happily for the girl her headache was now much better, and she slept soundly. In the morning she helped Mrs. Kennedy prepare their frugal repast. As the old Irishwoman had said, she was troubled with rheumatism, and could not get around very well. So Gertrude insisted upon clearing the table and washing the dishes. "But, sure, and a lady like you aint used to this work," remonstrated Mrs. Kennedy. "I mean to get used to it," answered Gertrude. "I mean to fight my way through and put up with what comes." Mr. Lamson's home was over a mile away, but not wishing to spend the carfare Gertrude walked the distance. She was expected, and found Mrs. Lamson a nice lady, who occupied a flat of half a dozen rooms on a quiet and respectable side street. She played several selections, two from sight, which the lady of the house produced. "That is very good indeed, Miss Horton," said Mrs. Lamson. "You read music well. Little Ruth can begin at once, and you can give her a lesson once a week. Ruth, this is Miss Horton, your new music-teacher." A girl of nine came shyly forward and shook hands. Soon Gertrude was giving her first lesson in music. It was rather long, but Ruth did not mind it. Then Mrs. Lamson paid the fifty cents, and Gertrude went away. "She's awfully nice," said Ruth to her mamma. "I know I shall like her." "She is certainly a lady," was Mrs. Lamson's comment. "It is easy to see that by her breeding." A new look shone in Gertrude's eyes as she hurried down the street. In her pocket was the first money she had ever earned in her life. She felt a spirit of independence that was as delightful as it was novel. She had already seen her advertisements in two of the papers, and she trusted they would bring her enough pupils to fill her time. She felt that she could easily give five or six lessons a day. If she could get ten or twelve pupils, that would mean five or six dollars per week, and if she could get twenty pupils it would mean ten dollars. "I wish I could get the twenty. Then I could help Nelson. He is so very kind, I would like to do something in return for him," was her thought. The weather was so pleasant she decided to take a little walk. She did not know much about the lower portion of the city, and walked westward until she reached Broadway, not far from where our hero was in the habit of selling morning papers. Gertrude was looking into the show window of a store, admiring some pretty pictures, when she felt a tap on her shoulder, and turning, found herself face to face with Homer Bulson. "Gertrude!" exclaimed the young man. "I have been looking high and low for you! Where have you been keeping yourself?" "That is my business, Mr. Bulson," she answered stiffly. "Why, Gertrude, you are not going to be angry at me, are you?" "Why shouldn't I be angry? Haven't you made enough trouble for me?" "I haven't made any trouble--you made that yourself," he answered, somewhat ruffled by her tone. "I do not think so." "Uncle Mark is very much upset over your disappearance." "Does he wish me to come back?" she questioned eagerly. "No, I can't say that," answered Homer Bulson smoothly. "But he doesn't want you to suffer. He said, if I saw you, I should give you some money." "Thank you, but I can take care of myself." "Have you money?" "I can take care of myself; that is enough." "Why don't you let me take care of you, Gertrude?" "Because I do not like you, Mr. Bulson. How is Uncle Mark to-day?" "About as usual. You must have upset him very much. Of course I don't believe you took any money out of his safe," went on Bulson. "I guess the guilty party was that young rascal who called on you." "Nelson is no rascal. He is an honest boy." "Nelson!" ejaculated the young man. "Is his name Nelson?" "Yes. You act as if you had met him." "I--er--no--but I have--have heard of him," stammered the young man. "He called on you once, I believe, with somebody who sold you some books." "I don't remember that. But he must be the thief." "I tell you Nelson is no thief." "Thank you for that, Miss Gertrude," came from behind the pair, and our hero stepped up. "Mr. Bulson, you haven't any right to call me a thief," he went on, confronting the fashionable young man. "Go away, boy; I want nothing to do with you," answered Bulson. Nevertheless, he looked curiously at our hero. "I am no thief, but you are pretty close to being one," went on Nelson. "Me!" "Yes, you. You tried to swindle a friend of mine out of the sale of some books you had ordered from him. I call that downright mean." "Boy, don't dare to talk to me in this fashion!" stormed the young man. "If you do, I'll--I'll hand you over to the police." "No, you won't. You just leave me alone and I'll leave you alone," answered the newsboy. "And you leave Miss Gertrude alone, too," he added warmly. "Gertrude, have you taken up with this common fellow?" asked Bulson. "Nelson has been my friend," answered the girl. "He has a heart of gold." "I can't agree with you. He is but a common boy of the streets, and----" Homer Bulson went no further, for Nelson came closer and clenched his fists. "Stop, or I'll make you take it back, big as you are," said the boy. "Then you won't accept my protection?" said Bulson, turning his back on our hero. "No. If Uncle Mark wishes to write to me he can address me in care of the General Post Office," answered Gertrude. "All right; then I'll bid you good-day," said Homer Bulson, and tipping his silk hat, he hurried on and was soon lost to sight on the crowded thoroughfare. "I hate that man!" murmured Nelson, when he had disappeared. "I both hate and fear him," answered Gertrude. "I am afraid he intends to cause me a great deal of trouble." CHAPTER XV. BUYING OUT A NEWS STAND. After the above incident several weeks slipped by without anything out of the ordinary happening. In the meantime Sam Pepper's place was thoroughly remodeled and became a leading café on the East Side--a resort for many characters whose careers would not stand investigation. The man seemed wrapped up in his business, but his head was busy with schemes of far greater importance. He had said but little to Nelson, who spent a good part of his time at Mrs. Kennedy's rooms with Gertrude. Sam had found the letters and put them in a safe place without a word, and the boy had not dared to question him about them. Nor had Pepper questioned Nelson concerning what the lad knew or suspected. The results of Gertrude's advertising were not as gratifying as anticipated; still the girl obtained seven pupils, which brought her in three dollars and a half weekly. Most of the lessons had to be given on Saturdays, when her pupils were home from school, and this made it necessary that she ride from house to house, so that thirty-five cents of the money went for carfare. "Never mind," said the newsboy; "it's better than nothing, and you'll get more pupils, sooner or later." The boy himself worked as never before, getting up before sunrise and keeping at it with "sporting extras" until almost midnight. In this manner he managed to earn sometimes as high as ten dollars per week. He no longer helped Pepper around his resort, and the pair compromised on three dollars per week board money from Nelson. The rest of the money our hero either saved or offered to Gertrude. All he spent on himself was for the suit, shoes, and hat he had had so long in his mind. "I declare, you look like another person!" cried the girl, when he presented himself in his new outfit, and with his hair neatly trimmed, and his face and hands thoroughly scrubbed. "Nelson, I am proud of you!" And she said this so heartily that he blushed furiously. Her gentle influence was beginning to have its effect, and our hero was resolved to make a man of himself in the best meaning of that term. One day Nelson was at work, when George Van Pelt came along. "How goes it, George?" asked the boy. "Nothing to brag about," returned Van Pelt. "How goes it with you?" "I am doing very well. Made ten dollars and fifteen cents last week." "Phew! That's more than I made." "How much did you make?" "Eight dollars. I wish we could buy out that news stand. I am sick of tramping around trying to sell books," went on George Van Pelt. "Last week I was over in Jersey City, and one woman set her dog on me." "I hope you didn't get bit," said Nelson with a laugh. "No, but the dog kept a sample of my pants." "Have you heard anything more of the stand?" "The owner says he's going to sell out sure by next week. He told me he would take ninety dollars cash. He's going away and don't want a mortgage now." "Ninety dollars. How much have you got?" "I can scrape up forty dollars on a pinch." "I've got fifteen dollars." "That makes fifty-five dollars. We'll want thirty-five more. How can we get that amount?" "I reckon we can save it up--inside of a few weeks, if we both work hard." "The man won't wait. There's a party will give him seventy-five dollars cash right away. He's going to take that if he can't get ninety." At that moment Nelson caught sight of the familiar figure of a stout gentleman crossing the street toward him, and ran out to meet the party. "Good-morning, sir!" he said. "Have some papers this morning?" "Hullo! you're the boy that saved me from being run over a few weeks ago," returned the stout gentleman. "Yes, sir." "I'll have a _Sun_ and a _Journal_, and you can give me a _Times_, too. How is business?" "Good, sir." "I was in a hurry that day, or I would have stopped to reward you," went on the gentleman. "You did reward me, sir." "Did I? I had forgotten. You see, that fire in Harlem was in a house of mine. I was terribly upset. But the matter is all straightened out now." "I hope you didn't lose much." "No, the loss went to the insurance companies." The stout gentleman paused. "My lad, I would like to do something for you," he went on seriously. "Have you got a job for me?" "I don't know as I have, just now. But if you need help----" "I do need help, sir. Are you a capitalist?" "A capitalist?" queried the man, puzzled. "What do you mean by that?" "I mean one of those gentlemen that loan money out on business? I've heard of 'em, down in Wall Street." "Well, I sometimes loan money out." "Then I'd like to borrow thirty-five dollars." Nelson beckoned to George Van Pelt, who had moved off a short distance. "You see, it's this way," he went on, and then told about the news stand that was for sale, and what he and the book agent wished to do. Mr. Amos Barrow, for such was the gentleman's name, listened attentively. "And you think this would be a good investment?" he questioned. "Yes, it's a good stand," said Van Pelt. "But you ought to have some money with which to stock up." "We'll work hard and build it up," said our hero. "I know that neighborhood well. Old Maxwell never 'tended to business. I'll go around and get twice as large a paper route as he ever had. And we can keep plenty of ten-cent paper-covered books, and all that." "And we can keep things for school children, too," put in George Van Pelt. "There is a school near by, and many of the children pass the stand four times a day." "Well, I'll give you fifty dollars, Nelson," said Mr. Barrow. "That will help you to buy the stand and give you fifteen dollars working capital." "You can't give me the money, sir. But you can loan it to me." "But why won't you let me give it to you?" laughed the stout gentleman. "Isn't my life worth that?" "It isn't that, sir. I want to do this in a regular business fashion." "All right; have your own way, my lad." "We'll give you a mortgage on the stand," said George Van Pelt. "Never mind the mortgage. I believe I can read faces, and I'll take the boy's word," answered Mr. Barrow. Hauling out a fat pocketbook, he counted out five new ten-dollar bills and passed them over to our hero. "There you are," he said. "I would rather you would keep them. But if not, you can pay the amount back whenever it is convenient." And he passed over his business card. A few minutes later he hurried on. "He's a brick!" was George Van Pelt's comment. "Now we can buy the stand." "All right," answered Nelson. "But I want to get rid of my morning papers first." "Well, I have several books to deliver. I'll do that, and then we can meet at the stand after dinner." So it was agreed, and the pair separated. Business continued good with our hero, and by eleven o'clock he had sold out. Anxious to look the stand over, he hurried off in that direction. He found old Maxwell sitting on a soap-box, reading a sporting paper. The stand was full of dust and the stock much disarranged. Evidently the owner had lost interest in it. "I understand you want to sell out," said Nelson. "I do," answered Maxwell. "Want to buy?" "I might buy if you sell out cheap enough." "I want a hundred dollars." "A hundred? I thought you'd sell out for seventy-five." "No, I've been asking a hundred. I might knock off ten dollars, though." Nelson looked the stand over, and asked some questions about the trade done. "I'll give you eighty dollars cash," he said, at last. "Make it ninety." "No, eighty, and not a cent more." "When will you take the stand?" "This afternoon, and I'll pay fifty dollars now." "All right, you can have it," replied Maxwell. A bill of sale was drawn up, and Nelson paid the fifty dollars on account. Then he went off for lunch; first, however, taking an account of the stock on hand. "What you take in from now on is mine," he said. "All right, you shall have it," replied the old stand-keeper. CHAPTER XVI. NELSON AND PEPPER PART. Nelson remained on watch, and as soon as he saw George Van Pelt coming he headed him off and took him around the corner. "I've bought the stand," he said. "Already?" "Yes. I had a talk with old Maxwell, offered him eighty cash, and he took me up. So we've saved ten dollars." "He'll be mad when he learns he might have had ninety." "He needn't know. Give me your money, and I'll pay him the balance." So it was arranged, and Nelson went to the stand and closed the deal. Old Maxwell had taken in thirty-two cents, and this was passed over to the boy. "Going to run the stand alone?" queried the old man. "No, a man is going to help me," said our hero. "Who is it?" "George Van Pelt." "Oh, that's it, is it?" exclaimed old Maxwell. "I thought he wanted the stand himself." "He couldn't raise the money. Here he comes now." Nelson beckoned to Van Pelt, and soon both were hard at work cleaning up the stand. They talked the matter over and agreed to give old Maxwell a dollar more, if he would come around for two mornings and explain whatever proved strange to them. "Sure, I'll do it," said Maxwell. "I want you to get the best of the man up on the elevated station and the man on the next block. They are both mean fellows and don't deserve any trade." "We intend to hustle and get all the trade we can," said our hero. It must be confessed that he felt very proud of his situation. He was no longer a mere newsboy, but a business man, and he felt, somehow, as if he had grown several inches taller. "We must have a sign," said Van Pelt. "What will we make it--Van Pelt & Pepper, Newsdealers?" "I don't like the name Pepper--for a last name, I mean," said our hero, scratching his curly head. "Better make it Van Pelt & Company, for the present." And the next day an oilcloth sign was tacked up proclaiming the new firm, and notifying all that they dealt in newspapers, magazines, books, and school supplies. While Nelson tended the stand George Van Pelt went downtown to a jobbing house and bought some extra stock. In a few days business was in full blast and prospects looked very bright. "I am glad to see you doing well," said Gertrude, on visiting the stand one Saturday, after giving her music lessons. "It looks quite like a place of business. It won't be long before you'll have a store." "We'll have to save up for it," answered our hero. He wanted the girl to stay a little while, but she could not, for Mrs. Kennedy was down with rheumatism and was next to helpless. "She has been very kind to me and I wish to do what I can for her," said Gertrude. "Is her stand closed?" "No, Gladys Summers is running it for her. She has put her flowers in with the other stock." "Gladys is good-hearted, too," was Nelson's comment. Sam Pepper heard of the newsboy's new move two days after the stand was bought. "Going into business with George Van Pelt, eh?" he observed, when Nelson came home that night. "Yes." "He's a poor sort. He'll never get rich. He's not slick enough." "I'm satisfied with him," returned the newsboy briefly. "What did you take in to-day?" "A little over nine dollars." "Phew! that's better than I thought. How much profit?" "About three dollars and a half above expenses." "And you git half?" "Yes." "Then you ought to pay me more board money." "I'm paying all it's worth now. I get no more meals, remember--I only use this place to sleep in." "Well, that's worth more." "I'm thinking of getting a room near the stand," went on Nelson, after a pause. "What! you want to leave me!" roared Sam Pepper. "Why not? There is nothing to keep me here. I don't want anything to do with your saloon." "That's a nice way to talk to me." "I can't help it. I hate the saloon, and it's too far to come down here just to sleep; especially when I have to leave so early in the morning." "Supposing I don't let you leave?" To this Nelson made no reply. "You're a nice son, I must say," went on Sam Pepper. "This is what I git for raising you." "I am not your son, Sam Pepper. As for what you've done for me, I'm willing to pay you for that. You let me leave without any fuss and I'll give you two dollars a week until the debt is paid." "Two dollars a week aint much." "It's all I can afford, with my other expenses." "Reckon you don't care much for me, any more." "I never did care for you, and you know it. I don't like drinking people and the other kind that hang around here. I want to become respectable and make something of myself." "Aint I respectable?" roared Pepper, raising his fist in anger. "Say that again, and I'll knock you down." "I said that I didn't like the crowd that hangs around here. I'm going to get out, whether you take up my offer or not." "Then clear out--and the sooner the better. It's a pity I didn't kick you out," growled Sam Pepper, walking the floor savagely. "Go! go to-night!" "I will," answered our hero. No more was said, and the boy tied up what little clothing he had in a newspaper. He was soon ready to depart, and then he faced Pepper again. "Good-by," he said, holding out his hand. "Let us part friends." "You've missed it by turning against me," said Pepper, with a strange look in his eyes. "I might have made you rich." "How?" "Never mind now. You can go your way, and I'll go mine. I don't want to shake hands. Go!" And he turned his back on the newsboy. "One word more, before I leave," said our hero. "Will you tell me my right name?" "I won't tell you anything. If Nelson Pepper aint good enough for you, you can make the name what you please." "Then good-by," said Nelson, a little sadly, and in a moment more he was gone. It was so late he knew not where to look for a room that night, so trudged back to the stand. It was entirely inclosed with wooden shutters, and large enough inside for him to make himself fairly comfortable, and there he remained until daylight. "I'm glad to hear you've left Pepper," said George Van Pelt, when he heard the news. "He's a bad fellow, and getting worse. If you want, you can get a room in the house next to where I live." "What will they charge me?" "You can get a small, but clean, hall bedroom for a dollar a week." "That will just suit me," answered our hero. The place was but three blocks away from the stand, and Nelson made the necessary arrangements that afternoon, during the time when trade was dull. Nelson wondered what Pepper had meant by saying he had missed it in turning against the man. Did Pepper refer to the past, or did he have in mind what he could leave when he died? "I don't want a cent of his money," our hero told himself; "but I would like to solve the mystery of my birth and parentage." CHAPTER XVII. A BOLD MOVE. On the night following Nelson's leave-taking from Sam Pepper's establishment the keeper of the resort stood behind his bar, doing business as usual. The place now glistened with glasses and mirrors, but its so-called beauty was lost to view in the tobacco smoke which filled every nook and corner. The lunch tables had given place to little round affairs where the patrons might drink and play cards, and several of the tables were filled by a noisy crowd. Sam Pepper had just gotten rid of two tramps who wished drinks without paying for them, when he was surprised to see the door open slowly, and Homer Bulson showed himself. "Ah! how do you do, Mr. Bulson?" he said cheerily. "Please don't talk so loud," replied the young man, as he came in and walked to the rear end of the polished bar. "All right, if you want it that way. Have a drink?" "Some whisky!" was the careless answer. "How are you making out with the girl?" "Haven't you heard? She has left the house. My uncle cast her out." Sam Pepper gave a long, low whistle. "Things seems to be coming all your way," he remarked. "I don't know about that. Don't you know that Gertrude Horton and Nelson the Newsboy are friends?" "I've heard they knew each other." "They are friends." "What do you know of it?" "I met her on Broadway one day, and he came up and wouldn't give me a chance to talk to her. Do you know where she is now?" "No." "Nelson must know. Question him when he comes in, will you?" "I will--when he comes. He doesn't live with me any longer, you must remember." "He doesn't? When did he leave?" "Yesterday. He and a man have bought out a news stand, and he's going to live near by." "You mustn't lose track of him--just yet." "Trust me for that, Mr. Bulson." "If you hear anything of Gertrude, let me know at once. If you can help me, I'll pay you well." "I'm your man and I'll remember," answered Sam Pepper, and thereupon Homer Bulson finished his liquor, threw down a quarter dollar, and started to leave. "Where can I find you, if you're not at home?" called Pepper after him. "Generally at the Broxton Club," answered Bulson. "You know where that is, near Union Square." And as Pepper nodded, he opened the door and walked away. After this, business continued brisk for half an hour, when Sam Pepper found it necessary to go to a back room for some bottles. Hardly had he left the saloon when the door was opened, and much to the astonishment of the men at the round tables a young lady, plainly dressed, stepped in. It was Gertrude. "I say, that's a fine girl," remarked one of the men, a rounder named Worden. "She's a new one around here, aint she?" "Reckon she is," returned another. "How do you do, miss?" went on the first man, getting up and tipping his hat. "Excuse me, sir," said the girl. "Is Mr. Pepper in?" "Yes, here he comes now," answered Con Worden, and fell back to the table again, followed by his companion. "You are Mr. Sam Pepper?" said Gertrude timidly. The general appearance of the place frightened her. "That's my name, miss. But you've got the advantage of me." "I am Gertrude Horton." Sam Pepper stared at her in the greatest astonishment. "Well, I'm blowed," he muttered to himself. "This beats the Dutch!" "I believe you are Nelson's foster father," continued Gertrude. The café keeper nodded. "Is he here?" "Well--er--he aint here yet," answered Pepper, hardly knowing what to say. "But if you'll sit down he may come soon." "I--I guess I had better remain outside," said Gertrude, looking around with much disgust. "You are quite sure he'll come soon? I wish to see him about Mrs. Kennedy. She has been taken dangerously ill, and I do not know what to do. Could you send him over to her place when he comes?" "Better wait for him, Miss Horton. Come, I'll show you into our sitting room. It's not a grand place, but it's clean and quiet. Come." He pointed to one of the back rooms, now fixed up as a sitting room. She hesitated, but before she could resist he caught her by the arm. "Nobody shall disturb you here," he half whispered. And before she knew it she was in the sitting room. The gas was turned down, but he turned it up. Then he went out, closing the door after him. "Nelson must come in soon," he said. Gertrude sank down on a chair. Her mind was concerned entirely over the serious sickness which had suddenly overtaken good Mrs. Kennedy, and consequently she thought little of herself. But when she heard some shutters to the window of the sitting room slam from the outside she leaped to her feet. "What can that mean?" she cried, and ran to the window. Trying the shutters, she found them fastened from the outside. At once she crossed over to the door, to find it locked. "He has made me a prisoner!" she moaned. Then she knocked loudly on the door, but nobody came to answer her summons. In the meantime Sam Pepper, having locked the door and fastened the window shutters, called Con Worden to him. "Worden, do you want to earn a quarter?" he asked. "Well, I should smile," answered the hanger-on eagerly. "You saw that gentleman who was here a while ago--him with the silk hat and gold-headed cane." "Of course I did." "Go over to the Broxton Club, near Union Square, and see if he is there. Call for Mr. Bulson. If you find him, tell him to come at once." "All right," said Con Worden, and hurried off. CHAPTER XVIII. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. The Broxton Club was a fashionable resort for young gentlemen who usually had more money than brains. It was located near the upper side of Union Square, and the club apartments consisted of a parlor, a dining and wine room, and a room for card-playing. In the latter apartment gambling went on at nearly all hours of the day and night. Reaching the club Homer Bulson found several congenial companions, and presently sat down to a game of cards. Bets were made, first at a dollar, then at five, and then at ten and twenty. Bulson had no luck, and soon lost forty dollars. "I'm on the wrong side to-night," was his dismal comment, and he went to the wine room to forget his losses in the flowing bowl. He had just finished a glass of liquor when a servant came to him. "A man at the door to see you, sir," said the servant. "Says he has a private message for you." Wondering who the messenger could be, Homer Bulson hurried below and found Con Worden awaiting him. "You want to see me?" he questioned sharply. He did not like the dilapidated appearance of the hanger-on. "Are you the gent that just came from Sam Pepper's place?" "What if I am?" asked Bulson cautiously. "He says he wants to see you at once." "At once?" "That's it." "He didn't say what about?" "No." "All right; I'll be over as soon as I can get there." "I'll tell him that." Homer Bulson expected Worden to make off at once, but the hanger-on did not budge. "Well, aren't you going?" asked the young man sharply. "Certainly, sir; soon as I git paid," said Worden coolly. "Oh, that's it! What do you want?" "It's worth a quarter, aint it?" "I suppose so," answered Bulson carelessly, and passed over a silver piece. "Thanks; I'm off now," said Con Worden, and speedily disappeared. In a few minutes Homer Bulson followed the man, and it did not take him long to reach Sam Pepper's resort once more. As he entered he found Pepper in the act of clearing out all the hangers-on, including Worden, who had just received the quarter promised to him. "Well, what is it?" asked Homer Bulson. "I've got news that I guess will surprise you," was the answer. "What is it?" "You want to find your cousin Gertrude." "I do." "What will you give me for finding her for you?" "Oh, I don't know. What do you want?" "Is it worth a hundred dollars?" "What, for just finding her?" "For finding her and putting her in your power." "Can you put her in my power?" "Perhaps I can." "When?" "Very soon,--if you'll pay the hundred." "I will," returned Bulson eagerly. "Perhaps you've got her in your power already," he went on hastily. "I have." "Where?" "Here." Homer Bulson looked around him and then stared at Pepper in amazement. "I don't see her." "She is in my sitting room, under lock and key." "Back there?" The café keeper nodded. "But I can't understand it, Pepper. How did you get her here, and so soon? You didn't have her when I was here before, did you?" "Of course not. Right after you went away she came in, looking for Nelson, because the woman she lives with is very sick. I told her to wait in the sitting room, and then I locked the door and the window on her." "What is she doing now?" As if in reply to the young man's question there was a loud knock on the sitting-room door. "Mr. Pepper! Mr. Pepper!" came in Gertrude's voice. "She has knocked several times," said Pepper. "But I didn't mind that. I'm thankful she hasn't begun to kick and scream." "I must have a talk with her. Now that she finds she is in our power, perhaps she'll come to terms." "More than likely." The door was unlocked, and Sam Pepper allowed Homer Bulson to enter the room. "Watch the door, if you don't want her to get away," whispered Sam Pepper, and the young man winked one eye knowingly. On seeing her cousin Gertrude fell back in astonishment. "What, you?" she faltered. "Yes, Gertrude, I've been looking for you," he answered. "Where is Nelson?" "I don't know, and I don't care. I don't see how you can interest yourself in that young ruffian." "He is more of a true gentleman than you will ever be, Mr. Bulson." "You are truly complimentary, Gertrude. But you do not know your own mind, nor what is best for you. This running away has upset your judgment." "I did not run away--I was driven away--and all because of you." "Then let me set matters right for you." "Will you do that?" she asked eagerly. "I promise I will--if you'll only marry me." "Always the same thing!" she cried, bursting into tears. "I will not listen. Let me go." She started for the door, but he placed himself directly in her path. "Wait a minute. Where do you live?" "I decline to answer that question." "I'll wager it is in some low tenement house, among the poorest people." "I live among poor people, it is true, but they are not low, as you understand the word." "Did Nelson Pepper find the place for you?" "He did." "Always that boy! You make me angry with your foolishness. Why don't you come back? I want to share Uncle Mark's fortune with you." "I have talked all I wish upon the subject." "How are you to live? You never did any work in your whole life." "I can work when it is necessary." "At what?" "I am giving piano lessons." "At starvation wages, I presume," he sneered. "I am making an honest living. Thousands can do no more. Now I demand that you let me go." Again she moved toward the door, and again he stood in her path. "Did you hear what I said?" she cried. "Stand aside!" "I will stand aside--when we have come to terms," he answered, setting his teeth. "You shall not leave this house until you have promised to do as I and your uncle desire." CHAPTER XIX. NELSON TO THE RESCUE. On the same evening that Gertrude visited Sam Pepper's establishment, Nelson, after closing up, determined to run down and call upon the girl and tell her about the stand and how well they had done that day. "She'll be pleased, I know," he told himself. "She wants me to make a man of myself." Arriving at the tenement house, he ascended the stairs to Mrs. Kennedy's rooms and knocked upon the back door. To his surprise Gladys Summers, the flower girl, let him in. "Hullo, Gladys! you here?" he said. "Oh, Nelson! I thought it was Gertrude," answered the flower girl. "Did you bring her along?" "Along? I haven't seen her." "She went over to Sam Pepper's place to bring you here. Mrs. Kennedy is very sick, and we didn't know what to do." "I haven't been to Sam's place. I left there yesterday for good. What's the matter with the old lady?" "Her rheumatism has got up around her heart, and she's very bad. I think she ought to have a doctor." "She shall have one, Gladys. Was Gertrude going to get one?" "No, she was going to get you to do that. She doesn't know anything of doctors down here, so she said." "I'll have one here in a little while," said our hero, and ran down the stairs, two steps at a time. Two blocks below the house there was a drug store, and a doctor had his office upstairs. The physician was in, and listened to what Nelson had to say. "I'll go," he said. "But you know my terms to strangers." "How much will the visit be?" "A dollar." "There's your money." And our hero handed it over. The pair were soon at Mrs. Kennedy's bedside, and after an examination the doctor wrote out a prescription and Nelson had it filled at the drug store. The physician said he would call again the following afternoon. "She's in a bad state," he said. "She has likely had this rheumatism for years, and her age is against her." "Don't you think she'll get over it?" asked our hero. "I think she will. But she may be helpless for many weeks." "It's hard luck. She hasn't any money." "Then you had better send her to the hospital." "No, she shall stay home, if she wants to," said Nelson. "I guess I and the rest can take care of her. She was always good to me and the others." After the medicine had been administered and Mrs. Kennedy was a trifle easier, Nelson began to grow impatient that Gertrude had not yet returned. "I guess I'll go out and hunt her up," he said to Gladys Summers. "Will you stay here?" "Yes; I promised to stay all night, Nelson." Our hero was soon in the street again and making his way rapidly over to the East Side in the direction of Sam Pepper's resort. It was now late, but this part of the city was still bustling with life. Yet to our hero's surprise, when he reached Pepper's place he found it locked up. "Closed!" he muttered. "This is queer. I wonder where Gertrude went?" He stood for a moment on the pavement, then went and rapped loudly on the glass of the door. For a minute there was no response, then, as he rapped again, Sam Pepper appeared. His face fell when he lifted a door shade and saw our hero. "What do you want now?" he growled, as he opened the door for a space of several inches. "Was that young lady over here to find me?" asked our hero. "Nobody here to see you," answered Sam Pepper gruffly. "She wasn't? Why, she started for here." "I haven't seen anybody. Is that all you want?" "Yes. Why are you shut up so early?" "I didn't feel very well and thought I'd go to bed and sleep it off," answered Pepper smoothly. "I'm going back again. Good-night!" "Then you haven't seen her at all?" persisted the newsboy. "Haven't I told you so before? Now, don't disturb me again." And with this Sam Pepper slammed the door shut and locked it. Nelson was nonplused, not so much by what Pepper had said as by the man's manner. "He wanted to get rid of me in a hurry," he mused. "Somehow, this affair doesn't look right to me." While our hero was standing near the curb, speculating upon where next to look for Gertrude, he was surprised to see Paul Randall come down the street. "Why, Paul, how is it you are out so late?" he asked. "Got stuck on some sporting extras and was bound to sell 'em," answered Paul. "Say, I hear you've bought out a stand." "George Van Pelt and I have bought out a stand." "Hope you make lots of money. If you need a clerk, don't forget me." "I won't forget you, Paul. We have a boy now who delivers papers for us. He talks of leaving. If he does, I'll let you know. But, I say, have you been around here long?" "Most all the evening." "You know that young lady who is stopping with Mrs. Kennedy, don't you?" "Yes. Gladys Summers calls her 'the angel,'" answered Paul readily. "She's a real lady, aint she, Nelson?" "She is." "I saw her go into Pepper's an hour or two ago." "You did! I was going to ask you if you had seen her. You haven't made any mistake?" "Not much! I'd know her in a whole city full--she's so sweet and beautiful." "Did you see her come away?" "No." "Were you around so you could have seen her?" "Yes; and I kept my eye on the door for almost an hour. I thought you might be with her." "No; Sam Pepper and I have parted for good, Paul. I've got a room uptown, near the stand. I'd like to know what became of the young lady." "If she came out, it must have been after I went away." Paul knew that his mother, who was now getting better, would be anxious about him, so, without waiting longer, he hurried on. Nelson remained on the sidewalk, in deep thought. Presently, as he was looking toward Sam Pepper's resort, he saw a corner of a curtain lifted and saw the man peer out at him. Then the curtain was dropped again. "He's watching me," thought the newsboy. "Something is wrong here, and I know it. He and that Homer Bulson are friends, and Bulson is bound to make Miss Gertrude marry him. Perhaps they have hatched up some game against Miss Gertrude." Not to make Sam Pepper more suspicious, Nelson walked briskly away, up the street. But at the first corner he turned, sped down the side street, and then into the alleyway connecting with the rear of Pepper's resort. It took him but a minute to ascertain that the shutters to the rear room were tightly closed, and held together by a wire bound from one catch to the other. The shutters were solid, but near the tops were several round holes, put there for ventilating purposes. Looking around our hero discovered an empty barrel, and standing on this he managed to look through one of the holes into the apartment. He saw Gertrude sitting on a chair, the picture of misery. The hot tears were flowing down her cheeks. The sight went straight to his heart, and without waiting to think of results, he leaped from the barrel, pulled away the wire, and flung the shutters open. Then he lifted the window, which had been pulled down, but not fastened. Gertrude heard the noise and leaped up in fresh alarm. But when she saw our hero she gave a cry of joy. "Oh, Nelson! will you help me?" she gasped. "Certainly I'll help you, Miss Gertrude," he answered. "What are they doing--keeping you a prisoner here?" "Something like that. Mr. Bulson was here and went out to get a coach, so that he could take me away. Mr. Pepper is on guard in his saloon." "Just come with me, and you'll be safe." Gertrude came to the window, and Nelson helped her into the alleyway. Just as she leaped from the window Sam Pepper unlocked the door and opened it. "Stop!" roared the man. "Stop, I say!" "Don't stop!" said Nelson, and caught Gertrude by the hand. Dark as it was, the boy knew the narrow and dirty thoroughfare well, and soon led his companion to the street beyond. Pepper came as far as the window, and called after them once more, but did not dare to follow further. [Illustration: "'STOP!' ROARED THE MAN. 'STOP, I SAY!'"] CHAPTER XX. THE HOME IN THE TENEMENT. "Oh, how thankful I am that you came!" exclaimed Gertrude, when she felt safe once more. "I'm glad myself," answered Nelson heartily. "But how was it Pepper made you a prisoner?" "I went there to find you, because Mrs. Kennedy is so sick. I must get back to her at once." "There is no need to hurry." And Nelson told of what he and Gladys had done for the patient. Then Gertrude related her story and told how Homer Bulson had said she must marry him. "He was going to take me to some place in New Jersey," Gertrude continued. "I heard him and Sam Pepper talk it over." "The both of them are a big pair of rascals!" burst out Nelson. "Oh, I wish I was a man! I'd teach them a lesson!" And he shook his head determinedly. "I am afraid Mr. Bulson will find out that I am living with Mrs. Kennedy, and he'll watch his chance to make more trouble for me," said the girl despondently. "Oh, why can't he let me alone? He can have my uncle's money, and welcome." "We'll all be on guard," answered Nelson. "If he tries to harm you, call a policeman. Perhaps that will scare him." Gertrude returned to her home with Mrs. Kennedy, and satisfied that Homer Bulson would do nothing further that night, the newsboy started to walk uptown. But presently he changed his mind and turned his footsteps toward the East Side. When he reached the vicinity of Sam Pepper's resort he saw a coach drawn up in front of the place. Homer Bulson was just coming out of the resort with Sam Pepper behind him. "It's too bad," our hero heard Bulson say. "You're a fine rascal!" cried the boy boldly. "For two pins I'd have you locked up." "Here he is now!" exclaimed Bulson. "Pepper, you ought to take him in hand for his impudence." "Sam Pepper won't touch me, and you won't touch me, either," cried our hero, with flashing eyes. "You thought you were smart, Mr. Homer Bulson, but your game didn't work. And let me tell you something. If you trouble Miss Horton in the future, she and I are going to put the police on your track." "Me? The police!" ejaculated the young man, in horror. "Yes, the police. So, after this, you had better let her alone." "Nelson, you talk like a fool," put in Sam Pepper. "I don't think so." "What is that girl to you? If you'd only stand in with us, it would be money in your pocket." "I'm not for sale." "Mr. Bulson wants to do well by her. She don't know how to work. If she marries him, she'll have it easy for the rest of her life." "But she don't want him, and that's the end of it. I've given you warning now. If anything happens to her I'll call in the police, and I'll tell all I know, and that's more than either of you dream of," concluded our hero, and walked off. "He's an imp!" muttered Bulson savagely. "I'd like to wring his neck for him!" "I wonder how much he knows?" said Pepper, in alarm. "It was always a mystery to me how he and the girl fell in with each other." "He can't know very much, for she doesn't know a great deal, Pepper. He's only talking to scare us," said Bulson. His uncle had not told him of the meeting in the library. "What are you going to do next?" "Better wait till this affair blows over. Then Gertrude will be off her guard," concluded Homer Bulson. After that several weeks slipped by without anything unusual happening. Gertrude kept on her guard when going out to give piano lessons, but neither Bulson nor Pepper showed himself. Gertrude, Gladys, and Nelson all took turns in caring for Mrs. Kennedy, and the old lady speedily recovered from the severe attack of rheumatism she had experienced. She was anxious to get back to her fruit-and-candy stand. "It's meself as can't afford to be idle at all," she declared. "Sure an' I must owe yez all a whole lot av money." "Don't owe me a cent," said Nelson, and Gertrude and Gladys said the same. Business with the firm was steadily increasing. The boy who had carried the paper route had left, and Paul Randall was now filling the place and doing his best to bring in new trade. "We'll soon be on our way to opening a regular store," said George Van Pelt, one day. "We really need the room already." "Let us go slow," said Nelson. "I know a fellow who had a stand near the Fulton ferry. He swelled up and got a big store at fifty dollars a month, and then he busted up in less than half a year. I want to be sure of what I am doing." And Van Pelt agreed with him that that was best. Of course some newsboys were jealous of our hero's success, and among these were Billy Darnley and Len Snocks. Both came up to the stand while Nelson was in sole charge one afternoon, and began to chaff him. "T'ink yer big, don't yer?" said Darnley. "I could have a stand like dis, if I wanted it." "Perhaps you could, if you could steal the money to buy it," replied our hero suggestively. "Dis aint no good spot fer business," put in Len Snocks. "Why didn't yer git furder downtown?" "This is good enough for me," said our hero calmly. "If you don't like the stand, you don't have to patronize me." "Yer don't catch me buyin' nuthin here," burst out Snocks. "We know better where to spend our money; don't we, Billy?" "Perhaps you called to pay up that balance you owe me," said Nelson to Billy Darnley. "There is a dollar and ninety cents still coming my way." "Ah, go on wid yer!" growled Billy Darnley, with a sour look. "I wouldn't have de stand, if yer give it to me. Come on, Len!" And he hauled his companion away. Our hero felt that he could afford to laugh at the pair. "I guess it's a case of sour grapes," he said to himself. "They'd think they were millionaires if they owned a place like this." Both Darnley and Snocks were out of money, and hungry, and they were prowling along the street, ready to pick up anything which came to hand. "It's a shame Nelse's got dat stand," said Darnley. "He don't deserve it no more'n I do." "No more dan me," added Snocks. "It beats all how some fellers strike it lucky, eh?" "I wish we could git something off of him," went on the larger bully. "Off de stand?" queried Snocks. "Yes." "Maybe we can--to-night, after he locks up." "Say, dat would be just de t'ing," burst out the larger boy. "Nobody is around, and it would be easy to break open de lock. If only we had a push-cart, we could make a big haul." "I know an Italian who has one. We can borrow dat." "Will he lend it?" "I'll borrow it on de sly." So a plan was arranged to get the push-cart that night, after the news stand was locked up and Nelson and Van Pelt had gone away. Billy Darnley had a bunch of keys in his pocket, and he felt fairly certain that one or another would fit the lock to the stand. "Won't Nelse be surprised when he finds de t'ings gone?" said Snocks. "But it will serve him right, won't it?" "To be sure," added Darnley. "He's gittin' too high-toned. He wants to come down out of de clouds." CHAPTER XXI. NELSON MAKES A PRESENT. In some manner of her own Mrs. Kennedy had found out that that day was Gertrude's birthday, and she had concocted a scheme with Nelson and Gladys to give her a surprise. "Sure an' the poor dear deserves a bit av pleasure," said the old Irishwoman. "This humdrum life is almost a-killin' av her. We'll buy her a few things, and have a bit av a party supper." "She shall have my best bouquet," said the flower girl. She loved Gertrude dearly. Nelson was in a great state of perplexity concerning what to give Gertrude. One after another, different things were considered and rejected. "You see, she's a regular lady," he said to George Van Pelt, "and I want to give her something that just suits. Now a common girl would like most anything, but she's--well, she's different; that's all." "Most girls like dresses and hats," suggested Van Pelt. Nelson shook his head. "It won't do. Her dresses and her hat are better than I could buy. Besides, I want to give her something she can keep." "Does she like to read?" "I guess she does." "I saw a new book advertised--a choice collection of poems. It's really something fine--far better than most collections. How would that suit?" "How much was the book?" "Two dollars and a half, but we, as dealers, can get it for a dollar and seventy-five cents." "Then that's what I'll get. And I'll write in it, 'To Miss Gertrude Horton, from her true friend Nelson,'" said the boy. The book was duly purchased, and our hero spent the best part of half an hour in writing in it to his satisfaction. That night he closed up a little early and walked down to the Kennedy home with the volume under his arm. "Oh, what a splendid book!" cried Gertrude, on receiving it. Then she read the inscription on the fly-leaf. "Nelson, you are more than kind, and I shall never forget you!" And she squeezed his hand warmly. Gladys had brought her largest bouquet and also a nice potted plant, and Mrs. Kennedy had presented a sensible present in the shape of a much-needed pair of rubbers. "Winter will soon be here," said the old woman. "And then it's not our Miss Gertrude is going to git wet feet, at all!" The girl was taken quite by surprise, and even more so when Mrs. Kennedy brought in a substantial supper, which had been cooking on the stove of a neighbor. To this Nelson added a quart of ice cream from a near-by confectioner's, and the birthday party was voted a great success by all who participated. "You have all been so kind to me," said Gertrude, when they broke up, "you make me forget what I had to give up." "Don't ye be after worryin', dear," said Mrs. Kennedy. "'Twill all come out right in the end." "I trust so, Mrs. Kennedy. But I ask for nothing more than that I can earn my own living and keep the friends I have made," answered the girl. "How many scholars have you now?" questioned Gladys. "Fourteen, and two more are promised." "Sixteen is not bad," said our hero, who knew that that meant eight dollars a week for the teacher. It was after midnight when the party broke up, and Nelson had to take Gladys to her home, several blocks away. The flower girl lived with a bachelor brother, who supported himself and paid the rent. The rest Gladys had to supply herself. "I wish I had a regular stand for flowers," she said to Nelson. "I could make a good deal more, then." "I'll help you buy a stand some day, Gladys," he replied. "I know a good place up in your neighborhood." That was Nelson, helping everybody he could, and that is why he is the hero of this tale of New York street life. "If you'll help me I'll pay you back," said the flower girl earnestly. "You know flowers keep so much better when they are in a glass case," she explained. A light rain was falling when the newsboy at last started for the house where he roomed. He buttoned his coat up around his throat and pulled his hat far down over his eyes. He was almost to his room when, on turning a corner, he saw two big boys shoving a push-cart along, piled high with goods concealed under some potato sacking. As the boys passed in the glare of an electric light he recognized Billy Darnley and Len Snocks. "Hullo, this is queer!" he murmured. "Where are they going with that push-cart? I didn't know either of 'em was in the peddling business." The pair soon passed out of sight, and Nelson continued on his way. Quarter of an hour later he was in bed and in the land of dreams. It was George Van Pelt's turn to open up the stand on the following morning, our hero being entitled to sleep an hour longer than otherwise in consequence. But hardly had the time for opening arrived when George Van Pelt came rushing around to our hero's room in high excitement. "Nelson, what does this mean?" he demanded. "What does what mean?" asked our hero sleepily. "All the things are gone from the stand!" "Gone?" "Yes, everything--papers, books, pens, pencils, writing pads, ink, mucilage, everything. It's a clean sweep. Do you know anything about it?" "No, I don't," answered Nelson, and now he was as wide awake as his partner. "When did it happen?" "I don't know--some time before I got there. One of the padlocks was broken and the other unlocked. The rascals even took the money drawer," went on Van Pelt bitterly. "That had fifteen cents in it," said Nelson. "I took it in after I made up the cash for the day." "Well, we're in a pickle now," groaned Van Pelt. "And just think, we were insured only day before yesterday." "But not against burglars," groaned Nelson in return. "If we can't trace up the stuff, we'll have to lose it." "But we can't afford to lose the stuff. It was worth sixty dollars if it was worth a penny." "Nearer seventy dollars, for I bought some new pads and paper-bound books yesterday, and they cost seven dollars and a quarter. We must find the robbers." The newsboy hit his washstand with his fist. "By jinks, I've got it! I know who robbed us!" "Who?" "Len Snocks and Billy Darnley, those newsboys I told you about. I saw them eying the stand pretty closely, and last night, when I came home from the party, I saw them on the block below here with a push-cart full of goods. I thought it funny at the time. They had the stuff covered with old sacks. I never saw either of them with a push-cart before." "That certainly is suspicious." "Have you notified the police?" "Yes, I told the officer on the beat as I came along. He's going to send in a report. But if you think those fellows are guilty we had better go after them without delay. Otherwise they'll sell the stuff and clear out." "I think I know where to look for them," said Nelson. He was soon into his clothing, and he and Van Pelt hurried to the stand, where they found Paul selling such papers as had come in for the morning trade. "It's awful," said the small boy. "Such thieves ought to be placed behind the bars." It was decided that Paul should run his route and then tend the stand, while Nelson and his partner went on a hunt down the Bowery and on the East Side for Darnley and Snocks. "I can't say when we'll be back, Paul," said Van Pelt. "But until we return you must do the best you can." And this the little lad promised. Our hero knew that Darnley and Snocks lived not far from each other on a street running toward the East River, and thither he led the way. "Seen anything of Len Snocks?" he asked of a newsboy he met in the vicinity. "Yes, I did," answered the boy. "Saw him early this morning." "Where?" "Down by the ferry to Brooklyn." "Was he alone?" "No; he had Billy Darnley with him." "Were they carrying anything?" "Yes, each had a couple of heavy bundles, about all he could manage." "Did you see them get on the ferry?" questioned George Van Pelt. "Saw 'em go into the ferryhouse. They must have gone over," answered the newsboy. A few words more followed, and Nelson and Van Pelt hurried to the ferry and soon found themselves on Fulton Street, one of the main thoroughfares of Brooklyn. "Now to find them," said our hero. "I'm afraid it's going to prove a big job." CHAPTER XXII. A DISAPPOINTMENT. "How shall we strike out?" asked George Van Pelt, as he and our hero came to a halt under the elevated railroad. "It's more than likely they'll try to sell those things to some stationer or at a second-hand store," answered Nelson. "And the chances are that they'll sell 'em as quick as possible." "You are right there," answered his partner. "Supposing you take one side of the street and I'll take the other, and we'll ask at the different stores." This was agreed upon, and soon our hero had visited five stores. Nobody had seen the thieves or knew anything about them. "It's no use," he thought, and then entered a sixth establishment, kept by an old man. "Yes, I saw them," said the old man. "They were here early this morning, and wanted to sell me the things dog-cheap. But I was suspicious of them, so I didn't buy." "Do you know where they went next?" "One of them said something about taking the elevated train." "You didn't watch them?" "No; I was going to, but a customer took my time." The old man described both Darnley and Snocks, and also some of the goods offered, so there could not possibly be any mistake. "I hate thieves," he concluded. "I hope you catch them." "If we need a witness, will you aid us?" asked Nelson. "I will." "Thank you," said Nelson, and left him one of the business cards he and Van Pelt had had printed. On the corner he beckoned to his partner and told Van Pelt of what he had learned. "We'll ask the elevated railroad gate-keeper below," said Van Pelt. But at the station they got no satisfaction. "I came on an hour ago," said the gate-keeper. "The other man has gone home." "And you haven't seen 'em?" asked Nelson. "No. The fact is, so many people come and go we hardly notice anybody." "That is so," said George Van Pelt, as he and our hero walked away. "Nelson, I am afraid we are stumped." "It looks like it," said the newsboy soberly. "What shall we do next?" "I hardly know, George. I hate to give up. The stuff we lost cost too much money." "Do you suppose either Darnley or Snocks went home?" "It's possible." "We ought to visit their homes and make sure." The matter was talked over for several minutes, and it was finally agreed that Nelson should visit the homes of the two boys while George Van Pelt returned to the news stand to relieve Paul. Billy Darnley lived on the fourth floor of a large rear tenement on one of the dirtiest streets of the East Side. To get to the place our hero had to pass through an alleyway filled with rubbish and teeming with neglected children. Hardened as he was to the rougher side of city life he could not help but shudder at the sight. "Poor things! they are a heap worse off than myself," was his thought. At a corner of the alleyway he ran across a small girl and one several years older. The little girl was a cripple, and the larger girl was making fun of her deformity. "Limpy leg! Limpy leg!" she cried shrilly. "Limpy leg, aint you ugly!" At this the cripple began to cry. "Stop that!" called out Nelson. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. This little girl can't help being a cripple. Perhaps some day you'll be a cripple yourself, and then you won't want anybody to make fun of you." And at this the big girl fell back abashed. "She always does that," said the cripple. "She's awful mean." Nelson asked the girl where Billy Darnley lived, and the girl pointed out the rooms. Soon the newsboy was knocking on one of the doors to the apartment. "Come in," said a rough voice, and Nelson entered, to find himself confronted by a burly man slightly the worse for the rum he had been drinking. "Is this where Billy Darnley lives?" he asked. "I'm Billy Darnley," answered the man. "I mean Billy Darnley, the newsboy." "That's my son. He lives here, but he aint here now. He's out selling papers." "Has he been home in the last two or three hours?" "No." There was an awkward pause, and the man eyed Nelson curiously. "What do you want of Billy?" he questioned at last. "I want to recover some things he stole from my news stand," answered our hero stoutly. "Things he stole?" cried Darnley senior. "Yes." "Are you sure Billy stole them?" "Yes--he and another boy named Len Snocks." "When was this?" "Last night." "Humph! Tell me all about it." Nelson did as requested. Before he had finished Darnley senior gave a long yawn. "Hang that boy!" he observed. "He's going from bad to worse. He will end up on the gallows if he aint careful." To console himself he got out a black bottle and took a deep drink. Evidently he was not deeply impressed. "Have you any idea where Billy is now?" asked our hero. "No. He'll keep shady, I suppose. I can't help you. Go to the police. If he gets hung some day it will be his own fault." The man turned his back on Nelson as if to end the interview. In a minute more our hero was in the street again. "A fine father for any boy to have," was his thought. "I reckon one is about as bad as the other, and perhaps both will end up in the electric chair." CHAPTER XXIII. AN UNSUCCESSFUL QUEST. From the tenement where Billy Darnley lived Nelson made his way to where Len Snocks resided. This home in the tenements was in strong contrast to that of the Darnleys. There were but three rooms, but each was as clean and bright as hard work could make them. A small, trim-looking woman carrying a baby in her arms answered his knock. This proved to be Mrs. Snocks. In the rooms were several other children of various ages. "No, I haven't seen Len since last night," she said, in reply to our hero's question. "He went off with another boy named Billy Darnley." "Did he say where he was going or when he would be back?" "He did not. I am anxious about him, too. He never stayed away all night before. What do you want of him?" "He and Billy Darnley robbed my news stand last night." "Robbed your stand!" Mrs. Snocks grew very pale. "Can this be true?" "Yes, ma'am, it is." And Nelson gave the particulars once more. "Too bad!" cried the woman, and, dropping on a kitchen chair, she covered her face with her apron. Nelson saw that she was suffering keenly, and felt sorry for her. "It's that Darnley boy," she said presently. "He is a bad egg and is leading our Len astray. My husband and I have warned Len time and time again to let Billy alone; but he won't mind, and Billy leads him into all kinds of mischief." "Well, I'm sorry for you, ma'am, but we have got to have our stuff back." "How much was it worth?" "About seventy-five dollars." "Oh, dear! I'm sure I don't know what to do." "Is your husband to work?" "No; he hasn't had any work for several months. Wait; I'll call him." Mrs. Snocks went to a rear window and called to somebody in the courtyard below. Soon Mr. Snocks appeared. He was an iron molder, but looked far from healthy. "Stole from your stand," he said, after listening to his wife and Nelson. "This is the worst yet." "It's Billy Darnley's fault," put in the wife. "He hasn't any business to go with Billy, Mary. That rascal will lead him to prison." "You're right there," said our hero. "I don't know what to do," went on Mr. Snocks, to Nelson. "I'd square this up, only I'm out of work, and haven't more than two or three dollars to my name." "We have three dollars and twenty-five cents," said the wife. "You can have that." And she brought out a well-worn pocketbook. Her manner touched the newsboy to the heart. "No, I won't take your last cent," he said. "You'll need it for yourself and the children. Only if you see Len, try to get back the goods or the money he got for them." "We'll do that--don't fear," said Mr. Snocks. "And I'll thrash him everlastingly in the bargain." No more could be accomplished at the Snockses' home, and soon Nelson was on his way back to the stand. "What luck?" questioned George Van Pelt, as soon as he appeared. "Not much," he answered, and told his story. "We'll never hear from old Darnley," he added. "But perhaps we'll get something from the Snockses." "I'm glad you didn't take that woman's last dollar," said Van Pelt. "We're not as hard up as all that, even if we have been almost cleaned out." Fortunately for the partners they had paid all bills promptly since taking charge of the stand, so their credit was good. On the following morning Van Pelt went around and explained the situation to several wholesale dealers, and also to the news company, and succeeded in getting a fresh supply of goods on thirty and sixty days' time. "We've got to hustle to make it up," he said. "Well, I'm in the business to hustle," answered Nelson, with a grim smile. "I never yet was idle, as far back as I can remember." "Always sold newspapers?" "Mostly. Once in a while I blacked boots and carried baggage, but not very often." "Are you related to Sam Pepper?" "I don't think I am." "Hasn't he ever told you anything about yourself?" "He has and again he hasn't. He told me some things that I don't believe are true, George." "Humph! Well, I wouldn't trust him too much." "I don't trust him at all, since the time he tried to help Mr. Bulson against Miss Gertrude." "It's queer that Bulson is so possessed to marry Miss Horton, when she doesn't care for him." "I guess the reason is that Bulson is afraid Mr. Horton will relent and take Miss Gertrude back, and then she'll come in for half the money, after all. He is so piggish that he wants to get it all." "Mr. Horton ought to be told how Bulson is acting." "Miss Gertrude says he is a strange man and won't believe what anybody says about his nephew." "He must be strange, or he wouldn't turn such a nice young lady as Miss Horton out of doors," said Van Pelt feelingly. He had met Gertrude several times and was much interested in her. On the week following Mrs. Kennedy was served with a notice to quit her apartments, as the tenement was to be torn down. She and Gertrude hunted up other rooms, not far from Nelson's stand. These were bright and cheerful and a very great improvement over those vacated. "And I will feel safer," said Gertrude. "For I fancy Homer Bulson knew the other home and often watched me going in and coming out." Gertrude was right in her surmise. Homer Bulson was watching her very closely and laying his plans to make her his own, in spite of herself. But when everything was in readiness to make a move, he found to his chagrin that the rooms were empty and the building was being torn down. "Hang the luck, anyhow!" he muttered sulkily. "Now where in the world shall I look for her?" He questioned several people in the neighborhood, but nobody seemed to be able to give him any information. The truth of the matter was Mrs. Kennedy had requested her friends to say nothing to a gentleman in a silk hat who asked about Gertrude, and for this reason they were accordingly mum. "Never mind, I'll find her sooner or later," Bulson told himself. "And then my next move will surely surprise her." CHAPTER XXIV. A DECOY LETTER. One day Nelson was folding some evening papers at the stand when, on glancing up, he saw Homer Bulson standing not far away eyeing him sharply. "Hullo, what does he want now?" thought our hero. Bulson waited until several customers had received papers and departed, and then came closer. "How is trade?" he asked, in as pleasant a voice as he could command. "Very good," returned Nelson coolly. "I presume you do better with the stand than you did selling papers on the street." "Much better." "I am glad to hear it." To this Nelson made no reply, for he felt certain that Homer Bulson was playing the part of a hypocrite. "He wants to find out about Gertrude," he told himself. "How is Miss Horton making out these days?" went on the young man. "She is doing nicely." "Is she working?" "She gives piano lessons." "Humph! she can't make much at that." "She make enough to keep her." "If she wouldn't be so headstrong she might have a comfortable home without working." "She intends to do as she pleases," replied Nelson sharply. "And she doesn't ask you for advice." "Where is she living now?" "You'll have to find that out for yourself." "Her uncle wants to know." "Then let him write to her and address the letter to the general post-office." "Does she go there for her letters?" "No; somebody goes for her." At this Homer Bulson bit his lip in increased vexation. "What rot all this is!" he cried. "I'm not going to eat her up." "You're right there," grinned Nelson. "We won't let you. The best you can do is to leave her alone. If you don't somebody will get hurt." "Ha! do you threaten me?" "You can take the warning as you please." "Boy, you are a fool!" "If I am, I am too smart a fool to be taken in by you, Mr. Homer Bulson." "I want to help Miss Horton." "You want to harm her, you mean." "Then you won't tell me where she lives?" "No. And let me add, if you find out and try to harm her you'll get hurt." "Oh, you make me tired," muttered Bulson, and walked away. Everything seemed to be against the young man, but two days later his luck--if such it can be called--changed. He was walking along a fashionable side street, when on chancing to look ahead he saw Gertrude leave a house and hurry to the corner. He started to follow her, but before he could reach her she had boarded a street car and was out of his reach. Going back to the house he met a girl of twelve coming out on the stone stoop. "Good-afternoon," he said politely. "Am I right about seeing Miss Horton just coming from here?" "You are," answered the girl. "She's just been giving me a music lesson." "Oh, so she gives music lessons here. Does she teach anybody else in the neighborhood?" "Yes; she teaches on the block above here and around on the avenue." And the girl gave the names and addresses. Homer Bulson made a note of the names and addresses and walked off in high satisfaction. "Now to work my little scheme," he said to himself. Two days later he left New York and took a train at Jersey City for Lakewood, down in New Jersey. At the fashionable resort he managed to find a house on the outskirts of the town. It was owned and kept by an old woman, who was more than half deaf. To this old woman, whose name was Sarah Higgins, Bulson told a long story of a cousin who was a little crazy and who wanted absolute rest. "She is harmless, excepting for her tongue," said Bulson. "I would like to bring her here for several months. If you will take her, I will give you twenty-five dollars a week for your trouble." Sarah Higgins was a natural-born miser, and she readily consented to take the young lady and watch her. "I've taken care of them as is out of their mind before," she said. "I know how to treat 'em." Homer Bulson's next move was to write a long letter to Gertrude. This letter was signed with the name of a fashionable lady of society, and ran as follows: "DEAR MISS HORTON: Perhaps you will be surprised to receive this from me, a stranger, but Mrs. Jackson has been speaking to me about you, and the good lessons you are giving her daughter Belle. "My husband used to know your father well, and the pair were warm friends, and he joins me in making this offer to you. "I have three children, two girls and a boy, and I wish to obtain a music-teacher for them who will not only give lessons, but also take a personal interest in the little ones. There is nobody here at Lakewood who is suitable, and I wish to know if we cannot arrange to have you come down every Wednesday or Thursday? I will pay your carfare and give you five dollars per week for the lessons. Of course you can also have lunch with me. "I think you will find this a good opening for you, and perhaps we can get you more pupils here. Please call upon me next Wednesday afternoon, and we can then talk it over and complete arrangements. "Yours truly, "MRS. JAMES BROADERICK." The letter came as a complete surprise to Gertrude, and she scarcely knew what to make of it. Of course, as was natural, she felt much pleased. A trip to Lakewood each week would be delightful, and five dollars would add quite something to her income. The letter reached her on Tuesday morning, so she had not long to consider it. That noon she met Gladys and told her she was going to Lakewood on business the following morning, on the early train. "Lakewood!" cried the flower girl. "Yes. What makes you look so surprised, Gladys?" "I didn't think you'd leave New York." "I shall only be gone for the day. There is a lady there who wants me to give lessons to her three children." "Oh!" "She will pay well, and the trip each week will be quite an outing." "It will be cold traveling this winter, I'm thinking." "Lakewood is a famous winter resort now. The hotels are fine, so I've been told." "Does the lady live at a hotel?" "No; she has a private cottage near by--so her letter says." "Well, I wish you luck," said Gladys, and so the pair parted. CHAPTER XXV. MARK HORTON RELENTS. After having mailed the letter to Gertrude from Lakewood, Homer Bulson returned to New York to complete his plans for the future. Evening found him at his uncle's mansion, as smiling as ever, with nothing to betray the wicked thoughts which were in his mind. Mr. Mark Horton had changed greatly. He was very feeble, his face was pinched, and his hair was fast growing white. He had had two doctors waiting upon him, but neither of them had been able to make him well. His malady baffled all their science, and despite their most carefully administered medicines he grew steadily worse. "I cannot understand the case," said one physician to the other. "I was never so bothered in my life." "It is certainly strange," answered the other. "I shall make a report on the case before the fraternity. Ordinarily this man should grow better quickly. He has no organic trouble whatever." As Mark Horton grew more feeble he longed for Gertrude, remembering how she had ministered to him day and night. "How goes it, uncle?" asked Homer Bulson, as he entered the room in which Mark Horton sat in an easy-chair. "I am very weak, Homer. I don't think I shall ever be better. It is not because I fear death, for I have little to live for. But Gertrude----" He did not finish. "She treated you badly, uncle, after all you had done for her." "I am afraid that I was the one that was to blame." "You? You were too indulgent, that was the trouble. She used to have her way in everything." "Have you heard anything of her yet, Homer?" "I think she went to Boston." "To Boston? Do you know if she had much money?" "I do not." "Did she go alone?" "I believe not. That actor got a position with some traveling company, and I think she went with the company, too." "It is too bad! I do not wish her to throw her whole life away in this fashion. I wish she were here. Won't you write to her?" "I would if I had the address." "But you can find out where the theatrical company is, can't you?" "The company went to pieces after visiting Boston." "Then she must be in want," groaned Mark Horton. "If you cannot write to her, you can at least advertise for her in the Boston papers." "I'll do that, if you wish it." "I do, Homer. Tell her to return--that all will be forgiven. I am fairly dying to see the child again." At this latter remark Homer Bulson drew down the corners of his mouth. But the dim light in the room hid his features from his uncle's gaze. At this moment the servant came to the door. "The nurse is here," she said. "Oh, all right!" exclaimed Bulson. "Send her up." "The new nurse," said Mark Horton wearily. "They simply bother me. Not one of them does as well as did Gertrude." Presently a middle-aged woman came in, dressed in the outfit of a trained nurse. She bowed to both men. "You are the nurse Dr. Barcomb said he would send?" said Homer Bulson, as he eyed her sharply. "Yes, sir." "What is your name, please?" "Mrs. Mary Conroy." "As the doctor sent you, I suppose it is all right. You have had sufficient experience?" "Plenty, sir; plenty! What is the matter with the gentleman?" "Nervous debility." "That is too bad. I nursed one patient with it." "Did he recover?" questioned Mark Horton, with a slight show of interest. "He did, sir." "Then there may be hope for me, Mrs. Conroy?" "Certainly there is hope," put in Homer Bulson, with a hypocritical smile. "I'll do my best by you, sir," said Mrs. Conroy pleasantly. "Thank you." "You had better give my uncle a little wine," put in Bulson. "He needs it as a tonic." "I do not care much for the wine," said Mark Horton. "It does not seem to strengthen as it should." "You would be weaker still if you didn't have it, uncle." The wine was brought and the retired merchant took a small glass of it. "Won't you drink with me, Homer?" asked the invalid. "Thank you, uncle, but I bought this especially for your own use, and you must have it all." A private conversation, lasting the best part of an hour, followed, and then Bulson took his leave. When Bulson was gone Mrs. Conroy came in again, having been to the room assigned to her by the housekeeper. She found the retired merchant sitting with his chin in his hands, gazing moodily into the small grate fire which was burning before him. "Is there anything I can do for your comfort, Mr. Horton?" she questioned sympathetically. "I don't know," he returned, with a long drawn sigh. "Perhaps I can read the paper to you?" she suggested. "No; I don't care to listen. I am tired." "Would you like to retire?" "Not yet. I cannot sleep." "Have you any medicine to put you to sleep, sir? I must ask the doctor all particulars to-morrow." "He has given me some powders, but they do not help me. At times my brain seems to be on fire while my heart is icy cold." "Let me shake your pillows for you." She did so, and tried to make him otherwise comfortable. "Thank you, that is better," he remarked, as he sank back and closed his eyes. "It is hard to be alone in the world." "You are alone then." "Almost. Mr. Bulson, who was just here, is my nephew. My wife is dead, my son gone, and my niece, who lived with me up to a few months ago, has left me." "It is too bad." "In one way it is my own fault. I drove my niece from my house by my harshness. I sincerely wish she was back." "If it was your fault, as you say, why not send for her?" "I do not know where to send. Mr. Bulson heard she went to Boston, and he is going to advertise for her in some Boston papers. Poor Gertrude!" "That was her name?" "Yes, Gertrude Horton. She was my brother's child. I wanted her to marry my nephew, and we had a bitter quarrel, and after that there was a robbery, and--but I am satisfied now that Gertrude was innocent." "Why, it seems to me I've heard something of this before!" exclaimed the nurse. "The story came to me through a friend who knows an old woman who keeps a fruit-and-candy stand on the Bowery. She said the girl was driven away from home because her uncle wanted her to marry a man she didn't want, and because the uncle thought she had robbed his safe--she and a boy who happened to call at the house about that time." "It must be my Gertrude!" said Mark Horton. "And did she marry that actor fellow?" "He wasn't an actor. He's a newsdealer--keeps a stand with a man, somewhere uptown; and he's not old enough to marry." "And the girl--what of her?" "I heard she was supporting herself by teaching the piano." "Is it possible! Do you know where she is?" "I don't know. But I think I can find out." "Then you must do so--to-morrow morning," returned Mark Horton. "Gertrude may still be in New York! Pray Heaven she will come back to me!" CHAPTER XXVI. NELSON ON SHIPBOARD. Nelson was tending the stand on the morning following the conversation just recorded, when suddenly Paul Randall came running up, all out of breath. "I just saw Billy Darnley," gasped the little newsboy, when able to speak. "Where did you see him?" questioned Nelson quickly. "Right straight across town, on the East River. He was talking to the captain of a big schooner named the _Victory_. I guess he was wanting to ship in her." "Tend the stand, Paul, and I'll go after him," said Nelson, and leaped outside. Soon he was making his way toward the East River with all possible speed. When he came in sight of the docks half a dozen vessels met his view, all with their bows stuck far over into the street. Of a sailor standing near he asked which was the _Victory_. "There she is," answered the tar, pointing with his sunburnt hand. "Want to ship?" "Not much!" laughed Nelson. "I want to keep another fellow from shipping." "Then you'll have to hurry, for the _Victory_ is going to sail putty quick." Nelson was soon picking his way across the dock where the big schooner lay. Merchandise was on every hand, and on turning a pile of this he suddenly found himself face to face with Billy Darnley and a burly man dressed in a sea suit. "So I've got you at last, have I?" cried Nelson, as he grasped Darnley by the arm. "Lemme go!" howled the bully, in great alarm. "Lemme go, Nelson!" "Not much! I'm going to hand you over to the police," was Nelson's firm answer. "I won't go!" "What's the trouble?" demanded the nautical-looking man curiously. "He's a thief, that's the trouble," answered our hero. "It aint so. I never stole nuthin' in my life," retorted Darnley sulkily. "He's down on me, and he's always tryin' to git me into trouble." "I am telling the truth," said Nelson. "He's got to go with me." "I won't go!" roared the bully. For a moment the face of the seafaring man was a study. His name was Grabon, and he was part owner and captain of the _Victory_. "Darnley has signed articles with me, for a trip to the West Indies and Brazil," he said. "Well, he can't go to the West Indies and Brazil. He's going to the lock-up," returned Nelson firmly. "What is he guilty of?" "Of two robberies, so far as I know. He once robbed me of some money, and only a short while ago he robbed a news stand belonging to me and another party." "Humph! What did he rob you of--half a dozen newspapers?" sneered Captain Grabon. "If he did, you shan't keep him ashore on that account. I am short of hands as it is, and must sail by the tide to-day." "The trouble was all over ten newspapers," said Billy Darnley, quick to take up an idea that had come to him. "He says I stole 'em, but I didn't." "I won't listen to such nonsense." Captain Grabon shoved Nelson back. "Let my man go." "I won't!" exclaimed our hero. "You will!" put in Billy Darnley, and wrenching himself free, he ran along the dock toward the _Victory_ and clambered aboard the vessel. "You're going to get yourself into a whole lot of trouble!" ejaculated Nelson to the captain. "You clear out!" "Not much--not until I've caught that thief." As quickly as he could, our hero ran toward the ship and clambered aboard after Darnley. For the moment he had lost sight of the bully, but now he saw him peering out from behind the mainmast. At once a chase ensued. [Illustration: "OUR HERO RAN TOWARD THE SHIP AND CLAMBERED ABOARD."] In the meantime Captain Grabon came on board, and going quickly to his mate, he ordered the lines flung off and the boat towed out into the stream. Around and around the deck flew Darnley, with Nelson after him. Then the bully leaped down the companion-way steps and into the cabin. Undaunted, our hero followed, and presently the pair found themselves at the end of a narrow passageway. "Now I've got you!" panted Nelson. "You shan't get away from me again." "I won't go!" howled Billy Darnley desperately. "I'm booked for this trip to sea." "Well, a sea trip might do you some good, Billy, but you are not going to take it just yet What did you do with the stuff you stole from the stand?" "Didn't steal anything from the stand." "Yes, you did--you and Len Snocks. Van Pelt and I know all about it. You got to give up the goods, do you hear?" "I aint got nuthin," growled Darnley. He tried to break away again, and a hand-to-hand tussle ensued. Presently both boys went down and rolled over. As they did this Nelson's head struck an iron projection, and he was partly stunned. Before he could recover the bully was on his feet once more. "Take that!" roared Darnley, and gave Nelson a cruel kick in the side. A kick in the head followed, and with a groan our hero was stretched out insensible. By this time Captain Grabon was coming below to see what was going on. He met Darnley in the cabin. "Hold on!" he cried. "Where are you going?" "On deck," answered the bully, but did not add that he wanted to go ashore. "Where's the other boy?" "I knocked him down." Darnley was about to move on, but the captain would not allow it. "You stay here for the present," he said. "I want to investigate this." "I'm going on deck," growled the bully. "What!" roared the captain. "Why, you monkey, don't you know you are now under my orders?" At this Darnley fell back, aghast. "Under your orders?" "Certainly. And you mind me, or I'll have you rope-ended well." Still holding fast to Darnley, he forced his way to the narrow passage, and here saw Nelson still lying motionless. He gave a low whistle. "So this is your game," he said. "You must have hit him hard." "I did," answered the bully, telling the falsehood without an effort. "This may be serious. Help me carry him into the cabin." Alarmed, Darnley did as requested, and our hero was placed on a lounge. There was a big lump on Nelson's forehead, and this the captain made Darnley bathe with some water from an ice-cooler in the corner. It was nearly an hour before our hero came to his senses, for the kicks from the bully had been severe. He sat up, completely bewildered. "Where am I?" was the first question he asked himself. Then he stared around him, to behold a negro sitting near, reading a newspaper. "Hullo!" he said feebly. "What place is this?" "Dis am de fo'castle of de _Victory_," was the negro's reply. "The fo'castle of the _Victory_?" repeated Nelson, puzzled. "Where--who placed me here? And who put this rag on my head?" "Cap'n Grabon had you carried here. You had a row wid one of de new hands. Don't you remember dat?" "Certainly I remember it," answered Nelson, and sat up. His head ached severely. "Who are you?" "My name am Puff Brown. I's de cook ob de boat." "Oh! And where is Billy Darnley?" "De feller you had de fight wid?" "Yes." "He's on deck, learnin' how to become a sailor." "I want him arrested. He's a thief." So speaking, Nelson staggered to his feet and made for the doorway of the forecastle. When he got on deck he stared around him in amazement. The dock had been left behind, and around the ship were the blue waters of New York Bay. CHAPTER XXVII. DOWN THE NEW JERSEY COAST. "My gracious, we've sailed!" The words came with a groan from Nelson. They were no longer at the dock in New York, but on the sea. What was to be done next? "They are not going to carry me off!" he told himself, and rushed aft. "Hullo! so you've got around again," sang out Captain Grabon, on catching sight of him. "Yes, I've got around, and I want to know what this means." "What what means, lad?" "Why did you carry me off?" "You carried yourself off. I told you we were about to sail. You had no business to come on board." "I want to go ashore." To this the captain made no answer. "Where is Darnley?" went on our hero, and began to look around. Soon he espied the bully helping some sailors trim one of the sheets. "Here, you stay where you are," cried Captain Grabon, as Nelson started forward, and he caught our hero by the arm. "We are on the sea now, and I am master here, and I don't propose to allow you to interfere with any of my men." "I told you I want to go ashore," insisted Nelson. "Well, I'm not going to stop my vessel for every monkey like you who gets himself in a pickle. You can go ashore--when we make a landing, not before." "When will that be?" "Keep your eyes open, and you'll soon find out." The captain of the _Victory_ turned away, leaving Nelson much nonplused. To tell the truth, our hero's head ached so hard he could think of little else. He walked over to a pile of rope and sat down. "I hope they land soon," he thought dismally. "I don't want to get too far from home. I wonder what George Van Pelt thinks of my absence?" An hour slipped by, and soon the _Victory_ was well on her way down the bay and heading outside of Sandy Hook. The air was cool and bracing, and under any other conditions the newsboy would have enjoyed the sail very much. But by noon he began to grow alarmed again. Instead of putting in, the ship was standing still further from shore. "See here, this doesn't look as if you were going to land soon," he said to one of the sailors who happened to pass him. "Land soon?" repeated the tar. "That we won't, lad." "Well, when will we land?" "Not afore we get to the West Indies, I reckon." "The West Indies!" And Nelson leaped up as if shot. "You don't mean it." "All right; ask the cap'n." And the sailor sauntered off. The captain had gone to the cabin, and thither Nelson made his way without ceremony. "You told me you were going to land soon?" he cried. "No, I didn't tell you anything of the kind," answered Captain Grabon, with a leer. "I told you to keep your eyes open, and you'd soon find out what we were going to do." "I was told you wouldn't land until you reached the West Indies." "That's right too." "I don't intend to go with you to the West Indies." "All right, lad; as you please." "You have no right to carry me off like this." "As I said before, you carried yourself off. You came aboard my vessel without my permission, and you engaged in a row with one of my hands. Now you must suffer the consequences." "Then you intend to take me to the West Indies with you?" "I will, lad; but you must work your passage, as soon as you're over being knocked out." "It's a shame!" cried Nelson indignantly. "I shan't submit." "You can do nothing. You are on my ship, and I am master here. If you have any row to settle with Darnley, you can settle it when we land. I've told him, and now I tell you again, I won't have any more quarreling on board." "You are not fair," pleaded our hero, half desperately. "I know what I'm doing. Now get back to the fo'castle with you, and remember, to-morrow you take your place with the crew." And so speaking, Captain Grabon waved the lad away. Nelson returned to the deck with a heavy heart. Had the shore been within a reasonable distance he would have leaped overboard and risked swimming, but land was far away, a mere speck on the western horizon. At noon Nelson messed with the crew, and feeling hungry he ate his full share of the food, which was not as bad as might be supposed. He was not allowed to go near Darnley, and the bully was wise enough to keep his distance. Slowly the afternoon wore along. The breeze remained good, and having passed Sandy Hook, the _Victory_ stood straight down the New Jersey coast. "Might as well learn the ropes, sooner or later," said one of the sailors to Nelson, as he lounged up. "I don't want to learn," was the ready answer. "I wasn't cut out for a sailor. City life is good enough for me." "And I can't stand shore life at all. Queer, aint it? The minit I'm ashore I'm in trouble and wanting to go to sea again." "What kind of a man is this Captain Grabon?" "Hard to please, lad. You'll have your hands full with him. Better learn your duty at once, and save trouble." "I shall not do a hand's turn on this ship." "Didn't you sign articles with him?" "I did not. But that other young fellow did." "But how came you here?" "I followed that other fellow on board. He's a thief, and I was after him." "Did he rob you?" "He did. I wanted to hand him over to the police when we were on the dock, but Captain Grabon interfered. I suppose he didn't want to lose the hand." "That's the truth--we are short, as it is. Well, now you are on board, what do you intend to do?" "I don't know." Nelson looked the sailor straight in the eyes. "Can I trust you?" "You can, my lad. If it's as you say, I'm sorry for you." "If you'll help me to escape I'll give you all the money I have in my pockets--two dollars and a half." "How can I help you?" "Didn't I see you steering a short time ago?" "You did." "When will you steer again?" "In a couple of hours." "Then, if you get the chance, steer close to some other boat, will you? I mean some small craft that belongs along this shore." "And if I do, what then?" "I'll jump overboard and trust to luck to have the other boat pick me up," explained Nelson. The two talked the plan over, and at last the sailor agreed for the two dollars to do as our hero desired--providing the opportunity arose. He insisted upon Nelson keeping the remaining fifty cents. "I won't clean you out, lad," he said. "And I sincerely trust all goes well with you." And they shook hands. The sailor took his next trick at the wheel at six o'clock, and half an hour later a sloop hove in sight, far to the southwestward. He nodded to Nelson, but said nothing. Most of the sailors were below, and Captain Grabon had also disappeared. "Go on to supper," said the mate of the vessel to our hero, and turned away to inspect something forward. "What shall I do?" whispered Nelson to the man at the wheel. "Get your grub, lad," replied the sailor. "When we're close to that craft I'll begin to whistle 'Annie Laurie.'" "All right; I'll listen with all ears," responded our hero. He was soon at the mess, and eating as though nothing out of the ordinary was on his mind. But his ears were on the alert, and no sooner had the first bars of the sailor's whistle risen on the evening air than he pushed back his seat. "I've had all I want," he muttered, for the other sailors' benefit. "Getting seasick, I reckon," said an old tar, and laughed. Billy Darnley was already sick, and lay on a bunk, as white as a sheet and groaning dismally. Soon Nelson had picked his way to the stern, being careful to keep out of sight of the mate. The _Victory_ was now close to the sloop, and presently glided by the smaller craft. "Thanks! Good-by!" called Nelson, to the man at the wheel, and in another moment he had dropped into the ocean and was swimming toward the sloop with all the strength at his command. CHAPTER XXVIII. GERTRUDE HAS AN ADVENTURE. It was with a light heart that Gertrude hurried to the ferry, crossed to the New Jersey side, and took the express train for Lakewood. She did not dream of the trick that had been practiced upon her, and anticipated only a good engagement and a delightful ride on the cars. For a long while she sat by the window, drinking in the swiftly moving panorama as the train flew by station after station, and farms, and woods. But few stops were made, and she had the entire seat to herself. She would have been very much surprised had she known that Homer Bulson was watching her, yet such was the case. The man had seen her get on board, and now occupied a seat in the smoker. His face wore a smile of triumph, for he felt that the girl was already in his power. It was just noon when the train pulled into the elegant little station at Lakewood, and Gertrude alighted. Hotel stages were everywhere, and so were cabs and cabmen. At last she found a newsboy who directed her where to go. She thought he looked at her rather queerly when he found out where the place was, but he said nothing, and she asked no further questions. Soon she was hurrying down the country road leading toward Sarah Higgins' place. As she moved along she had to confess to herself that the surroundings were hardly what she had anticipated. The road was little more than a bypath, and was by no means well kept. "Perhaps this is a short cut to something better," she thought. "That newsboy didn't want me to walk any further than necessary. But I must say I see no mansions anywhere around--only the plainest kind of farmhouses." At last she reached the spot the boy had mentioned. In a clump of pines was a dilapidated cottage, half stone and half wood, with a dooryard in front choked with weeds. "There surely is some mistake," said the girl to herself. "This can't be the house. I'll go in and find out where Mrs. Broaderick's home really is." She passed through the open gateway and made her way up the rough garden path. The door was closed to the cottage, and so were all the windows. She knocked loudly. There was a wait of a minute, and she knocked again. At length the door was opened cautiously and Sarah Higgins, dressed in a dirty wrapper and with her hair flying in all directions, showed herself. "Excuse me, but can you tell me where Mrs. Broaderick's house is?" asked Gertrude politely. "What's that?" asked Sarah Higgins, in a high-pitched voice, and placed one hand behind her ear. "I wish to find Mrs. Broaderick's house. Will you tell me where it is?" went on the girl, in a louder key. "Don't know Mrs. Broaderick," replied Sarah Higgins. Then she gave Gertrude a searching look. "Come in and rest, won't you? You look tired out." "Thank you; I'll rest a moment," answered Gertrude. She was somewhat dismayed by the turn affairs had taken. "And do you know most of the folks around here?" she continued. The question had to be repeated twice before the half-deaf woman understood. "Of course I do, miss," she answered. "Haven't I lived here going on forty-five years--since I was a little girl?" "Then you must know Mrs. Broaderick--or perhaps she is a newcomer." "Never heard the name before. But, tell me, is your name Gertrude?" "It is!" cried the girl in wonder. "How did you guess it?" "I've been expecting you, my dear. It's all right, make yourself at home," went on Sarah Higgins soothingly. "Let me take your hat, that's a good young lady." And she started to take Gertrude's hat from her head. She had been told that the girl would arrive that noon and would most likely inquire for an imaginary person named Broaderick. Homer Bulson had certainly laid his plans well. "Don't! leave my hat be!" cried Gertrude, and shrank back in alarm. "You seem to know my first name, madam, but I do not know you." "Never mind; make yourself at home," said Sarah Higgins soothingly. "But I do not wish to remain here. I want to find the lady I have come to Lakewood to see," insisted poor Gertrude. Then she started for the door--to find herself confronted by Homer Bulson. "You!" she gasped, and sank back on a chair. "You didn't expect to see me, did you?" he asked sarcastically, as he came in and shut the door. "I--I did not," she faltered. "What brought you here?" "Well, if you must know, I was curious to learn where you were going, Gertrude," he said in a low voice, that Sarah Higgins might not understand. "I followed you from the ferry in New York." "You were on the express train?" "I was." "You had no right to follow me." "But what are you doing here?" he went on, bound to "mix up" matters both for her and for Sarah Higgins, so that the latter might think Gertrude quite out of her mind. "I came to Lakewood on business." Gertrude arose. "Let me pass." "Don't be in such a hurry, Gertrude; I wish to talk to you." "But I do not wish to speak to you, Mr. Bulson." "Gertrude, you are cruel--why not listen?" "Because I do not wish to hear what you want to say." "But you don't know what I have to say," he persisted. "I know all I wish to know. Now let me pass." She tried to make her way to the door, but he quickly caught her by the arm. "You shall not go," he said. At this she let out a scream, but he only smiled, while Sarah Higgins looked on curiously. "Screaming will do you no good, Gertrude. This house is quarter of a mile from any other, and the road is but little used." "You are cruel--let me go!" said she, and burst into tears. "You shall never leave until you listen to me," he said. And then he tried his best to reason with her for fully an hour, but she would not hearken. At last she grew as pale as a sheet. "This whole thing is a trick--the letter and all!" she gasped, and fell in a swoon. He caught her and carried her to an upper chamber of the cottage. Here he placed her on a couch, and then went below again, locking the door after him. "It's a way she has at times," he explained to Sarah Higgins. "She is not always so bad. She will be quite herself in a few days, and then she will remember nothing of this." "Poor dear!" was the answer. "It's dreadful to be so out of one's mind." "You must take care that she does not escape." "I will, sir. But about that money?" And the woman's eyes gleamed greedily. "There is ten dollars on account." And Homer Bulson handed over the amount. "Thank you, sir. She shall have the best of care--and she won't get away, never fear." "I was going to remain over in Lakewood to-night, but I find I must return to New York," went on Bulson. "I'll be back again some time to-morrow or the day after. In the meantime do not let her get out of the room." "I will do as you say, sir," answered Sarah Higgins, and then Gertrude's cousin took his departure. It did not take the girl long to come out of her swoon, and she at once ran to the door. Finding it locked she went to the window, determined to leap to the ground, if she could do nothing better. But, alas! Homer Bulson had made his calculations only too well. The window was slatted over on the outside, making the apartment virtually a prison cell. She saw that the slats had been put on recently, and this made her more sure than ever that the whole thing was a plot. The letter had been a decoy, and had been used solely to get her in his power. "What does he expect to do?" she asked herself. "I have given him every claim on Uncle Mark's fortune; what more can he wish? Is he afraid I may go back? Perhaps he wants to take my life, so as to be certain I will not cross his path again." And she shivered. Listening, she heard Homer Bulson bid Sarah Higgins good-by and leave the cottage. At this she breathed a sigh of relief. She knocked steadily on the door, and presently the woman came up. "What do you want?" she asked through the keyhole. "Are you going to keep me a prisoner here?" "Only for a little while, my dear." "Where has Mr. Bulson gone?" "To New York, I believe." "When will he be back?" "To-morrow, or the day after." "You expect to keep me here all night?" cried Gertrude, in astonishment. "Now, don't grow excited," pleaded Sarah Higgins. "Yes, you'll have to stay here until to-morrow, and perhaps some time longer. Now you had better lie down and rest yourself." And then the woman tramped off, leaving Gertrude filled with wonder and dismay. CHAPTER XXIX. A SURPRISE ON THE ROAD. When Nelson struck the water he was all of fifty feet away from the sloop. Down he went over his head, but quickly reappeared and struck out boldly. "Hullo, somebody's overboard from the ship!" cried a young man, who sat at the bow of the sloop. "Port your helm, Bob, or you'll run into him!" The helm was thrown over, and the sloop veered around. Then Nelson set up a shout. "Help! Pick me up!" he cried. "On board the sloop! Help!" "We'll pick you up, don't fear!" cried the young fellow at the bow, and the sloop came around and the mainsail was lowered. The two young men on the craft were skillful sailors, and soon came within reach of Nelson. One held out a boathook, and presently our hero was hauled on board. "It's a lucky thing we were near by, or you might have been drowned," said the young man called Bob. "Isn't that so, Clarence?" "That's true," answered Clarence Bell. "I see your ship isn't stopping for you." "She isn't my ship, and I don't want her to stop," answered Nelson, shaking the water from him. "Oh! Then you jumped overboard on purpose." "I did, and I am thankful you picked me up. The captain who runs that boat was going to carry me to the West Indies against my will." "Great Cæsar! Bob, do you hear that?" "I do," returned Bob Chalmer. "Was it a case of kidnaping?" "Hardly that," replied Nelson. "I'll tell you the whole story, if you'd like to hear it. Only I want to be sure that that boat doesn't put back after me," he continued. He watched the _Victory_ for fully five minutes but nothing was done toward turning back, and at last he gave a great sigh of relief. "I guess I'm safe," he remarked. "You are, lad. But you had better take off those wet clothes, or you'll take cold. You'll find a dry suit in the cuddy." This was sensible advice, and Nelson followed it. As soon as he had donned the other suit he sat down and told how he had chased Billy Darnley on board the _Victory_, and of what had followed. "Humph! that captain is pretty hard-hearted," remarked Clarence Bell. "He ought to be arrested," put in Bob Chalmer. "You were lucky to get away. I guess that thief is out of your reach now." "Well, anyway, I left him as sick as he could be," said Nelson, and could not help but laugh over Darnley's woe-begone appearance. "He'll have enough of the sea by the time he gets back." From the young men he learned that they had been out for two days on a fishing trip. They had had good luck, as the mess on board proved, and they were now sailing for Manasquan Inlet, where they were boarding for a few weeks. "We belong in New York," said Bob Chalmer later. "And I guess we can see you through all right." "I'll be much obliged, if you would," said Nelson. "I'll pay you back as soon as I reach the city." And then he told of the news stand, and the business he and Van Pelt were doing. The breeze was as brisk as ever, and it veered around, so that the sloop made the Inlet without difficulty. They ran up the river to a small collection of cottages and boathouses known as Reefer's. Here they tied up, and Nelson went ashore, wearing the old fishing suit he had borrowed. "You can't get home to-night, so you shall stay with us," said Bob Chalmer, and procured a room at one of the cottages for Nelson. Tired out, our hero slept well. But he arose early, and by that time his own clothes were dry, and he put them on. "I've got a railroad ticket in my pocket good from Lakewood to New York," said Chalmer, while they were having breakfast. "It's a limited ticket and runs out to-morrow. Why can't you use that? You can have it at half price." "How far is Lakewood from here?" "Not over six or seven miles. The stage will take you over for fifteen cents." "That will suit me," answered our hero. "I've got half a dollar left." "Oh, I'll lend you some money, Nelson!" "No; I won't need it." The matter was talked over, and our hero took the ticket. Quarter of an hour later he was on the stage, bound for Lakewood. It was a clear day, and the ride among the smooth roads was thoroughly enjoyable. Yet Nelson thought but little of the journey. His mind was filled with his personal affairs. He wondered what Van Pelt thought of his continued disappearance. "He'll think I've captured Darnley sure," he reasoned. "Well, what's happened can't be helped, and I'm lucky to escape, I suppose." On and on went the stage, making good time, for the team was fresh. When about two miles from Lakewood they reached a bend, where the road was being repaired. A steam roller was at work, and at this one of the horses grew frightened and started to run away. His mate went with him, and in a twinkle the stage was bumping along at a high rate of speed. "Stop! stop!" shrieked a lady sitting near Nelson. "Stop, or we'll all be killed!" "Whoa! whoa!" roared the stage-driver, and tried to pull the horses in. But his lines were old, and suddenly one snapped, and then the horses went along faster than ever. Not far down the road were several heaps of stone, to be used in repairing the highway, and the team headed directly for the first of these heaps. The driver tried to sheer them around, but with one line gone was nearly helpless, and in a second more the stage struck the pile and went over with a crash. Then the horses came to a halt. No one was seriously injured by the mishap, although the lady who had cried out was much shaken up. Soon all gathered around, to learn the extent of the damage to the stage. It was found that one of the front wheels was knocked to pieces. The driver was much downcast, and knew not what to do. "I'll have to leave the turnout here and go back to Berry's shop for a new wheel, I suppose," he said. He could not state how soon he would return, or how soon the stage would be ready to start forward once more. "How far is it to the Lakewood railroad station from here?" questioned Nelson. "Not over a mile and a half." "Then I'll walk it, if you'll show me the shortest road." "The shortest road is that over yonder," answered the stage-driver. "It aint no good for driving, but it's plenty good enough for hoofing it." "Thanks," said Nelson, and without waiting he started off to walk the remainder of the journey. He had still an hour and a half before the train would be due at Lakewood, so he took his time and often stopped to look at the dense woods and the beautiful green fields. "What a difference between this and New York streets!" he said to himself. "And how quiet it is! I don't believe I could sleep here at night, it would be so still!" At length he came within sight of an old cottage, where a woman was hanging up a small wash on a line. Feeling thirsty, he resolved to go into the yard and ask her for a drink of water. But no sooner had he set foot in the weedy garden than the woman came running toward him, waving him away. "Don't want to buy anything!" she cried shrilly. "Don't want to buy! Go away!" "I haven't anything to sell," answered Nelson, with a smile. "I was going to ask for a drink of water." "Oh!" The woman eyed him suspiciously. "Water, did you say?" "Yes; I'd like a drink." "The well is mighty poor here. You can get a drink up to the next house." "Very well," returned Nelson, and started to leave the garden. As he did so he heard a sudden crash of glass and, looking up, saw some panes from a window in an upper room of the cottage fall to the ground. "Nelson! Nelson! Help me!" came the unexpected cry. "My gracious!" burst out our hero, in bewilderment. "Gertrude! What does this mean?" "I am held a prisoner," answered Gertrude. "Save me!" "A prisoner?" "Yes, Nelson. You will help me, won't you?" "To be sure I'll help you. But--but who did this?" "My cousin, Mr. Bulson." "The scoundrel! Is he here now?" "I think not. But he may come back at any moment." "Go away from here!" shrieked Sarah Higgins, in alarm. "Go away! That girl is crazy!" "I guess you are crazy!" returned Nelson hotly. "Stand aside and let me get into the house." "No, no! You must go away!" went on Sarah Higgins. Then of a sudden she leaped back and ran for the cottage with might and main. Reaching it, she closed the door and locked it. Then she appeared at a near-by window, armed with a rolling-pin. "Don't you dast come in!" she shrieked. "If you do, you'll have to take the consequences!" And she flourished the rolling-pin defiantly. CHAPTER XXX. COMPARING NOTES. It must be confessed that for the moment Nelson was completely nonplused. He wished to get into the cottage, and at once, but the woman looked as if she meant what she said, and he had no desire to have his skull cracked open by the rolling-pin. "See here, madam; you are making a great mistake," he said as calmly as he could. "Eh?" And Sarah Higgins put her hand up to her ear. "I say you are making a great mistake," bawled Nelson. "That lady is not crazy." "I say she is." "Who told you she was crazy--Mr. Bulson?" At this the woman looked astonished. "Do you know that gentleman?" "I know that man, yes. He is no gentleman. He robbed that lady of her property." "How do you know?" "I know--and that's enough. If you don't let me in at once, I'll have the law on you, and you'll go to prison for ten or twenty years," went on Nelson, bound to put his argument as strongly as possible. At this Sarah Higgins grew pale, and the hand with the rolling-pin dropped at her side. "Sure you aint making a mistake, boy?" "No; I know exactly what I am talking about. That young lady is not crazy, and neither you nor Bulson have any right to keep her a prisoner." "He said she was crazy; that she needed rest and quiet. That's why he brought her here." "He is a villain, and if you know when you are well off, you'll have nothing to do with him. Now let me in, before I hammer down the door and turn you over to the police." "Oh, my! don't hammer down the door, and don't call the police!" shrieked Sarah Higgins. "I meant to do no wrong, I can assure you." "Then open the door." "You will not--not touch me if I do?" she asked timidly. "Not if you behave yourself. If Bulson deceived you, that's in your favor. But you had better not help him further." With trembling hand Sarah Higgins unbolted the door and opened it. At once Nelson marched in, and, espying the stairs, mounted to the upper floor of the cottage. "Nelson, is that you?" "Yes." "Oh, how thankful I am!" "Where's the key to this door?" demanded our hero of the woman, who had followed him. "There." And she pointed to a near-by nail. Soon he had the door unlocked, and at once Gertrude rushed out to meet him. The tears of joy stood in her eyes. "How did you find the way so soon?" she asked. "The way? What do you mean?" "Why, the way from the railroad station at Lakewood. Did they know I came here?" "I haven't been to Lakewood," answered Nelson. "I came here by pure accident." And then in a few words he told his story. When he had finished Gertrude told of the decoy letter and of what had followed. Our hero was deeply interested and very angry that Homer Bulson had played such a trick. "He ought to be put behind the bars for it," he said. "Certainly I am going to tell the police about it. He hasn't any right to follow you up in this fashion, even if he is your cousin." "He is growing more bold every day," answered Gertrude. "I shall never feel safe so long as he is near me." Sarah Higgins now calmed down, and tried to clear herself by saying she had been imposed upon. She readily consented to tell all she knew, if called upon to do so in a court of law, providing she herself was not prosecuted. "That gives us one witness against your cousin," said Nelson. "If we can get another, we'll put him behind the bars." "I don't want him locked up, if only he will leave me alone," returned Gertrude. Nelson's visit to the cottage had taken time, and when Gertrude was ready to leave it was found to be too late to take the train our hero had started to catch. "Never mind, we can take the afternoon train," said the boy. "But we will have to get dinner somewhere." He turned to Sarah Higgins. "I think you ought to furnish that." At this the miserly woman winced. "Well, if you really think so----" she began. "I don't wish to stay here," cried Gertrude, "Mr. Bulson may be back at any moment." "Well, if he comes, I guess he'll get the worst of it," answered Nelson. But Gertrude would not stay, and a few minutes later they quitted the cottage. The girl still had her pocketbook, with her money and the railroad ticket, so she would have no trouble in getting back to the metropolis. She also had over a dollar in addition, and she insisted upon having Nelson dine with her at a modest-looking restaurant, where the rates were not high. "Your uncle ought to be told of your cousin's doings," said our hero, when they were waiting for the train. "I don't believe he would stand for it, no matter if he is displeased with you." "I will not take the story to him," answered Gertrude with spirit. "He cast me out, and I shall not go near him until he asks me to come." "Well, I guess I'd feel that way," answered Nelson, after a thoughtful pause. "I can't understand how he can treat his own blood as he is treating you." "Uncle Mark was not always this way, Nelson. In years gone by he was very kind and considerate." "But what made the change?" "His sickness. Ever since he has been confined to the house he has been nervous, peevish, and altogether a different person. I really can't understand it." "It's queer. Do you suppose having Bulson around makes any difference?" "How could it affect his sickness?" "Perhaps he gives your uncle something that affects his mind." "Oh, Nelson! could anybody be so dreadfully cruel?" "Some folks are as mean as dirt. I want to tell you something that I never spoke of before, because I thought it wouldn't be right to misjudge Bulson when I didn't know him as well as I know him now. Do you remember I once told you how he tried to cheat George Van Pelt out of the sale of some books?" "Yes, I remember. You said Van Pelt made him take the books." "So he did. And do you know what the books were?" "I can't imagine." "They were works on poisons, written in French." "Poisons!" Gertrude grew pale. "Oh, Nelson! and you think----" She could not go on. "I don't know what to think, but if I were you I'd have the doctors examine everything that Mr. Horton takes, especially the stuff Homer Bulson gives him." "I will do that. Mr. Bulson can no longer be trusted. He is a high liver, and may be very anxious to get hold of Uncle Mark's fortune in the near future." "He said he wanted the books because he was going to become a doctor and make poisons a specialty. That is what he told Van Pelt." "A doctor! I don't believe he has brains enough to become a doctor--or if he has, he is too lazy to apply himself. Why, when he was a boy he was turned out of school because he wouldn't study." "Well, if he would lie and use you as he has, he would do worse, Gertrude. For your uncle's sake he ought to be watched." "He shall be watched," said Gertrude decidedly. "No matter how badly Uncle Mark has treated me, I will see to it that Homer Bulson no longer plays him foul." CHAPTER XXXI. BULSON GROWS DESPERATE. Sam Pepper was taking it easy at the rear of his resort on the evening of the day when Gertrude went to Lakewood, when the door opened and a messenger boy came in. "Is Sam Pepper here?" asked the boy, approaching Bolton. "That's my handle, sonny. What do you want?" "Here's a message. I was to wait for an answer." Pepper took the message and read it with interest. "FRIEND PEPPER: Meet me to-night between eleven and twelve o'clock at my apartments. Something important. Bring those old papers with you. I have the cash. "H. B." "Humph! so Bulson wants to close that deal to-night," muttered Sam Pepper, as he tore the message to shreds. "He's in a tremendous hurry, all at once. I wonder what's new in the wind? Well, I'm low on cash, and I might as well take him up now as later on." "Where's the answer?" asked the messenger boy. "Here you are," returned Pepper, and scribbled a reply on a slip of paper. Then the messenger received his pay and made off. Promptly on time that night Sam Pepper went up Fifth Avenue. Just as he reached Homer Bulson's home the young man came down the steps. "Come with me--the house is full of company," he said. "I want to talk to you where we will be free from interruption." "I'm agreeable," answered Pepper. The pair walked rapidly down a side street. Homer Bulson seemed ill at ease, and Pepper noticed it. "You are not yourself to-night," he said. "I've got lots to think about," growled Bulson. "Still mad because the girl won't have you, I suppose." "No, I've given her up. I don't want a wife that won't love me." "That's where you are sensible." "Gertrude can go her way and I'll go mine." "Well, you'll have the softest snap of it," laughed Pepper. "She'll get nothing but hard knocks." "That's her own fault." "She don't make more than half a living, teaching the piano." "Oh, if she gets too hard up, I'll send her some money," responded Bulson, trying to affect a careless manner. "By your talk you must be pretty well fixed." "I struck a little money yesterday, Pepper--that's why I sent to you. I want to go away to-morrow, and I wanted to clear up that--er--that little affair of the past before I left." "What do you want?" "I want all those papers you once showed me, and if you have that will I want that, too." "You don't want much." And Sam Pepper laughed suggestively. "Those papers will never do you any good." "They might." "I don't see how?" "The boy might pay more for them than you'll pay." "He? If he knew the truth, he'd have you arrested on the spot." "Don't be so sure of that, Bulson. I know the lad better than you do. He has a tender heart--far more tender than you have." "Well, if it's a question of price, how much do you want?" demanded Homer Bulson sourly. "I want five thousand dollars cash." "Five thousand! Pepper, have you gone crazy?" "No; I'm as sane as you are." "You ask a fortune." "If that's a fortune, what's the amount you expect to gain? Old Horton is worth over a hundred thousand, if he's worth a cent." "But I'm not sure of this fortune yet. He's a queer old fellow. He might cut me off at the last minute." "Not if you had that will. You could date that to suit yourself, and you'd push your game through somehow." "I can give you two thousand dollars--not a dollar more." "It's five thousand or nothing," responded Sam Pepper doggedly. "Will you accept my check?" "No; I want the cash." "That means you won't trust me!" cried Bulson, in a rage. "Business is business." Homer Bulson breathed hard. The pair were on a side street, close to where a new building was being put up. The young man paused. "You're a hard-hearted fellow, Pepper," he said. "You take the wind out of my sails. I've got to have a drink on that. Come, though. I don't bear a grudge. Drink with me." As he spoke he pulled a flask from his pocket and passed it over. "I'll drink with you on one condition," answered Pepper. "And that is that I get my price." "All right; it's high, but you shall have it." Without further ado Sam Pepper opened the flask and took a deep draught of the liquor inside. "Phew! but that's pretty hot!" he murmured, as he smacked his lips. "Where did you get it?" "At the club--the highest-priced stuff we have," answered Bulson. Then he placed the flask to his own lips and pretended to swallow a like portion to that taken by his companion, but touched scarcely a drop. "It's vile--I sell better than that for ten cents," continued Pepper. "Let us sit down and get to business," went on Bulson, leading the way into the unfinished building. "I want to make sure that you have everything I want. I am not going to pay five thousand dollars for a blind horse." "I'm square," muttered Sam Pepper. "When I make a deal I carry it out to the letter." "You have everything that proves the boy's identity?" "Everything." "Then sit down, and I'll count out the money." "It's--rather--dark--in--here," mumbled Sam Pepper, as he began to stagger. "Oh, no! it must be your eyesight." "Hang--me--if I--can--see--at--all," went on Pepper, speaking in a lower and lower tone. "I--that is--Bulson, you--you have drugged me, you--you villain!" And then he pitched forward and lay in a heap where he had fallen. Homer Bulson surveyed his victim with gloating eyes. "He never sold better knock-out drops to any crook he served," he muttered. "Now I shall see what he has got in his pockets." Bending over his victim, he began to search Sam Pepper's pockets. Soon he came across a thick envelope filled with letters and papers. He glanced over several of the sheets. "All here," he murmured. "This is a lucky strike. Now Sam Pepper can whistle for his money." He placed the things he had taken in his own pocket and hurried to the street. Nobody had noticed what was going on, and he breathed a long sigh of relief. "He won't dare to give me away," he said to himself. "If he does he'll go to prison for stealing the boy in the first place. And he'll never be able to prove that I drugged him because nobody saw the act. Yes, I am safe." It did not take Homer Bulson long to reach his bachelor apartments, and once in his rooms he locked the door carefully. Then, turning up a gas lamp, he sat down near it, to look over the papers he had taken from the insensible Pepper. "I'll destroy the letters," he said. He smiled as he read one. "So Uncle Mark offered five thousand for the return of little David, eh? Well, it's lucky for me that Sam Pepper, alias Pepperill Sampson, didn't take him up. I reckon Pepper was too cut up over his discharge, for it kept him from getting another fat job." He took up the will. "Just what I want. Now, if Uncle Mark makes another will, I can always crop up with this one, and make a little trouble for somebody." He lit the letters one by one, and watched them turn slowly to ashes. Then he placed the other papers in the bottom of his trunk, among his books on poisons, and went to bed. CHAPTER XXXII. SOMEBODY WAITS IN VAIN. Mrs. Kennedy was busy at her stand, piling up some fruit, when a woman who was a stranger to her approached. "Is this Mary Kennedy?" the newcomer asked. "That's me name," answered the old woman. "But I don't know you, ma'am." "My name is Mrs. Conroy. I'm a nurse. Mrs. Wardell sent me to you." "Yes, I know Mrs. Wardell. But what is it you want, ma'am? I don't need a nurse now, though I did some time ago, goodness knows." "I am not looking for a position," smiled Mrs. Conroy. "I am looking for a young lady named Gertrude Horton." "Gertrude Horton! Who sint you?" questioned Mrs. Kennedy suspiciously. "Her uncle, Mark Horton, sent me." At this Mrs. Kennedy was more interested than ever. "An' what does he want of the darling, Mrs. Conroy?" "He wants her to return home." "Heaven be praised fer that!" "Where can I find Miss Horton?" Again Mrs. Kennedy grew suspicious. "I can tell you that quick enough, ma'am--but I must know if it's all right, first." "Why, what do you mean?" "There's a villain of a cousin, Homer Bulson, who's been tryin' to git Miss Gertrude in his clutches. You're not doing this work for him?" "No, indeed, Mrs. Kennedy. Mr. Horton sent me himself. He wants Miss Gertrude to come straight home. He wants her to forgive him for his harshness." "To hear that now!" ejaculated Mrs. Kennedy joyfully. "What a change must have come over him!" "I do not know how he was before, but he is now very anxious for her to return. He thinks he might get better if she were with him." "What a pity Gertrude can't go to him this minit!" said Mrs. Kennedy. "Will you tell me where I can find her?" "She is not in New York, Mrs. Conroy. She went to Lakewood early this morning." "To stay?" "Oh, no! She'll be back to-night." "Will you see her then?" "To be sure--she lives with me." "Oh!" "I'll send her home the minit I see her," went on Mrs. Kennedy. "Then I'll return and tell him that," said the nurse. "Be sure and insist upon her coming. He is so anxious he is almost crazy over it." "Sure and he ought to be--drivin' her away in that fashion." "I guess it was his sickness did it, Mrs. Kennedy. The man is not himself; anybody can see that. The case puzzles the doctors very much." Mrs. Conroy had some necessary shopping to do, but an hour saw her returning to the mansion on Fifth Avenue. "Well?" questioned Mark Horton anxiously. "Did you see her?" "She had gone out of town--to Lakewood. But she will be back to-night." "And will she come to me?" "I cannot answer that question, Mr. Horton. I told the woman with whom she lives to send her up here." "Did you say she must come--that I wanted her to come?" persisted the retired merchant eagerly. "I did, and the woman was quite sure Miss Gertrude would come." "When was she to get back from Lakewood?" "By seven or eight o'clock." "Then she ought to be here by nine or ten." All that afternoon Mark Horton showed his impatience. Usually he took a nap, but now he could not sleep. He insisted upon getting up and walking around. "The very thought that she will be back makes me feel stronger," he declared. "It is more of a tonic than Homer's wine." "Please do not grow impatient," said Mrs. Conroy. "You know there may be some delay." Slowly the evening came on and the street lamps were lit. Mr. Horton sat at a front window, looking out. He did not want a light in the room. "I wish to watch for her," he explained. "You may light up when she comes." He was now feverish, but would not take the soothing draught the nurse prepared. Hour after hour passed, and presently he saw Homer Bulson enter his quarters, and then go out again. "I do not know how Homer will take the news," he told himself. "But he will have to make the best of it. Of one thing I am resolved--Gertrude shall do as she pleases if only she remains with me, and she shall have half of my fortune when I die." At last it was nine o'clock, and then the sick man became more nervous than ever. Every time a woman appeared on the dimly lit street he would watch her eagerly until she went past the mansion. "She will not come!" he groaned. "She will not come!" At ten o'clock Mrs. Conroy tried to get him to bed, but he was stubborn and would not go. Another hour went by, and then another. As the clock struck twelve Mark Horton fell forward in his chair. "She has deserted me!" he groaned. "And I deserve it all!" And he sank in a chair in a dead faint. With an effort the nurse placed him upon the bed and did what she could for him. But the shock had been great, and in haste she sent for a physician. "He has had them before," explained the doctor. "I will give him something quieting--I can do no more. Each shock brings him closer to the end. It is the most puzzling case on record." As he was so feeble Mrs. Conroy thought best to send for his nephew, and Homer Bulson was summoned just as he was waking up. "All right, I'll be over," he said, with a yawn. He did not feel like hurrying, for he was tired, and had been through such an experience before. It was after eight when he at last showed himself. "You are worse, Uncle Mark," he said, as he took the sufferer's hand. "Yes, I am worse," was the low answer. "Much worse." "It is too bad. Hadn't you better try some of that new wine I brought you?" "Not now, Homer. I feel as if I never cared to eat or drink again." And Mark Horton gave a groan. "You must not be so downcast, uncle." "Homer, Gertrude has turned her back upon me!" "Gertrude!" cried the nephew, very much startled. "Yes, Gertrude. I--I did not think it possible." "But I don't understand, Uncle Mark. Did you--er--did you send to her?" "I will confess I did, Homer. I could stand it no longer. I wanted to see the dear child again." "And she turned her back on you?" went on Bulson, hardly knowing what to say. "She did. I sent for her to come at once. She had not gone to Boston, but to Lakewood, and was to be back in the evening. That was yesterday. She is not yet here, and that proves that she has forsaken me and wants nothing more to do with me." At these words a crafty look came into Homer Bulson's eyes. "Uncle Mark, I am sorry for you, but I could have told you as much some time ago," he said smoothly. "You could have told me?" "Yes. I went to Gertrude when she was thinking of going to Boston and begged her to come back. I even offered to go away, so that she would not be bothered with me. But she would not listen. She said that she was done with you, and that she preferred her theatrical friends to such a home as this, where there was no excitement. She is changed--and changed for the worse." "Oh, Homer! can this be true? The dear, gentle Gertrude I once so loved and petted! But it is my own fault. I drove her away. I have only myself to blame." And burying his face in his pillow, the sick man sobbed aloud. Instead of replying, Homer Bulson got out of a medicine closet the bottle of wine he had brought two days before and poured out a glassful. "Take this, Uncle Mark. I know it will do you good," he said. "No, I want no wine!" cried Mr. Horton. And suddenly he dashed wine and glass to the floor. "I hate it! It does me no good. I want nothing but Gertrude!" And he buried his face in his pillow again. "I will do my best to bring her to you," said Bulson hypocritically. He remained at the mansion a short while, and was then told that there was a man who wished to see him. He hurried to his own apartments across the way, and here found himself face to face with Sam Pepper. "You played me a fine trick," growled Pepper. "Give me back the papers you stole from me." "Let us come to an understanding," said Bulson. "I am willing to pay for what I took, Pepper. Come with me." "Want to drug me again?" "No. I want to get where it is quiet. Come." "All right, I'll go along. Supposing you come to my place?" "That will suit me. I want to make a new deal with you." And the pair started for Sam Pepper's resort on the East Side. CHAPTER XXXIII. QUESTIONS OF IMPORTANCE. "Sure, and this is a double mystery, so it is. What do you make of it, Mr. Van Pelt?" It was Mrs. Kennedy who spoke. The non-appearance of Gertrude had worried her greatly, and she had visited Van Pelt, to learn that Nelson was also missing. "I don't know what to make of it," answered George Van Pelt. "Nelson went after Billy Darnley, who robbed our stand. Perhaps he has met with foul play." "Could our Gertrude have met with foul play at Lakewood?" "I shouldn't think so. She knew where she was going, didn't she?" "To be sure--to a Mrs. Broaderick's; she read the letter to me herself." "Perhaps Mrs. Broaderick asked her to stay over," said Van Pelt. "I can't think of anything else." While the pair were talking Mrs. Kennedy happened to look up the street. "Here comes Nelson now!" she cried suddenly. She was right, and soon our hero was at the stand, and shaking each by the hand. "I feel as if I've been on a long trip," he said, with a broad smile. "Where have you been?" questioned Van Pelt and Mrs. Kennedy in a breath, and then he told them his story, and also told of what had happened to Gertrude. "The dirty villain!" cried Mrs. Kennedy, referring to Bulson. "He ought to be put in prison. But the poor girl's troubles are over now." Then she told of how Mark Horton wanted his niece to come back to him. "Perhaps he wants her back, and perhaps this is another trick," said Nelson. "After this I am going to help guard her more than ever." "Where is she now?" "At home. She doesn't know what to do. She thinks of calling on her uncle--to warn him against Bulson. We've got an idea the man is poisoning his uncle in order to get the entire fortune." "Those books on poison----" began Van Pelt. "Exactly," said Nelson. "You can testify to them, can't you?" "To be sure. You had better tell the police of this." "I shall," said Nelson, quietly but firmly. The matter was talked over, and our hero determined to call again upon Gertrude, whom he had just left at Mrs. Kennedy's rooms. When told of the message her uncle had sent the poor girl burst into tears of joy. "Dear Uncle Mark! He is not as bad as I thought!" she cried. "He would be as kind as ever, if he wasn't so sick. Yes, I will go at once, and I will tell him all." "And I'll go along--to prove your story and to tell him about the books on poisons," said Nelson. Soon the pair were on their way to the mansion on Fifth Avenue. Gertrude was all in a tremble, and could scarcely contain herself for joy. The housekeeper let her in, with a smile. "I am glad to see you back," she said warmly. "I hope you'll stay, Miss Gertrude." "How is my uncle?" "Very feeble. I hope the shock doesn't hurt him." "Is that Gertrude?" came in Mark Horton's voice from the head of the stairs. Instead of replying the girl ran to meet him, and in another moment uncle and niece were in each other's arms. "Oh, Uncle Mark!" was all Gertrude could say. "My dear Gertrude," murmured the feeble man, "I am so thankful you have come back to me! I was cruel, nay crazy--but I will never be so again. Will you forgive me?" "Willingly, uncle," she answered. "You were not yourself; it was your sickness made you act so. Now I will nurse you back to health and strength." "Ah! Gertrude! I do not feel as if I can get back my strength again. I am too far gone," murmured the retired merchant. "Rest yourself, uncle." And she led him to a chair. "After a while I want to have a long talk with you. But tell me first, have you been taking any wine lately--I mean the wine Homer Bulson gave you?" "A little. But I do not like it--although he almost forces me to take it. Why do you ask?" "If you will hear me out, I will tell you. It is a long story." "I will listen to every word, Gertrude." As briefly as she could she told of what had happened to her since she had left home, how Homer Bulson had followed her up, and what he had done at Lakewood. Then she spoke of Van Pelt and Nelson, and how they could prove that Bulson had purchased several books on poisons. At this last revelation Mark Horton grew deadly pale. "And you think----" He faltered, and paused. "Oh, Heavens, can it be possible? My own nephew!" "I would have the wine analyzed," said Gertrude. "And I would have him watched carefully." At that moment came a ring at the front door bell, and the doctor appeared. "Ah, Miss Horton!" he said with a smile. "I am glad that you are back." "Doctor, I want that wine examined without delay," broke in the retired merchant. "Examined? What for?" "See if it is pure. I have an idea it is impure." The doctor smiled, thinking this was another of the sick man's whims. But Gertrude called him aside. "We think the wine is poisoned," she whispered. "Examine it as soon as you can, and report to me." "Oh!" The doctor's face became a study. "By Jove, if this is true----" He said no more, but soon departed, taking the wine with him, and also a glass of jelly Bulson had brought in for his uncle's use. "And so you have brought Nelson with you," said Mark Horton. "Perhaps I had better see him." "Do you remember him?" asked Gertrude, her face flushing. "He was in the library that night----" "So that is the young man that was here! Gertrude, for the life of me I cannot understand that affair." "Nelson did not want to explain all he knew, because he wanted to shield a man who used to care for him, uncle. He thought the man came here to rob you, but he made a mistake, for after he left this house he saw the man come out of the house opposite, with Homer Bulson." "Who was the man?" "A rough kind of a fellow who keeps a saloon on the East Side. His name is Samuel Pepper." "Samuel Pepper? Samuel Pepper?" Mark Horton repeated the name slowly. "That sounds familiar. Pepper? Pepper? Ah!" He drew a breath. "Can it be the same?" he mused. "Shall I bring Nelson up?" "Yes, at once." Soon our hero was ushered into the sick room. He was dressed in his best, and cut far from a mean figure as he stood there, hat in hand. "You are Nelson?" said Mark Horton slowly. "Yes, sir." "I must thank you for all you have done for my niece. I shall not forget it." "That's all right," said Nelson rather awkwardly. "I'd do a good deal for Gertrude, any day." "You are a brave boy, Nelson. I believe I once misjudged you." "You did, sir. I'm no thief." "I am willing to believe that I was mistaken." Mark Horton paused for a moment. "Gertrude tells me you live with a man named Sam Pepper," he went on slowly. "I used to live with him, but we parted some time ago. I didn't want anything to do with drink or with a saloon, and I did want to make a man of myself." "That was very commendable in you. But tell me, is this man's right name Sam Pepper?" "I hardly think it is, sir. I once saw some letters, and they were addressed to Pepperill Sampson." "The same! He must be the same!" Mark Horton breathed hard. "Do you know anything about him--where he came from, and so on?" "Not much. You see, I'm not very old. But he did tell me once that you had been an enemy to my father." "Me? Who was your father?" Our hero hung his head and flushed up. "I don't know, sir." "This Pepperill Sampson is a villain. Why, he robbed me of my son years ago, to get square with me because I had discharged him for stealing." "Robbed you of your son?" repeated Nelson. "Do you mean to say he killed your boy?" "I don't know what he did. At first he was going to let me have my little David back for five thousand dollars, but then he got scared, and disappeared, and that was the last I heard of him or of my child." "Then David may be alive!" cried Gertrude. "Nelson----" She stopped short. Each person in the room gazed questioningly at the others. Our hero's breath came thick and fast. Then the door bell below rang violently, and Nelson and Gertrude heard Mrs. Kennedy admitted. CHAPTER XXXIV. FATHER AND SON--CONCLUSION. "It's Nelson an' Miss Gertrude I want to see," those in the sick chamber heard Mrs. Kennedy exclaim. "An' I want to see 'em at once. I have great news for 'em." "I'll go," said Nelson, and slipped downstairs, followed by Gertrude. They found Mrs. Kennedy in a state of high excitement. Her faded bonnet was on one ear, and she walked the floor rapidly. "Oh, my! Upon me soul, I can't belave it!" she burst out. "It's like a dream, Nelson, so it is." "What is like a dream, Mrs. Kennedy?" "The story I have to tell, Nelson. Poor, poor man! but it was all for the best--wid that crime on his mind." "What are you talking about?" put in Gertrude. "I'm talkin' av poor Sam Pepper, Miss Gertrude. He's dead." "Dead!" burst out Gertrude and Nelson simultaneously. Mrs. Kennedy nodded her head half a dozen times. "Yes, dead; cut to pieces on the elevated railroad, at the station close to me little stand. He died wid me a-holdin' av his hand." "It's too bad," murmured Nelson. "Poor fellow! he had some ways about him that I liked." "But it's not that I came about," went on Mrs. Kennedy. "Whin they brought the poor man to the sidewalk to wait for an ambulance, I stayed by him, and he says to me, says he, 'Mrs. Kennedy, I have something on me mind,' says he. 'I want to tell it to you,' says he. So says I, 'What is it?' Says he, 'It's about Nelson. He's a good boy,' says he. 'And I aint done right by him. Tell him I stole him from his father, and that his father is Mr. Mark Horton, Miss Gertrude's uncle.'" "Mark Horton my father!" gasped Nelson, and the room seemed to go round and round in a bewildering whirl. "He my father! Can it be true?" "It must be true!" cried Gertrude. "And he says, too, 'Beware of Homer Bulson. He is a thief--he robbed his uncle's safe. I caught him at it. He has his uncle's will, too,' says poor Pepper. 'He wants to git hold of all the money,' says he." "Yes, I know Homer Bulson is a rascal," said Nelson. "But this other news----" He sank in a chair. "Then you are David Horton, Nelson!" cried Gertrude. "I am indeed very glad of it. I know of no one I would like more for a cousin." "David Horton!" came a hollow voice from the doorway, and Mr. Horton staggered in. "Can this be possible? It must be! See, I recognize his face now. Yes, yes; you are my son David! Come to me!" And he held out his arms. Nelson came forward slowly, then of a sudden he reached forth, and grasped Mark Horton's hands tightly. "I--I suppose it's true," he faltered. "But it will take me a long time to--to get used to it." "My little David had just such eyes and hair as you have," went on Mark Horton, as he still held Nelson closely to him. "And your face reminds me greatly of your mother. There can be no mistake. You are my own little David." "Well, I'm glad that I'm not Nelson, the nobody, any longer," stammered our young hero. He could scarcely talk intelligibly, he felt so queer. "My own cousin David!" said Gertrude, and she, too, embraced him. "Well, I always thought we'd be something to each other, Gertrude," said he. "But, come to think of it, if I am David Horton, then Homer Bulson is a cousin, too." "Unfortunately, yes." "Do not fear! He shall not come between you," said Mark Horton. "My eyes are being opened to his schemes." "Sure an' he's a snake in the grass," burst out Mrs. Kennedy. She had scarcely spoken when there was another arrival at the mansion, and Homer Bulson came in. On seeing the assembled company, he was nearly struck dumb. He looked from one to another in open-mouthed and speechless amazement. "Why--er--how did you get here?" he questioned at last, addressing Gertrude. "That is my affair, Mr. Bulson," she answered coldly. "And you?" he added, turning sharply to our hero. "You have no business in a gentleman's house." "Homer!" exclaimed Mark Horton, and shook his fist at his nephew. "Hush, uncle! We will deal with him," remonstrated Gertrude. "Pray, do not excite yourself." "I have business here," said our hero dryly, realizing that he had a great advantage over Bulson. "You hardly expected to see Gertrude come back from Lakewood so soon, did you?" "I--er--I know nothing of Lakewood," stammered Bulson. "That proves you have a wonderfully short memory, Homer Bulson." "I won't listen to you. You get right out of this house." "I won't get out." "Then I'll call an officer, and have you put out." "If you call an officer, you'll be the one to go with him," returned our hero calmly. "Homer Bulson, your game is played to the end, and you have lost." "Boy, you talk in riddles." "Then I'll explain myself. You plotted to drive Gertrude from this house, and you succeeded. Then you plotted against your uncle, and had Gertrude made a prisoner at Lakewood." "Stuff and nonsense!" "It is the truth. Perhaps you'll deny next that you ever knew Sam Pepper." "Why, has that fool come here?" roared Bulson, in a rage. "I told him----" He stopped short in confusion. "Sam Pepper is dead--killed on the elevated railroad. Before he died he confessed several things, and, among others, what a villain you were." "Ah! and what else?" "He said I was the son of Mr. Horton here." At this Homer Bulson grew as pale as death. He clutched at a table, then sank heavily on a near-by chair. "It is--is false," he muttered, but his looks belied his words. "It is true," broke in Mark Horton. "The boy is my son. This Sam Pepper was merely Pepperill Sampson in disguise. Homer, you are a villain!" "Uncle Mark----" "No, I won't listen to you. I listened before; now I am done. If you ever try to lift a finger against Gertrude or David, I will cut you off without a penny." "But--but----" "I am having the wine which you gave me examined. If I find that it was doctored--well, you had better be missing, that's all," added Mark Horton sternly. "I am willing to do much to avoid a family scandal, but I will not stand too much." "Who--who has the wine?" "The doctor." At this piece of information Homer Bulson leaped to his feet. "It's an outrage! I won't stand it!" he shouted. "You are all plotting against me!" And so speaking, he ran to the hall, picked up his silk hat, and hastily rushed from the mansion. "Shall I go after him?" questioned our hero. "No; let him go," returned the retired merchant. "But he will never come back--you may be certain of that." "So much the better, for then all scandal will be avoided, and we will be very well rid of him." "Yes; let him go," added Gertrude. "Possibly he will repent and turn over a new leaf." "All right! Give him the chance," murmured the boy, and then turning to his father, he added: "I guess I can afford to be generous when I've gained a father, and such a cousin as Gertrude!" A few words more, and then we will bring this story of life in New York City to a close. As anticipated, Homer Bulson fled from the city without delay, and nothing was heard of him for months, when it was learned that he had joined an exploring expedition bound for South Africa. A year later he sent a long letter to his uncle, stating that he was in the mines of the Transvaal, and doing fairly well. He added that he bitterly repented of his wrongdoings, and hoped his uncle and the others would forgive him. To this Mr. Horton replied that he would forgive him if he continued to make a man of himself, and this Bulson did, within his limited ability. Great was George Van Pelt's astonishment when he learned that Nelson was Mr. Horton's lost son. At first he refused to believe what was told him. "You are lucky," he said at last. "You won't want the news stand any longer." "No," said our hero. "I'm going to give my share to Paul Randall. And what is more, I'll pay that money we borrowed from Mr. Amos Barrow; so neither of you will have any debt hanging over you." Our hero was as good as his word, and not only did he clear the news stand, but some time later he purchased a better fruit-and-candy stand for Mrs. Kennedy, and also a first-class flower stand for Gladys Summers. "You're a fine young gentleman," said Mrs. Kennedy. "A fine boy, Nelson--beggin' your pardon, Master David." "I'm not used to the name yet," laughed our hero. "I guess I will be Nelson the Newsboy for a long time to come among my old friends." "I am very thankful to you," said Gladys. "That flower stand is just what I wanted." And she gave Nelson her sweetest smile. Nothing had been heard of the _Victory_ or of Billy Darnley. The ship sailed to the West Indies and to South America, and from there to the Pacific, and whatever became of the bully David Horton never learned, nor did he care. Len Snocks drifted to Jersey City, and then to the West, and became a tramp, and was at last killed while stealing a ride on a freight train. As soon as it was discovered how Mr. Horton had been slowly poisoned, the doctor set to work to counteract the effects of the drugs. Gertrude, our hero, and Mrs. Conroy took turns in caring for the sick man, and before very long he began to show signs of rapid improvement. "It is like some terrible nightmare," he explained one day, when walking out, with Gertrude on one side of him and David on the other. "I was not myself at all." "No, you were not yourself," said Gertrude. "But you soon will be." And she was right. By the following spring Mark Horton was a comparatively well man. These events all occurred a number of years ago, and since that time several important things have happened to our hero. As soon as his identity was established he was provided with a private tutor, who taught him for several years and prepared him for Columbia College. He passed through college with flying colors,, and then took up civil engineering, and to-day he is building large bridges for a leading railroad company. He is doing well, and is devoted to his work. He lives with his father and his cousin and is very happy. But even in his happiness it is not likely that he will ever forget the days when he was "Nelson the Newsboy." THE END. 
9990	----	BRAVE AND BOLD Or THE FORTUNES OF ROBERT RUSHTON By HORATIO ALGER JR. CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG RIVALS. The main schoolroom in the Millville Academy was brilliantly lighted, and the various desks were occupied by boys and girls of different ages from ten to eighteen, all busily writing under the general direction of Professor George W. Granville, Instructor in Plain and Ornamental Penmanship. Professor Granville, as he styled himself, was a traveling teacher, and generally had two or three evening schools in progress in different places at the same time. He was really a very good penman, and in a course of twelve lessons, for which he charged the very moderate price of a dollar, not, of course, including stationery, he contrived to impart considerable instruction, and such pupils as chose to learn were likely to profit by his instructions. His venture in Millville had been unusually successful. There were a hundred pupils on his list, and there had been no disturbance during the course of lessons. At nine precisely, Professor Granville struck a small bell, and said, in rather a nasal voice: "You will now stop writing." There was a little confusion as the books were closed and the pens were wiped. "Ladies and gentlemen," said the professor, placing one arm under his coat tails and extending the other in an oratorical attitude, "this evening completes the course of lessons which I have had the honor and pleasure of giving you. I have endeavored to impart to you an easy and graceful penmanship, such as may be a recommendation to you in after life. It gives me pleasure to state that many of you have made great proficiency, and equaled my highest expectations. There are others, perhaps, who have not been fully sensible of the privileges which they enjoyed. I would say to you all that perfection is not yet attained. You will need practice to reap the full benefit of my instructions. Should my life be spared, I shall hope next winter to give another course of writing lessons in this place, and I hope I may then have the pleasure of meeting you again as pupils. Let me say, in conclusion, that I thank you for your patronage and for your good behavior during this course of lessons, and at the same time I bid you good-by." With the closing words, Professor Granville made a low bow, and placed his hand on his heart, as he had done probably fifty times before, on delivering the same speech, which was the stereotyped form in which he closed his evening schools. There was a thumping of feet, mingled with a clapping of hands, as the professor closed his speech, and a moment later a boy of sixteen, occupying one of the front seats, rose, and, advancing with easy self-possession, drew from his pocket a gold pencil case, containing a pencil and pen, and spoke as follows: "Professor Granville, the members of your writing class, desirous of testifying their appreciation of your services as teacher, have contributed to buy this gold pencil case, which, in their name, I have great pleasure in presenting to you. Will you receive it with our best wishes for your continued success as a teacher of penmanship?" With these words, he handed the pencil to the professor and returned to his seat. The applause that ensued was terrific, causing the dust to rise from the floor where it had lain undisturbed till the violent attack of two hundred feet raised it in clouds, through which the figure of the professor was still visible, with his right arm again extended. "Ladies and gentlemen," he commenced, "I cannot give fitting utterance to the emotions that fill my heart at this most unexpected tribute of regard and mark of appreciation of my humble services. Believe me, I shall always cherish it as a most valued possession, and the sight of it will recall the pleasant, and, I hope, profitable hours which we have passed together this winter. To you, in particular, Mr. Rushton, I express my thanks for the touching and eloquent manner in which you have made the presentation, and, in parting with you all, I echo your own good wishes, and shall hope that you may be favored with an abundant measure of health and prosperity." This speech was also vociferously applauded. It was generally considered impromptu, but was, in truth, as stereotyped as the other. Professor Granville had on previous occasions been the recipient of similar testimonials, and he had found it convenient to have a set form of acknowledgment. He was wise in this, for it is a hard thing on the spur of the moment suitably to offer thanks for an unexpected gift. "The professor made a bully speech," said more than one after the exercises were over. "So did Bob Rushton," said Edward Kent. "I didn't see anything extraordinary in what he said," sneered Halbert Davis. "It seemed to me very commonplace." "Perhaps you could do better yourself, Halbert," said Kent. "Probably I could," said Halbert, haughtily. "Why didn't you volunteer, then?" "I didn't care to have anything to do with it," returned Halbert, scornfully. "That's lucky," remarked Edward, "as there was no chance of your getting appointed." "Do you mean to insult me?" demanded Halbert, angrily. "No, I was only telling the truth." Halbert turned away, too disgusted to make any reply. He was a boy of sixteen, of slender form and sallow complexion, dressed with more pretension than taste. Probably there was no boy present whose suit was of such fine material as his. But something more than fine clothes is needed to give a fine appearance, and Halbert's mean and insignificant features were far from rendering him attractive, and despite the testimony of his glass, Halbert considered himself a young man of distinguished appearance, and was utterly blind to his personal defects. What contributed to feed his vanity was his position as the son of the richest man in Millville. Indeed, his father was superintendent, and part owner, of the great brick factory on the banks of the river, in which hundreds found employment. Halbert found plenty to fawn upon him, and was in the habit of strutting about the village, swinging a light cane, neither a useful nor an ornamental member of the community. After his brief altercation with Edward Kent, he drew on a pair of kid gloves, and looked about the room for Hester Paine, the lawyer's daughter, the reigning belle among the girls of her age in Millville. The fact was, that Halbert was rather smitten with Hester, and had made up his mind to escort her home on this particular evening, never doubting that his escort would be thankfully accepted. But he was not quick enough, Robert Rushton had already approached Hester, and said, "Miss Hester, will you allow me to see you home?" "I shall be very glad to have your company, Robert," said Hester. Robert was a general favorite. He had a bright, attractive face, strong and resolute, when there was occasion, frank and earnest at all times. His clothes were neat and clean, but of a coarse, mixed cloth, evidently of low price, suiting his circumstances, for he was poor, and his mother and himself depended mainly upon his earnings in the factory for the necessaries of life. Hester Paine, being the daughter of a well-to-do lawyer, belonged to the village aristocracy, and so far as worldly wealth was concerned, was far above Robert Rushton. But such considerations never entered her mind, as she frankly, and with real pleasure, accepted the escort of the poor factory boy. Scarcely had she done so when Halbert Davis approached, smoothing his kid gloves, and pulling at his necktie. "Miss Hester," he said, consequentially, "I shall have great pleasure in escorting you home." "Thank you," said Hester, "but I am engaged." "Engaged!" repeated Halbert, "and to whom?" "Robert Rushton has kindly offered to take me home." "Robert Rushton!" said Halbert, disdainfully. "Never mind. I will relieve him of his duty." "Thank you, Halbert," said Robert, who was standing by, "I won't trouble you. I will see Miss Paine home." "Your escort was accepted because you were the first to offer it," said Halbert. "Miss Hester," said Robert, "I will resign in favor of Halbert, if you desire it." "I don't desire it," said the young girl, promptly. "Come, Robert, I am ready if you are." With a careless nod to Halbert, she took Robert's arm, and left the schoolhouse. Mortified and angry, Halbert looked after them, muttering, "I'll teach the factory boy a lesson. He'll be sorry for his impudence yet." CHAPTER II. PUNISHING A COWARD Mrs. Rushton and her son occupied a little cottage, not far from the factory. Behind it were a few square rods of garden, in which Robert raised a few vegetables, working generally before or after his labor in the factory. They lived in a very plain way, but Mrs. Rushton was an excellent manager, and they had never lacked the common comforts of life. The husband and father had followed the sea. Two years before, he left the port of Boston as captain of the ship _Norman_, bound for Calcutta. Not a word had reached his wife and son since then, and it was generally believed that it had gone to the bottom of the sea. Mrs. Rushton regarded herself as a widow, and Robert, entering the factory, took upon himself the support of the family. He was now able to earn six dollars a week, and this, with his mother's earnings in braiding straw for a hat manufacturer in a neighboring town, supported them, though they were unable to lay up anything. The price of a term at the writing school was so small that Robert thought he could indulge himself in it, feeling that a good handwriting was a valuable acquisition, and might hereafter procure him employment in some business house. For the present, he could not do better than to retain his place in the factory. Robert was up at six the next morning. He spent half an hour in sawing and splitting wood enough to last his mother through the day, and then entered the kitchen, where breakfast was ready. "I am a little late this morning, mother," he said. "I must hurry down my breakfast, or I shall be late at the factory, and that will bring twenty-five cents fine." "It would be a pity to get fined, but you mustn't eat too fast. It is not healthful." "I've got a pretty good digestion, mother," said Robert, laughing. "Nothing troubles me." "Still, you mustn't trifle with it. Do you remember, Robert," added his mother, soberly, "it is just two years to-day since your poor father left us for Boston to take command of his ship?" "So it is, mother; I had forgotten it." "I little thought then that I should never see him again!" and Mrs. Rushton sighed. "It is strange we have never heard anything of the ship." "Not so strange, Robert. It must have gone down when no other vessel was in sight." "I wish we knew the particulars, mother. Sometimes I think father may have escaped from the ship in a boat, and may be still alive." "I used to think it possible, Robert; but I have given up all hopes of it. Two years have passed, and if your father were alive, we should have seen him or heard from him ere this." "I am afraid you are right. There's one thing I can't help thinking of, mother," said Robert, thoughtfully. "How is it that father left no property? He received a good salary, did he not?" "Yes; he had received a good salary for several years." "He did not spend the whole of it, did he?" "No, I am sure he did not. Your father was never extravagant." "Didn't he ever speak to you on the subject?" "He was not in the habit of speaking of his business; but just before he went away, I remember him telling me that he had some money invested, and hoped to add more to it during the voyage which proved so fatal to him." "He didn't tell you how much it was, nor how it was invested?" "No; that was all he said. Since his death, I have looked everywhere in the house for some papers which would throw light upon it; but I have been able to find nothing. I do not care so much for myself, but I should be glad if you did not have to work so hard." "Never mind me, mother; I'm young and strong, I can stand work--but it's hard on you." "I am rich in having a good son, Robert." "And I in a good mother," said Robert, affectionately. "And, now, to change the subject. I suspect I have incurred the enmity of Halbert Davis." "How is that?" asked Mrs. Rushton. "I went home with Hester Paine, last evening, from writing school. Just as she had accepted my escort, Halbert came up, and in a condescending way, informed her that he would see her home." "What did she say?" "She told him she was engaged to me. He said, coolly, that he would relieve me of the duty, but I declined his obliging offer. He looked mad enough, I can tell you. He's full of self-conceit, and I suppose he wondered how any one could prefer me to him." "I am sorry you have incurred his enmity." "I didn't lose any sleep by it." "You know his father is the superintendent of the factory." "Halbert isn't." "But he may prejudice his father against you, and get you discharged." "I don't think he would be quite so mean as that. We won't borrow trouble, mother. But time's up, and I must go." Robert seized his hat and hurried to the mill. He was in his place when the great factory bell stopped ringing on the stroke of seven, and so escaped the fine, which would have cut off one-quarter of a day's pay. Meanwhile, Halbert Davis had passed an uncomfortable and restless night. He had taken a fancy to Hester Paine, and he had fully determined to escort her home on the previous evening. As she was much sought after among her young companions, it would have gratified his pride to have it known that she had accepted his company. But he had been cut out, and by Robert Rushton--one of his father's factory hands. This made his jealousy more intolerable, and humiliated his pride, and set him to work devising schemes for punishing Robert's presumption. He felt that it was Robert's duty, even though he had been accepted, to retire from the field as soon as his, Halbert's, desire was known. This Robert had expressly declined to do, and Halbert felt very indignant. He made up his mind that he would give Robert a chance to apologize, and if he declined to do so he would do what he could to get him turned out of the factory. At twelve o'clock the factory bell pealed forth a welcome sound to the hundreds who were busily at work within the great building. It was the dinner hour, and a throng of men, women and children poured out of the great portals and hastened to their homes or boarding houses to dine. Among them was Robert Rushton. As he was walking homeward with his usual quick, alert step, he came upon Halbert Davis, at the corner of the street. Halbert was dressed carefully, and, as usual, was swinging his cane in his gloved hand. Robert would have passed him with a nod, but Halbert, who was waiting for him, called out: "I say, you fellow, stop a minute. I want to speak to you." "Are you addressing me?" asked Robert, with a pride as great as his own. "Yes." "Then you had better mend your manners." "What do you mean?" demanded Halbert, his sallow face slightly flushing. "My name is Robert Rushton. Call me by either of these names when you speak to me, and don't say 'you fellow.'" "It seems to me," sneered Halbert, "that you are putting on airs for a factory boy." "I am a factory boy, I acknowledge, and am not ashamed to acknowledge it. Is this all you have to say to me? If so, I will pass on, as I am in haste." "I have something else to say to you. You were impudent to me last evening." "Was I? Tell me how." "Did you not insist on going home with Hester Paine, when I had offered my escort?" "What of that?" "You forget your place." "My place was at Hester Paine's side, since she had accepted my escort." "It was very presumptuous in a factory boy like you offering your escort to a young lady like Miss Paine." "I don't see it," said Robert, independently; "and I don't think it struck Hester in that light. We had a very agreeable walk." Halbert was provoked and inflamed with jealousy, and the look with which he regarded our hero was by no means friendly. "You mustn't regard yourself as Miss Paine's equal because she condescended to walk with you," he said. "You had better associate with those of your own class hereafter, and not push yourself in where your company is not agreeable." "Keep your advice to yourself, Halbert Davis," said Robert, hotly, for he felt the insult conveyed in these words. "If I am a factory boy I don't intend to submit to your impertinence; and I advise you to be careful what you say. As to Miss Hester Paine, I shall not ask your permission to walk with her, but shall do so whenever she chooses to accept my escort. Has she authorized you to speak for her?" "No; but----" "Then wait till she does." Halbert was so incensed that, forgetting Robert's superior strength, evident enough to any one who saw the two, one with his well-knit, vigorous figure, the other slender and small of frame, he raised his cane and struck our hero smartly upon the arm. In a moment the cane was wrested from his grasp and applied to his own person with a sharp, stinging blow which broke the fragile stick in two. Casting the pieces upon the ground at his feet, Robert said, coolly: "Two can play at that game, Halbert Davis. When you want another lesson come to me." He passed his discomfited antagonist and hastened to the little cottage, where his mother was wondering what made him so much behind time. CHAPTER III. THE SPECIAL DEPOSIT. Stung with mortification and more incensed against Robert than ever, Halbert hastened home. The house in which he lived was the largest and most pretentious in Millville--a large, square house, built in modern style, and with modern improvements, accessible from the street by a semi-circular driveway terminating in two gates, one at each end of the spacious lawn that lay in front. The house had been built only three years, and was the show-place of the village. Halbert entered the house, and throwing his hat down on a chair in the hall, entered the dining-room, his face still betraying his angry feelings. "What's the matter, Halbert?" asked his mother, looking up as he entered. "Do you see this?" said Halbert, displaying the pieces of his cane. "How did you break it?" "I didn't break it." "How came it broken, then?" "Robert Rushton broke it." "The widow Rushton's son?" "Yes; he's a low scoundrel," said Halbert bitterly. "What made him break it?" "He struck me with it hard enough to break it, and then threw the pieces on the ground. I wouldn't mind it so much if he were not a low factory boy, unworthy of a gentleman's attention." "How dared he touch you?" asked Mrs. Davis, angrily. "Oh, he's impudent enough for anything. He walked home with Hester Paine last evening from the writing school. I suppose she didn't know how to refuse him. I met him just now and told him he ought to know his place better than to offer his escort to a young lady like Hester. He got mad and struck me." "It was very proper advice," said Mrs. Davis, who resembled her son in character and disposition, and usually sided with him in his quarrels. "I should think Hester would have more sense than to encourage a boy in his position." "I have no doubt she was bored by his company," said Halbert, who feared on the contrary that Hester was only too well pleased with his rival, and hated him accordingly; "only she was too good-natured to say so." "The boy must be a young brute to turn upon you so violently." "That's just what he is." "He ought to be punished for it." "I'll tell you how it can be done," said Halbert. "Just you speak to father about it, and get him dismissed from the factory." "Then he is employed in the factory?" "Yes. He and his mother are as poor as poverty, and that's about all they have to live upon; yet he goes round with his head up as if he were a prince, and thinks himself good enough to walk home with Hester Paine." "I never heard of anything so ridiculous." "Then you'll speak to father about it, won't you?" "Yes; I'll speak to him to-night. He's gone away for the day." "That'll pay me for my broken cane," said Halbert, adding, in a tone of satisfaction: "I shall be glad to see him walking round the streets in rags. Perhaps he'll be a little more respectful then." Meanwhile Robert decided not to mention to his mother his encounter with the young aristocrat. He knew that it would do no good, and would only make her feel troubled. He caught the malignant glance of Halbert on parting, and he knew him well enough to suspect that he would do what he could to have him turned out of the factory. This would certainly be a serious misfortune. Probably the entire income upon which his mother and himself had to depend did not exceed eight dollars a week, and of this he himself earned six. They had not more than ten dollars laid by for contingencies, and if he were deprived of work, that would soon melt away. The factory furnished about the only avenue of employment open in Millville, and if he were discharged it would be hard to find any other remunerative labor. At one o'clock Robert went back to the factory rather thoughtful. He thought it possible that he might hear something before evening of the dismission which probably awaited him, but the afternoon passed and he heard nothing. On leaving the factory, he chanced to see Halbert again on the sidewalk a little distance in front and advancing toward him. This time, however, the young aristocrat did not desire a meeting, for, with a dark scowl, he crossed the street in time to avoid it. "Is he going to pass it over, I wonder?" thought Robert. "Well, I won't borrow trouble. If I am discharged I think I can manage to pick up a living somehow. I've got two strong arms, and if I don't find something to do, it won't be for the want of trying." Two years before, Captain Rushton, on the eve of sailing upon what proved to be his last voyage, called in the evening at the house of Mr. Davis, the superintendent of the Millville factory. He found the superintendent alone, his wife and Halbert having gone out for the evening. He was seated at a table with a variety of papers spread out before him. These papers gave him considerable annoyance. He was preparing his semi-annual statement of account, and found himself indebted to the corporation in a sum three thousand dollars in excess of the funds at his command. He had been drawn into the whirlpool of speculation, and, through a New York broker, had invested considerable amounts in stocks, which had depreciated in value. In doing this he had made use, to some extent, of the funds of the corporation, which he was now at a loss how to replace. He was considering where he could apply for a temporary loan of three thousand dollars when the captain entered. Under the circumstances he was sorry for the intrusion. "Good-evening, Captain Rushton," he said, with a forced smile. "Sit down. I am glad to see you." "Thank you, Mr. Davis. It will be the last call I shall make upon you for a considerable time." "Indeed--how is that?" "I sail to-morrow for Calcutta." "Indeed--that is a long voyage." "Yes, it takes considerable time. I don't like to leave my wife and boy for so long, but we sailors have to suffer a good many privations." "True; I hardly think I should enjoy such a life." "Still," said the captain, "it has its compensations. I like the free, wild life of the sea. The ocean, even in its stormiest aspects, has a charm for me." "It hasn't much for me," said the superintendent, shrugging his shoulders. "Seasickness takes away all the romance that poets have invested it with." Captain Rushton laughed. "Seasickness!" he repeated. "Yes, that is truly a disagreeable malady. I remember once having a lady of rank as passenger on board my ship--a Lady Alice Graham. She was prostrated by seasickness, which is no respecter of persons, and a more forlorn, unhappy mortal I never expect to see. She would have been glad, I am convinced, to exchange places with her maid, who seemed to thrive upon the sea air." "I wish you a prosperous voyage, captain." "Thank you. If things go well, I expect to come home with quite an addition to my little savings. And that brings me to the object of my visit this evening. You must know, Mr. Davis, I have saved up in the last ten years a matter of five thousand dollars." "Five thousand dollars!" repeated the superintendent, pricking up his ears. "Yes, it has been saved by economy and self-denial. Wouldn't my wife be surprised if she knew her husband were so rich?" "Your wife doesn't know of it?" asked the superintendent, surprised. "Not at all. I have told her I have something, and she may suppose I have a few hundred dollars, but I have never told her how much. I want to surprise her some day." "Just so." "Now, Mr. Davis, for the object of my errand. I am no financier, and know nothing of investments. I suppose you do. I want you to take this money, and take care of it, while I am gone on my present voyage. I meant to make inquiries myself for a suitable investment, but I have been summoned by my owners to leave at a day's notice, and have no time for it. Can you oblige me by taking care of the money?" "Certainly, captain," said the superintendent, briskly. "I shall have great pleasure in obliging an old friend." "I am much obliged to you." "Don't mention it. I have large sums of my own to invest, and it is no extra trouble to look after your money. Am I to pay the interest to your wife?" "No. I have left a separate fund in a savings bank for her to draw upon. As I told you, I want to surprise her by and by. So not a word, if you please, about this deposit." "Your wishes shall be regarded," said the superintendent. "Have you brought the money with you?" "Yes," said the captain, drawing from his pocket a large wallet. "I have got the whole amount here in large bills. Count it, if you please, and see that it is all right." The superintendent took the roll of bills from the hands of his neighbor, and counted them over twice. "It is quite right," he said. "Here are five thousand dollars. Now let me write you a receipt for them." He drew before him a sheet of paper, and dipping his pen in the inkstand, wrote a receipt in the usual form, which he handed back to the captain, who received it and put it back in his wallet. "Now," said the captain, in a tone of satisfaction, "my most important business is transacted. You will keep this money, investing it according to your best judgment. If anything should happen to me," he added, his voice faltering a little, "you will pay it over to my wife and child." "Assuredly," said the superintendent; "but don't let us think of such a sad contingency. I fully expect to pay it back into your own hands with handsome interest." "Let us hope so," said the captain, recovering his cheerfulness. "Our destinies are in the hands of a kind Providence. And now good-by! I leave early to-morrow morning, and I must pass the rest of the evening with my own family." "Good-night, captain," said the superintendent, accompanying him to the door. "I renew my wish that you have a prosperous and profitable voyage, and be restored in good time to your family and friends." "Amen!" said the captain. The superintendent went back to his study, his heart lightened of its anxiety. "Could anything be more fortunate?" he ejaculated, "This help comes to me just when it is most needed. Thanks to my special deposit, I can make my semi-annual settlement, and have two thousand dollars over. It's lucky the captain knows nothing of my Wall Street speculations. He might not have been quite so ready to leave his money in my hands. It's not a bad thing to be a banker," and he rubbed his hands together with hilarity. CHAPTER IV. THE VOICE OF CONSCIENCE. When the superintendent accepted Captain Rushton's money, he did not intend to act dishonestly. He hailed it as a present relief, though he supposed he should have to repay it some time. His accounts being found correct, he went on with his speculations. In these he met with varying success. But on the whole he found himself no richer, while he was kept in a constant fever of anxiety. After some months, he met Mrs. Rushton in the street one day. "Have you heard from your husband, Mrs. Rushton?" he inquired. "No, Mr. Davis, not yet. I am beginning to feel anxious." "How long has he been gone?" "Between seven and eight months." "The voyage is a long one. There are many ways of accounting for his silence." "He would send by some passing ship. He has been to Calcutta before, but I have never had to wait so long for a letter." The superintendent uttered some commonplace phrases of assurance, but in his own heart there sprang up a wicked hope that the _Norman_ would never reach port, and that he might never set eyes on Captain Rushton again. For in that case, he reflected, it would be perfectly safe for him to retain possession of the money with which he had been intrusted. The captain had assured him that neither his wife nor son knew aught of his savings. Who then could detect his crime? However, it was not yet certain that the _Norman_ was lost. He might yet have to repay the money. Six months more passed, and still no tidings of the ship or its commander. Even the most sanguine now gave her up for lost, including the owners. The superintendent called upon them, ostensibly in behalf of Mrs. Rushton, and learned that they had but slender hopes of her safety. It was a wicked thing to rejoice over such a calamity, but his affairs were now so entangled that a sudden demand for the five thousand dollars would have ruined him. He made up his mind to say nothing of the special deposit, though he knew the loss of it would leave the captain's family in the deepest poverty. To soothe his conscience--for he was wholly destitute of one--he received Robert into the factory, and the boy's wages, as we already know, constituted their main support. Such was the state of things at the commencement of our story. When the superintendent reached home in the evening, he was at once assailed by his wife and son, who gave a highly colored account of the insult which Halbert had received from Robert Rushton. "Did he have any reason for striking you, Halbert?" asked the superintendent. "No," answered Halbert, unblushingly. "He's an impudent young scoundrel, and puts on as many airs as if he were a prince instead of a beggar." "He is not a beggar." "He is a low factory boy, and that is about the same." "By no means. He earns his living by honest industry." "It appears to me," put in Mrs. Davis, "that you are taking the part of this boy who has insulted your son in such an outrageous manner." "How am I doing it? I am only saying he is not a beggar." "He is far below Halbert in position, and that is the principal thing." It occurred to the superintendent that should he make restitution Robert Rushton would be quite as well off as his own son, but of course he could not venture to breathe a hint of this to his wife. It was the secret knowledge of the deep wrong which he had done to the Rushtons that now made him unwilling to oppress him further. "It seems to me," he said, "you are making too much of this matter. It is only a boyish quarrel." "A boyish quarrel!" retorted Mrs. Davis, indignantly. "You have a singular way of standing by your son, Mr. Davis. A low fellow insults and abuses him, and you exert yourself to mate excuses for him." "You misapprehend me, my dear." "Don't 'my dear' me," said the exasperated lady. "I thought you would be as angry as I am, but you seem to take the whole thing very coolly, upon my word!" Mrs. Davis had a sharp temper and a sharp tongue, and her husband stood considerably in awe of both. He had more than once been compelled to yield to them, and he saw that he must make some concession to order to keep the peace. "Well, what do you want me to do?" he asked. "Want you to do! I should think that was plain enough." "I will send for the boy and reprimand him." "Reprimand him!" repeated the lady, contemptuously. "And what do you think he will care for that?" "More than you think, perhaps." "Stuff and nonsense! He'll be insulting Halbert again to-morrow." "I am not so sure that Halbert is not in fault in some way." "Of course, you are ready to side with a stranger against your own son." "What do you want me to do?" asked the superintendent, submissively. "Discharge the boy from your employment," said his wife, promptly. "But how can he and his mother live?--they depend on his wages." "That is their affair. He ought to have thought of that before he raised his hand against Halbert." "I cannot do what you wish," said the superintendent, with some firmness, for he felt that it would indeed be a piece of meanness to eject from the factory the boy whom he had already so deeply wronged; "but I will send for young Rushton and require him to apologize to Halbert." "And if he won't do it?" demanded Halbert. "Then I will send him away." "Will you promise that, father?" asked Halbert, eagerly. "Yes," said Mr. Davis, rather reluctantly. "All right!" thought Halbert; "I am satisfied; for I know he never will consent to apologize." Halbert had good reason for this opinion, knowing, as he did, that he had struck the first blow, a circumstance he had carefully concealed from his father. Under the circumstances he knew very well that his father would be called upon to redeem his promise. The next morning, at the regular hour, our hero went to the factory, and taking his usual place, set to work. An hour passed, and nothing was said to him. He began to think that Halbert, feeling that he was the aggressor, had resolved to let the matter drop. But he was speedily undeceived. At a quarter after eight the superintendent made his appearance, and after a brief inspection of the work, retired to his private office. Ten minutes later, the foreman of the room in which he was employed came up to Robert and touched him on the shoulder. "Mr. Davis wishes to see you in his office," he said. "Now for it!" thought Robert, as he left his work and made his way, through the deafening clamor of the machinery, to the superintendent's room. CHAPTER V. DISCHARGED. The superintendent sat at an office table writing a letter. He did not at first look up, but kept on with his employment. He had some remnants of conscience left, and he shrank from the task his wife had thrust upon him. "Mr. Baker tells me you wish to see me, Mr. Davis," said Robert, who had advanced into the office, by way of calling his attention. "Yes," said the superintendent, laying down his pen, and turning half round; "I hear a bad account of you, Rushton." "In what way, sir?" asked our hero, returning his look fearlessly. "I hear that you have been behaving like a young ruffian," said Mr. Davis, who felt that he must make out a strong case to justify him in dismissing Robert from the factory. "This is a serious charge, Mr. Davis," said Robert, gravely, "and I hope you will be kind enough to let me know what I have done, and the name of my accuser." "I mean to do so. Probably it will be enough to say that your accuser is my son, Halbert." "I supposed so. I had a difficulty with Halbert yesterday, but I consider he was in fault." "He says you insulted and struck him." "I did not insult him. The insult came from him." "Did you strike him?" "Yes, but not until he had struck me first." "He didn't mention this, but even if he had you should not have struck him back." "Why not?" asked Robert. "You should have reported the affair to me." "And allowed him to keep on striking me?" "You must have said something to provoke him," continued the superintendent, finding it a little difficult to answer this question, "or he would not have done it." "If you will allow me," said Robert, "I will give you an account of the whole affair." "Go on," said the superintendent, rather unwillingly, for he strongly suspected that our hero would be able to justify himself, and so render dismissal more difficult. "Halbert took offense because I accompanied Hester Paine home from the writing school, evening before last, though I did with the young lady's permission, as he knew. He met me yesterday at twelve o'clock, as I was going home to dinner, and undertook to lecture me on my presumption in offering my escort to one so much above me. He also taunted me with being a factory boy. I told him to keep his advice to himself, as I should not ask his permission when I wanted to walk, with Hester Paine. Then he became enraged, and struck me with his cane. I took it from him and returned the blow, breaking the cane in doing it." "Ahem!" said the superintendent, clearing his throat; "you must have been very violent." "I don't think I was, sir. I struck him a smart blow, but the cane was very light and easily broken." "You were certainly very violent," continued Mr. Davis, resolved to make a point of this. "Halbert did not break the cane when he struck you." "He struck the first blow." "That does not alter the question of the amount of violence, which was evidently without justification. You must have been in a great passion." "I don't think I was in any greater passion than Halbert." "In view of the violence you made use of, I consider that you owe my son an apology." "An apology!" repeated Robert, whose astonishment was apparent in his tone. "I believe I spoke plainly," said the superintendent, irritably. "If any apology is to be made," said our hero, firmly, "it ought to come from Halbert to me." "How do you make that out?" "He gave me some impertinent advice, and, because I did not care to take it, he struck me." "And you seized his cane in a fury, and broke it in returning the blow." "I acknowledge that I broke the cane," said Robert; "and I suppose it is only right that I should pay for it. I am willing to do that, but not to apologize." "That will not be sufficient," said the superintendent, who knew that payment for the cane would fall far short of satisfying his wife or Halbert. "The cost of the cane was a trifle, and I am willing to buy him another, but I cannot consent that my son should be subjected to such rude violence, without an apology from the offender. If I passed this over, you might attack him again to-morrow." "I am not in the habit of attacking others without cause," said Robert, proudly. "If Halbert will let me alone, or treat me with civility, he may be sure that I shall not trouble him." "You are evading the main point, Rushton," said the superintendent. "I have required you to apologize to my son, and I ask you for the last time whether you propose to comply with my wishes." "No, sir," said Robert, boldly. "Do you know to whom you are speaking, boy?" "Yes, sir." "I am not only the father of the boy you have assaulted, but I am also the superintendent of this factory, and your employer.". "I am aware of that, sir." "I can discharge you from the factory." "I know you can," said Robert. "Of course, I should be sorry to resort to such an extreme measure, but, if you defy my authority, I may be compelled to do so." So the crisis had come. Robert saw that he must choose between losing his place and a humiliating apology. Between the two he did not for a moment hesitate. "Mr. Davis," he said, boldly and firmly, "it will be a serious thing for me if I lose my place here, for my mother and I are poor, and my wages make the greatest part of our income. But I cannot make this apology you require. I will sooner lose my place." The bold and manly bearing of our hero, and his resolute tone, impressed the superintendent with an involuntary admiration. He felt that Robert was a boy to be proud of, but none the less he meant to carry out his purpose. "Is this your final decision?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "Then you are discharged from the factory. You will report your discharge to Mr. Baker, and he will pay you what you have earned this week." "Very well, sir." Robert left the office, with a bold bearing, but a heart full of trouble. If only himself had been involved in the calamity, he could have borne it better, but he knew that his loss of place meant privation and want for his mother, unless he could find something to do that would bring in an equal income, and this he did not expect. "Mr. Baker," he said, addressing the foreman of his room, on his return from the superintendent's office, "I am discharged." "Discharged?" repeated the foreman, in surprise. "There must be some mistake about this. You are one of our best hands--for your age, I mean." "There is no dissatisfaction with my work that I know of, but I got into a quarrel with Halbert Davis yesterday, and his father wants me to apologize to him." "Which you won't do?" "I would if I felt that I were in fault. I am not too proud for that. But the fact is, Halbert ought to apologize to me." "Halbert is a mean boy. I don't blame you in the least." "So I am to report my discharge to you, and ask you for my wages." This account was soon settled, and Robert left the factory his own master. But it is poor consolation to be one's own master under such circumstances. He dreaded to break the news to his mother, for he knew that it would distress her. He was slowly walking along, when he once more encountered Halbert Davis. Halbert was out for the express purpose of meeting and exulting over him, for he rightly concluded that Robert would decline to apologize to him. Robert saw his enemy, and guessed his object, but resolved to say nothing to him, unless actually obliged to do so. "Where are you going?" demanded Halbert. "Home." "I thought you worked in the factory?" "Did you?" asked Robert, looking full in his face, and reading the exultation he did not attempt to conceal. "Perhaps you have got turned out?" suggested Halbert, with a malicious smile. "You would be glad of that, I suppose," said our hero. "I don't think I should cry much," said Halbert. "It's true then, is it?" "Yes; it's true." "You won't put on so many airs when you go round begging for cold victuals. It'll be some time before you walk with Hester Paine again." "I shall probably walk with her sooner than you will." "She won't notice a beggar." "There is not much chance of my becoming a beggar, Halbert Davis; but I would rather be one than be as mean as you. I will drop you a slight hint, which you had better bear in mind. It won't be any safer to insult me now than it was yesterday. I can't lose my place a second time." Halbert instinctively moved aside, while our hero passed on, without taking farther notice of him. "I hate him!" he muttered to himself. "I hope he won't find anything to do. If he wasn't so strong, I'd give him a thrashing." CHAPTER VI. HALBERT'S DISCOMFITURE. Great was the dismay of Mrs. Rushton when she heard from Robert that he was discharged from the factory. She was a timid woman, and rather apt to take desponding views of the future. "Oh, Robert, what is going to become of us?" she exclaimed, nervously. "We have only ten dollars in the house, and you know how little I can earn by braiding straw. I really think you were too hasty and impetuous." "Don't be alarmed, my dear mother," said Robert, soothingly. "I am sorry I have lost my place, but there are other things I can do besides working in the factory. We are not going to starve yet." "But, suppose you can't find any work?" said his mother. "Then I'll help you braid straw," said Robert, laughing. "Don't you think I might learn after a while?" "I don't know but you might," said Mrs. Rushton, dubiously; "but the pay is very poor." "That's so, mother. I shan't, take to braiding straw except as a last resort." "Wouldn't Mr. Davis take you back into the factory if I went to him and told him how much we needed the money?" "Don't think of such a thing, mother," said Robert, hastily, his brown cheek flushing. "I am too proud to beg to be taken back." "But it wouldn't be you." "I would sooner ask myself than have you do it, mother. No; the superintendent sent me away for no good reason, and he must come and ask me to return before I'll do it." "I am afraid you are proud, Robert." "So I am, mother; but it is an honest pride. Have faith in me for a week, mother, and see if I don't earn something in that time. I don't expect to make as much as I earned at the factory; but I'll earn something, you may depend upon that. Now, how would you like to have some fish for supper?" "I think I should like it. It is a good while since we had any." "Then, I'll tell you what--I'll borrow Will Paine's boat, if he'll let me have it, and see if I can't catch something." "When will you be home, Robert?" "It will depend on my success in fishing. It'll be half-past nine, very likely, before I get fairly started, so I think I'd better take my dinner with me. I'll be home some time in the afternoon." "I hope you'll be careful, Robert. You might get upset." "I'll take care of that, mother. Besides, I can swim like a duck." Robert went out into the garden, and dug some worms for bait. Meanwhile, his mother made a couple of sandwiches, and wrapped them in a paper for his lunch. Provided thus, he walked quickly to the house of Squire Paine, and rang the bell. "Is Will home?" he asked. "Here I am, old fellow!" was heard from the head of the stairs; and William Paine, a boy of our hero's size and age, appeared. "Come right up." "How did you happen to be at leisure?" he asked. "I supposed you were at the factory." "I'm turned off." "Turned off! How's that?" "Through the influence of Halbert Davis." "Halbert is a disgusting sneak. I always despised him, and, if he's done such a mean thing, I'll never speak to him again. Tell me all about it." This Robert did, necessarily bringing in Hester's name. "He needn't think my sister will walk with him," said Will. "If she does, I'll cut her off with a shilling. She'd rather walk with you, any day." Robert blushed a little; for, though he was too young to be in love, he thought his friend's sister the most attractive girl he had even seen, and, knowing how she was regarded in the village, he naturally felt proud of her preference for himself over a boy who was much richer. "What are you going to do now?" asked Will, with interest. "The first thing I am going to do is to catch some fish, if you'll lend me your boat." "Lend you my boat? Of course I will! I'll lend it to you for the next three months." "But you want it yourself?" "No. Haven't you heard the news? I'm going to boarding school." "You are?" "It's a fact. I'm packing my trunk now. Come upstairs, and superintend the operation." "I can't stay long. But, Will, are you in earnest about the boat?" "To be sure I am. I was meaning to ask you if you'd take care of it for me. You see, I can't carry it with me, and you are the only fellow I am willing to lend it to." "I shall be very glad of the chance, Will. I've been wanting a boat for a long time, but there wasn't much chance of my getting one. Now I shall feel rich. But isn't this a sudden idea, your going to school?" "Rather. There was a college classmate of father's here last week, who's at the head of such a school, and he made father promise to send me. So I'm to start to-morrow morning. If it wasn't for that, and being up to my ears in getting ready, I'd go out fishing with you." "I wish you could." "I must wait till vacation. Here is the boat key." Robert took the key with satisfaction. The boat owned by his friend was a stanch, round-bottomed boat, of considerable size, bought only two months before, quite the best boat on the river. It was to be at his free disposal, and this was nearly the same thing as owning it. He might find it very useful, for it occurred to him that, if he could find nothing better to do, he could catch fish every day, and sell at the village store such as his mother could not use. In this way he would be earning something, and it would be better than being idle. He knew where the boat was usually kept, just at the foot of a large tree, whose branches drooped over the river. He made his way thither, and, fitting the key in the padlock which confined the boat, soon set it free. The oars he had brought with him from his friend's house. Throwing in the oars, he jumped in, and began to push off, when he heard himself called, and, looking up, saw Halbert Davis standing on the bank. "Get out of that boat!" said Halbert. "What do you mean?" demanded Robert. "You have no business in that boat! It doesn't belong to you!" "You'd better mind your own business, Halbert Davis. You have nothing to do with the boat." "It's William Paine's boat." "Thank you for the information. I supposed it was yours, from the interest you seem to take in it." "It will be. He's going to let me have it while he's away at school." "Indeed! Did he tell you so?" "I haven't asked Ma yet; but I know he will let me have it." "I don't think he will." "Why not?" "If you ever want to borrow this boat, you'll have to apply to me." "You haven't bought it?" asked Halbert, in surprise. "You're too poor." "I'm to have charge of the boat while Will Paine is away." "Did he say you might?" asked Halbert, in a tone of disappointment and mortification. "Of course he did." "I don't believe it," said Halbert, suspiciously. "I don't care what you believe. Go and ask him yourself, if you are not satisfied; and don't meddle with what is none of your business;" "You're an impudent rascal." "Have you got another cane you'd like to have broken?" asked Robert, significantly. Halbert looked after him, enviously, as he rowed the boat out into the stream. He had asked his father to buy him a boat, but the superintendent's speculations had not turned out very well of late, and he had been deaf to his son's persuasions, backed, though they were, by his mother's influence. When Halbert heard that William Paine was going to boarding school, he decided to ask him for the loan of his boat during his absence, as the next best thing. Now, it seemed that he had been forestalled, and by the boy he hated. He resolved to see young Paine himself, and offer him two dollars for the use of his boat during the coming term. Then he would have the double satisfaction of using the boat and disappointing Robert. He made his way to the house of Squire Paine, and, after a brief pause, was admitted. He was shown into the parlor, and Will Paine came down to see him. "How are you, Davis?" he said, nodding, coolly, but not offering his hand. "I hear you are going to boarding school?" "Yes; I go to-morrow." "I suppose you won't take your boat with you?" "No." "I'll give you two dollars for the use of it; the next three months?" "I can't accept your offer. Robert Rushton is to have it." "But he doesn't pay you anything for it. I'll give you three dollars, if you say so?" "You can't have it for three dollars, or ten. I have promised it to my friend, Robert Rushton, and I shall not take it back." "You may not know," said Halbert, maliciously, "that your friend was discharged from the factory this morning for misconduct." "I know very well that he was discharged, and through whose influence, Halbert Davis," said Will, pointedly. "I like him all the better for his misfortune, and so I am sure will my sister." Halbert's face betrayed the anger and jealousy he felt, but he didn't dare to speak to the lawyer's son as he had to the factory boy. "Good-morning!" he said, rising to go. "Good-morning!" said young Paine, formally. Halbert felt, as he walked homeward, that his triumph over Robert was by no means complete. CHAPTER VII. THE STRANGE PASSENGER. Robert, though not a professional fisherman, was not wholly inexperienced. This morning he was quite lucky, catching quite a fine lot of fish--as much, indeed, as his mother and himself would require a week to dispose of. However, he did not intend to carry them all home. It occurred to him that he could sell them at a market store in the village. Otherwise, he would not have cared to go on destroying life for no useful end. Accordingly, on reaching the shore, he strung the fish and walked homeward, by way of the market. It was rather a heavy tug, for the fish he had caught weighed at least fifty pounds. Stepping into the store, he attracted the attention of the proprietor. "That's a fine lot of fish you have there, Robert. What are you going to do with them?" "I'm going to sell most of them to you, if I can." "Are they just out of the water?" "Yes; I have just brought them in." "What do you want for them?" "I don't know what is a fair price?" "I'll give you two cents a pound for as many as you want to sell." "All right," said our hero, with satisfaction. "I'll carry this one home, and you can weigh the rest." The rest proved to weigh forty-five pounds. The marketman handed Robert ninety cents, which he pocketed with satisfaction. "Shall you want some more to-morrow?" he asked. "Yes, if you can let me have them earlier. But how is it you are not at the factory?" "I've lost my place." "That's a pity." "So I have plenty of time to work for you." "I may be able to take considerable from you. I'm thinking of running a cart to Brampton every morning, but I must have the fish by eight o'clock, or it'll be too late." "I'll go out early in the morning, then." "Very well; bring me what you have at that hour, and we'll strike a trade." "I've got something to do pretty quick," thought Robert, with satisfaction. "It was a lucky thought asking Will Paine for his boat. I'm sorry he's going away, but it happens just right for me." Mrs. Rushton was sitting at her work, in rather a disconsolate frame of mind. The more she thought of Robert's losing his place, the more unfortunate it seemed. She could not be expected to be as sanguine and hopeful as our hero, who was blessed with strong hands and a fund of energy and self-reliance which he inherited from his father. His mother, on the other hand, was delicate and nervous, and apt to look on the dark side of things. But, notwithstanding this, she was a good mother, and Robert loved her. Nothing had been heard for some time but the drowsy ticking of the clock, when a noise was heard at the door, and Robert entered the room, bringing the fish he had reserved. "You see, mother, we are not likely to starve," he said. "That's a fine, large fish," said his mother. "Yes; it'll be enough for two meals. Didn't I tell you, mother, I would find something to do?" "True, Robert," said his mother, dubiously; "but we shall get tired of fish if we have it every day." Robert laughed. "Six days in the week will do for fish, mother," he said. "I think we shall be able to afford something else Sunday." "Of course, fish is better than nothing," said his mother, who understood him literally; "and I suppose we ought to be thankful to get that." "You don't look very much pleased at the prospect of fish six times a week," said Robert, laughing again. "On the whole, I think it will be better to say twice." "But what will we do other days, Robert?" "What we have always done, mother--eat something else. But I won't keep you longer in suspense. Did you think this was the only fish I caught?" "Yes, I thought so." "I sold forty-five pounds on the way to Minturn, at his market store--forty-five pounds, at two cents a pound. What do you think of that?" "Do you mean that you have earned ninety cents to-day, Robert?" "Yes; and here's the money." "That's much better than I expected," said Mrs. Rushton, looking several degrees more I cheerful. "I don't expect to do as well as that every day, mother, but I don't believe we'll starve. Minturn has engaged me to supply him with fish every day, only some days the fishes won't feel like coming out of the water. Then, I forgot to tell you, I'm to have Will Paine's boat for nothing. He's going to boarding school, and has asked me to take care of it for him." "You are fortunate, Robert." "I am hungry, too, mother. Those two sandwiches didn't go a great ways. So, if you can just as well as not have supper earlier, it would suit me." "I'll put on the teakettle at once, Robert," said his mother, rising. "Would you like some of the fish for supper?" "If it wouldn't be too much trouble." "Surely not, Robert." The usual supper hour was at five in this country household, but a little after four the table was set, and mother and son sat down to a meal which both enjoyed. The fish proved to be excellent, and Robert enjoyed it the more, first, because he had caught it himself, and next because he felt that his independent stand at the factory, though it had lost him his place, was not likely to subject his mother to the privations he had feared. "I'll take another piece of fish, mother," said Robert, passing his plate. "I think, on the whole, I shan't be obliged to learn to braid straw." "No; you can do better at fishing." "Only," added Robert, with mock seriousness, "we might change work sometimes, mother; I will stay at home and braid straw, and you can go out fishing." "I am afraid I should make a poor hand at it," said Mrs. Rushton, smiling. "If Halbert Davis could look in upon us just now, he would be disappointed to find us so cheerful after my losing my place at factory. However, I've disappointed him in another way." "How is that?" "He expected Will Paine would lend him his boat while he was gone, but, instead of that, he finds it promised to me." "I am afraid he is not a very kind-hearted boy." "That's drawing it altogether too mild, mother. He's the meanest fellow I ever met. However, I won't talk about him any more, or it'll spoil my appetite." On the next two mornings Robert went out at five o'clock, in order to get home in time for the market-wagon. He met with fair luck, but not as good as on the first day. Taking the two mornings together, he captured and sold seventy pounds of fish, which, as the price remained the same, brought him in a dollar and forty cents. This was not equal to his wages at the factory; still, he had the greater part of the day to himself, only, unfortunately, he had no way of turning his time profitably to account, or, at least, none had thus far occurred to him. On the morning succeeding he was out of luck. He caught but two fish, and they were so small that he decided not to offer them for sale. "If I don't do better than this," he reflected, "I shan't make very good wages. The fish seem to be getting afraid of me." He paddled about, idly, a few rods from the shore, having drawn up his line and hook. All at once, he heard a voice hailing him from the river bank: "Boat ahoy!" "Hallo!" answered Robert, lifting his eyes, and seeing who called him. "Can you set me across the river?" "Yes, sir." "Bring in your boat, then, and I'll jump aboard. I'll pay you for your trouble." Robert did as requested, with alacrity. He was very glad to earn money in this way, since it seemed he was to have no fish to dispose of. He quickly turned the boat to the shore, and the stranger jumped on board. He was a man of rather more than the average height, with a slight limp in his gait, in a rough suit of clothes, his head being surmounted by a felt hat considerably the worse for wear. There was a scar on one cheek, and, altogether, he was not very prepossessing in his appearance. Robert noted all this in a rapid glance, but it made no particular impression upon him at the moment. He cared very little how the stranger looked, as long as he had money enough to pay his fare. "It's about a mile across the river, isn't it?" asked the stranger. "About that here. Where do you want to go?" "Straight across. There's an old man named Nichols lives on the other side, isn't there?" "Yes; he lives by himself." "Somebody told me so. He's rich, isn't he?" asked the stranger, carelessly. "So people say; but he doesn't show it in his dress or way of living." "A miser, I suppose?" "Yes." "What does he do with his money?" "I only know what people say." "And what do they say?" "That he is afraid to trust banks, and hides his money in the earth." "That kind of bank don't pay very good interest," said the stranger, laughing. "No; but it isn't likely to break." "Here? boy, give me one of the oars. I'm used to rowing, and I'll help you a little." Robert yielded one of the oars to his companion, who evidently understood rowing quite as well as he professed to. Our hero, though strong-armed, had hard work to keep up with him. "Look out, boy, or I'll turn you round," he said. "You are stronger than I am." "And more used to rowing; but I'll suit myself to you." A few minutes brought them to the other shore. The passenger jumped ashore, first handing a silver half-dollar to our hero, who was well satisfied with his fee. Robert sat idly in his boat, and watched his late fare as with rapid steps he left the river bank behind him. "He's going to the old man's house," decided Robert. "I wonder whether he has any business with him?" CHAPTER VIII. THE OLD FARMHOUSE. The stranger walked, with hasty strides, in the direction of an old farmhouse, which could be seen a quarter of a mile away. Whether it had ever been painted, was a question not easily solved. At present it was dark and weather-beaten, and in a general state of neglect. The owner, Paul Nichols, was a man advanced in years, living quite alone, and himself providing for his simple wants. Robert was right in calling him a miser, but he had not always deserved the name. The time was when he had been happily married to a good wife, and was blessed with two young children. But they were all taken from him in one week by an epidemic, and his life was made solitary and cheerless. This bereavement completely revolutionized his life. Up to this time he had been a good and respected citizen, with an interest in public affairs. Now he became morose and misanthropic, and his heart, bereaved of its legitimate objects of affection, henceforth was fixed upon gold, which he began to love with a passionate energy. He repulsed the advances of neighbors, and became what Robert called him--a miser. How much he was worth, no one knew. The town assessors sought in vain for stocks and bonds. He did not appear to possess any. Probably popular opinion was correct in asserting that he secreted his money in one or many out-of-the-way places, which, from time to time, he was wont to visit and gloat over his treasures. There was reason also to believe that it was mostly in gold, for he had a habit of asking specie payments from those indebted to him, or, if he could not obtain specie, he used to go to a neighboring town with his bank notes and get the change effected. Such was the man about whom Robert's unknown passenger exhibited so much curiosity, and whom it seemed that he was intending to visit. "I wonder whether the old man is at home!" he said to himself, as he entered the front yard through a gateway, from which the gate had long since disappeared. "He don't keep things looking very neat and trim, that's a fact," he continued, noticing the rank weeds and indiscriminate litter which filled the yard. "Just give me this place, and his money to keep it, and I'd make a change in the looks of things pretty quick." He stepped up to the front door, and, lifting the old-fashioned knocker, sounded a loud summons. "He'll hear that, if he isn't very deaf," he thought. But the summons appeared to be without effect. At all events, he was left standing on the doorstone, and no one came to bid him enter. "He can't be at home, or else he won't come," thought the visitor. "I'll try him again," and another knock, still louder than before, sounded through the farmhouse. But still no one came to the door. The fact was, that the old farmer had gone away early, with a load of hay, which he had sold; to a stable-keeper living some five miles distant. "I'll reconnoiter a little," said the stranger. He stepped to the front window, and looked in. All that met his gaze was a bare, dismantled room. "Not very cheerful, that's a fact," commented the outsider. "Well, he don't appear to be here; I'll go round to the back part of the house." He went round to the back door, where he thought it best, in the first place, to knock. No answer coming, he peered through the window, but saw no one. "The coast is clear," he concluded. "So much the better, if I can get in." The door proved to be locked, but the windows were easily raised. Through one of these he clambered into the kitchen, which was the only room occupied by the old farmer, with the exception of a room above, which he used as a bedchamber. Here he cooked and ate his meals, and here he spent his solitary evenings. Jumping over the window sill, the visitor found himself in this room. He looked around him, with some curiosity. "It is eighteen years since I was last in this room," he said. "Time hasn't improved it, nor me, either, very likely," he added, with a short laugh. "I've roamed pretty much all over the world in that time, and I've come back as poor as I went away. What's that copy I used to write?--'A rolling stone gathers no moss.' Well, I'm the rolling stone. In all that time my Uncle Paul has been moored fast to his hearthstone, and been piling up gold, which he don't seem to have much use for. As far as I know, I'm his nearest relation, there's no reason why he shouldn't launch out a little for the benefit of the family." It will be gathered from the foregoing soliloquy that the newcomer was a nephew of Paul Nichols. After a not very creditable youth, he had gone to sea, and for eighteen years this was his first reappearance in his native town. He sat down in a chair, and stretched out his legs, with an air of being at home. "I wonder what the old man will say when he sees me," he soliloquized. "Ten to one he won't know me. When we saw each other last I was a smooth-faced youth. Now I've got hair enough on my face, and the years have made, their mark upon me, I suspect. Where is he, I wonder, and how long have I got to wait for him? While I'm waiting, I'll take the liberty of looking in the closet, and seeing if he hasn't something to refresh the inner man. I didn't make much of a breakfast, and something hearty wouldn't come amiss." He rose from his chair, and opened the closet door. A small collection of crockery was visible, most of it cracked, but there was nothing eatable to be seen, except half a loaf of bread. This was from the baker, for the old man, after ineffectual efforts to make his own bread, had been compelled to abandon the attempt, and patronize the baker. "Nothing but a half loaf, and that's dry enough," muttered the stranger. "That isn't very tempting. I can't say much for my uncle's fare, unless he has got something more attractive somewhere." But, search as carefully as he might, nothing better could be found, and his appetite was not sufficiently great to encourage an attack upon the stale loaf. He sat down, rather discontented, and resumed the current of his reflections. "My uncle must be more of a miser than I thought, if he stints himself to such fare as this. It's rather a bad lookout for me. He won't be very apt to look with favor on my application for a small loan from his treasure. What's that the boy said? He don't trust any banks, but keeps his money concealed in the earth. By Jove! It would be a stroke of luck if I could stumble on one of his hiding places! If I could do that while he was away, I would forego the pleasure of seeing him, and make off with what I could find. I'll look about me, and see if I can't find some of his hidden hoards." No sooner did the thought occur to him than he acted upon it. "Let me see," he reflected, "where is he most likely to hide his treasure? Old stockings are the favorites with old maids and widows, but I don't believe Uncle Paul has got any without holes in them. He's more likely to hide his gold under the hearth. That's a good idea, I'll try the hearth first." He kneeled down, and began to examine the bricks, critically, with a view of ascertaining whether any bore the marks of having been removed recently, for he judged correctly that a miser would wish, from time to time, to unearth his treasure for the pleasure of looking at it. But there was no indication of disturbance. The hearth bore a uniform appearance, and did not seem to have been tampered with. "That isn't the right spot," reflected the visitor. "Perhaps there's a plank in the floor that raises, or, still more likely, the gold is buried in the cellar. I've a great mind to go down there." He lit a candle, and went cautiously down the rickety staircase. But he had hardly reached the bottom of the stairs, when he caught the sound of a wagon entering the yard. "That must be my uncle," he said. "I'd better go up, and not let him catch me down here." He ascended the stairs, and re-entered the room just as the farmer opened the door and entered. On seeing a tall, bearded stranger, whom he did not recognize, standing before him in his own kitchen, with a lighted candle in his hand, Paul Nichols uttered a shrill cry of alarm, and ejaculated: "Thieves! Murder! Robbers!" in a quavering voice. CHAPTER IX. THE UNWELCOME GUEST. The stranger was in rather an awkward predicament. However, he betrayed neither embarrassment nor alarm. Blowing out the candle, he advanced to the table and set it down. This movement brought him nearer Paul Nichols, who, with the timidity natural to an old man, anticipated an immediate attack. "Don't kill me! Spare my life!" he exclaimed, hastily stepping back. "I see you don't know me, Uncle Paul?" said the intruder, familiarly. "Who are you that call me Uncle Paul?" asked the old man, somewhat reassured. "Benjamin Haley, your sister's son. Do you know me now?" "You Ben Haley!" exclaimed the old man, betraying surprise. "Why, you are old enough to be his father." "Remember, Uncle Paul, I am eighteen years older than when you saw me last. Time brings changes, you know. When I saw you last, you were a man in the prime of life, now you are a feeble old man." "Are you really Ben Haley?" asked the old man, doubtfully. "To be sure I am. I suppose I look to you more like a bearded savage. Well, I'm not responsible for my looks. Not finding you at home, I took the liberty of coming in on the score of relationship." "What, were you doing with that candle?" asked Paul, suspiciously. "I went down cellar with it." "Down cellar!" repeated his uncle, with a look of alarm which didn't escape his nephew. "What for?" "In search of something to eat. All I could find in the closet was a dry loaf, which doesn't look very appetizing." "There's nothing down cellar. Don't go there again," said the old man, still uneasy. His nephew looked at him shrewdly. "Ha, Uncle Paul! I've guessed your secret so quick," he said to himself. "Some of your money is hidden away in the cellar, I'm thinking." "Where do you keep your provisions, then?" he said aloud. "The loaf is all I have." "Come, Uncle Paul, you don't mean that. That's a scurvy welcome to give a nephew you haven't seen for eighteen years. I'm going to stay to dinner with you, and you must give me something better than that. Haven't you got any meat in the house?" "No." Just then Ben Haley, looking from the window, saw some chickens in the yard. His eye lighted up at the discovery. "Ah, there is a nice fat chicken," he said. "We'll have a chicken dinner. Shall it be roast or boiled?" "No, no," said the old farmer, hastily. "I can't spare them. They'll bring a good price in the market by and by." "Can't help it, Uncle Paul. Charity begins at home. Excuse me a minute, I'll be back directly." He strode to the door and out into the yard. Then, after a little maneuvering, he caught a chicken, and going to the block, seized the ax, and soon decapitated it. "What have you done?" said Paul, ruefully, for the old man had followed his nephew, and was looking on in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. "Taken the first step toward a good dinner," said the other, coolly. "I am not sure but we shall want two." "No, no!" said Paul, hastily. "I haven't got much appetite." "Then perhaps we can make it do. I'll just get it ready, and cook it myself. I've knocked about in all sorts of places, and it won't be the first time I've served as cook. I've traveled some since I saw you last." "Have you?" said the old man, who seemed more interested in the untimely death of the pullet than in his nephew's adventures. "Yes, I've been everywhere. I spent a year in Australia at the gold diggings." "Did you find any?" asked his uncle, for the first time betraying interest. "Some, but I didn't bring away any." Ben Haley meanwhile was rapidly stripping the chicken of its feathers. When he finished, he said, "Now tell me where you keep your vegetables, Uncle Paul?" "They're in the corn barn. You can't get in. It's locked." "Where's the key?" "Lost." "I'll get in, never fear," said the intruder, and he led the way to the corn barn, his uncle unwillingly following and protesting that it would be quite impossible to enter. Reaching the building, he stepped back and was about to kick open the door, when old Paul hurriedly interposed, saying, "No, no, I've found the key." His nephew took it from his hand, and unlocking the door, brought out a liberal supply of potatoes, beets and squashes. "We'll have a good dinner, after all," he said. "You don't half know how to live, Uncle Paul. You need me here. You've got plenty around you, but you don't know how to use it." The free and easy manner in which his nephew conducted himself was peculiarly annoying and exasperating to the old man, but as often as he was impelled to speak, the sight of his nephew's resolute face and vigorous frame, which he found it difficult to connect with his recollections of young Ben, terrified him into silence, and he contented himself with following his nephew around uneasily with looks of suspicion. When the dinner was prepared both sat down to partake of it, but Ben quietly, and, as a matter of course, assumed the place of host and carved the fowl. Notwithstanding the shock which his economical notions had received, the farmer ate with appetite the best meal of which he had partaken for a long time. Ben had not vaunted too highly his skill as a cook. Wherever he had acquired it, he evidently understood the preparation of such a dinner as now lay before them. "Now, Uncle Paul, if we only had a mug of cider to wash down the dinner. Haven't you got some somewhere?" "Not a drop." "Don't you think I might find some stored away in the cellar, for instance?" asked Ben, fixing his glance upon his uncle's face. "No, no; didn't I tell you I hadn't got any?" returned Paul Nichols, with petulance and alarm. "I mean to see what else you have in the cellar," said Ben, to himself, "before I leave this place. There's a reason for that pale face of yours." But he only said aloud, "Well, if you haven't got any we must do without it. There's a little more of the chicken left. As you don't want it I'll appropriate it. Nothing like clearing up things. Come, this is rather better than dry bread, isn't it?" "It's very expensive," said the miser, ruefully. "Well, you can afford it, Uncle Paul--there's a comfort in that. I suppose you are pretty rich, eh?" "Rich!" repeated Paul, in dismay. "What put such a thing into your head?" "Not your style of living, you may be sure of that." "I am poor, Benjamin. You mustn't think otherwise. I live as well as I can afford." "Then what have you been doing with your savings all these years?" "My savings! It has taken all I had to live. There isn't any money to be made in farming. It's hard work and poor pay." "You used to support your family comfortably when you had one." "Don't--don't speak of them. I can't bear it," said Paul, his countenance changing. "When I had them I was happy." "And now you're not. Well, I don't wonder at it. It must be dismal enough living alone. You need somebody with you. I am your nephew and nearest relation. I feel that it is my duty to stay with you." The expression of dismay which overspread the old man's face at this declaration was ludicrous. "You stay with me?" he repeated, in a tone of alarm. "Yes, for a time at least. We'll be company for each other, won't we, Uncle Paul?" "No, no; there's no room." "No room? You don't mean to say that you need the whole house?" "I mean I cannot afford to have you here. Besides I'm used to being alone. I prefer it." "That's complimentary, at any rate. You prefer to be alone rather than to have me with you?" "Don't be offended, Benjamin. I've been alone so many years. Besides you'd feel dull here. You wouldn't like it." "I'll try it and see. What room are you going to give me?" "You'd better go away." "Well, uncle, we'll talk about that to-morrow. You're very considerate in fearing it will be dull for me, but I've roamed about the world so much that I shall be glad of a little dullness. So it's all settled. And now, Uncle Paul, if you don't object I'll take out my pipe and have a smoke. I always smoke after dinner." He lit his pipe, and throwing himself back in a chair, began to puff away leisurely, his uncle surveying him with fear and embarrassment. Why should his graceless nephew turn up, after so many years, in the form of this big, broad-shouldered, heavy-bearded stranger, only to annoy him, and thrust his unwelcome company upon him? CHAPTER X. UNCLE AND NEPHEW. Paul Nichols looked forward with dismay to the prospect of having his nephew remain with him as a guest. Like all misers, he had a distrust of every one, and the present appearance of his nephew only confirmed the impressions he still retained of his earlier bad conduct. He had all the will to turn him out of his house, but Ben was vastly his superior in size and strength, and he did not dare to attempt it. "He wants to rob, perhaps to murder me," thought Paul, surveying his big nephew with a troubled gaze. His apprehensions were such that he even meditated offering to pay the intruder's board for a week at the tavern, if he would leave him in peace by himself. But the reluctance to part with his money finally prevented such a proposal being made. In the afternoon the old man stayed around home. He did not dare to leave it lest Ben should take a fancy to search the house, and come upon some of his secret hoards, for people were right in reporting that he hid his money. At last evening came. With visible discomposure the old man showed Ben to a room. "You can sleep there," he said, pointing to a cot bed in the corner of the room. "All right, uncle. Good-night!" "Good-night!" said Paul Nichols. He went out and closed the door behind him. He not only closed it, but locked it, having secretly hidden the key in his pocket. He chuckled softly to himself as he went downstairs. His nephew was securely disposed of for the night, being fastened in his chamber. But if he expected Ben Haley quietly to submit to this incarceration he was entirely mistaken in that individual. The latter heard the key turn in the lock, and comprehended at once his uncle's stratagem. Instead of being angry, he was amused. "So my simple-minded uncle thinks he has drawn my teeth, does he? I'll give him a scare." He began to jump up and down on the chamber floor in his heavy boots, which, as the floor was uncarpeted, made a terrible noise. The old man in the room below, just congratulating himself on his cunning move, grew pale as he listened. He supposed his nephew to be in a furious passion, and apprehensions of personal violence disturbed him. Still he reflected that he would be unable to get out, and in the morning he could go for the constable. But he was interrupted by a different noise. Ben had drawn off his boots, and was firing them one after the other at the door. The noise became so intolerable, that Paul was compelled to ascend the stairs, trembling with fear. "What's the matter?" he inquired at the door, in a quavering voice. "Open the door," returned Ben. His uncle reluctantly inserted the key in the lock and opening it presented a pale, scared face in the doorway. His nephew, with his coat stripped off, was sitting on the side of the bed. "What's the matter?" asked Paul. "Nothing, only you locked the door by mistake," said Ben, coolly. "What made you make such a noise?" demanded Paul. "To call you up. There was no bell in the room, so that was the only way I had of doing it. What made you lock me in?" "I didn't think," stammered the old man. "Just what I supposed. To guard against your making that mistake again, let me have the key." "I'd rather keep it, if it's the same to you," said Paul, in alarm. "But it isn't the same to me. You see, Uncle Paul, you are growing old and forgetful, and might lock me in again. That would not be pleasant, you know, especially if the house should catch fire in the night." "What!" exclaimed Paul, terror-stricken, half suspecting his nephew contemplated turning incendiary. "I don't think it will, mind, but it's best to be prepared, so give me the key." The old man feebly protested, but ended in giving up the key to his nephew. "There, that's all right. Now I'll turn in. Good-night." "Good-night," responded Paul Nichols, and left the chamber, feeling more alarmed than ever. He was beginning to be more afraid and more distrustful of his nephew than ever. What if the latter should light on some of his various hiding places for money? Why, in that very chamber he had a hundred dollars in gold hidden behind the plastering. He groaned in spirit as he thought of it, and determined to tell his nephew the next morning that he must find another home, as he couldn't and wouldn't consent to his remaining longer. But when the morning came he found the task a difficult one to enter upon. Finally, after breakfast, which consisted of eggs and toast, Ben Haley having ransacked the premises for eggs, which the old man intended for the market, Paul said, "Benjamin, you must not be offended, but I have lived alone for years, and I cannot invite you to stay longer." "Where shall I go, uncle?" demanded Ben, taking out his pipe coolly, and lighting it. "There's a tavern in the village." "Is there? That won't do me any good." "You'll be better off there than here. They set a very good table, and----" "You don't," said Ben, finishing the sentence. "I know that, but then, uncle, I have two reasons for preferring to stay here. The first is, that I may enjoy the society of my only living relation; the second is, that I have not money enough to pay my board at the hotel." He leaned back, and began to puff leisurely at his pipe, as if this settled the matter. "If you have no money, why do you come to me?" demanded Paul, angrily. "Do you expect me to support you?" "You wouldn't turn out your sister's son, would you, Uncle Paul?" "You must earn your own living. I can't support you in idleness." "You needn't; I'll work for you. Let me see, I'll do the cooking." "I don't want you here," said the old man, desperately. "Why do you come to disturb me, after so many years?" "I'll go away on one condition," said Ben Haley. "What's that?" "Give me, or lend me--I don't care which--a hundred dollars." "Do you think I'm made of money?" asked Paul, fear and anger struggling for the mastery. "I think you can spare me a hundred dollars." "Go away! You are a bad man. You were a wild, bad boy, and you are no better now." "Now, Uncle Paul, I think you're rather too hard upon me. Just consider that I am your nephew. What will people say if you turn me out of doors?" "I don't care what they say. I can't have you here." "I'm sorry I can't oblige you by going, Uncle Paul, but I've got a headache this morning, and don't feel like stirring. Let me stay with you a day or two, and then I may go." Vain were all the old man's expostulations. His nephew sat obstinately smoking, and refused to move. "Come out to the barn with me while I milk," said Paul, at length, not daring to leave his nephew by himself. "Thank you, but I'm well off as I am. I've got a headache, and I'd rather stay here." Milking couldn't longer be deferred. But for the stranger's presence it would have been attended to two hours earlier. Groaning in spirit, and with many forebodings, Paul went out to the barn, and in due time returned with his foaming pails. There sat his nephew in the old place, apparently not having stirred. Possibly he didn't mean mischief after all, Paul reflected. At any rate, he must leave him again, while he released the cows from their stalls, and drove them to pasture. He tried to obtain his nephew's companionship, but in vain. "I'm not interested in cows, uncle," he said. "I'll be here when you come back." With a sigh his uncle left the house, only half reassured. That he had reason for his distrust was proved by Ben Haley's movements. He lighted a candle, and going down to the cellar, first securing a pickax, struck into the earthen flooring, and began to work energetically. "I am sure some of the old man's money is here," he said to himself. "I must work fast, or he'll catch me at it." Half an hour later Paul Nichols re-entered the house. He looked for his nephew, but his seat was vacant. He thought he heard a dull thud in the cellar beneath. He hurried to the staircase, and tottered down. Ben had come upon a tin quart-measure partly filled with gold coins, and was stooping over, transferring them to his pocket. With a hoarse cry like that of an animal deprived of its young, his uncle sprang upon him, and fastened his claw-like nails in the face of his burly nephew. CHAPTER XI. ROBERT COMES TO THE RESCUE. The attack was so sudden, and the old man's desperation so reinforced his feeble strength, that Ben Haley was thrown forward, and the measure of gold coins fell from his hand. But he quickly recovered himself. "Let me alone," he said, sternly, forcibly removing his uncle's hands from his face, but not before the claw-like nails had drawn blood. "Let me alone, if you know what is best for yourself." "You're a thief!" screamed Paul. "You shall go to jail for this." "Shall I?" asked Ben, his face darkening and his tone full of menace. "Who is going to send me there?" "I am," answered Paul. "I'll have you arrested." "Look here, Uncle Paul," said Ben, confining the old man's arms to his side, "it's time we had a little talk together. You'd better not do as you say." "You're a thief! The jail is the place for thieves." "It isn't the place for me, and I'm not going there. Now let us come to an understanding. You are rich and I am poor." "Rich!" repeated Paul. "Yes; at any rate, you have got this farm, and more money hidden away than you will ever use. I am poor. You can spare me this money here as well as not." "It is all I have." "I know better than that. You have plenty more, but I will be satisfied with this. Remember, I am your sister's son." "I don't care if you are," said the old man, doggedly. "And you owe me some help. You'll never miss it. Now make up your mind to give me this money, and I'll go away and leave you in peace." "Never!" exclaimed Paul, struggling hard to free himself. "You won't!" His uncle repeated the emphatic refusal. "Then I shall have to put it out of your power to carry out your threat." He took his uncle up in his strong arms, and moved toward the stairs. "Are you going to murder me?" asked Paul, in mortal fear. "You will find out what I am going to do," said Ben, grimly. He carried his uncle upstairs, and, possessing himself of a clothesline in one corner of the kitchen, proceeded to tie him hand and foot, despite his feeble opposition. "There," said he, when his uncle lay before him utterly helpless, "I think that disposes of you for a while. Now for the gold." Leaving him on the floor, he again descended the cellar stairs, and began to gather up the gold coins, which had been scattered about the floor at the time of Paul's unexpected attack. The old man groaned in spirit as he found himself about to be robbed, and utterly helpless to resist the outrage. But help was near at hand, though he knew it not. Robert Rushton had thought more than once of his unknown passenger of the day before, and the particular inquiries he made concerning Paul Nichols and his money. Ben Haley had impressed him far from favorably, and the more he called to mind his appearance, the more he feared that he meditated some dishonest designs upon Paul. So the next morning, in order to satisfy his mind that all was right, he rowed across to the same place where he had landed Ben, and fastening his boat, went up to the farmhouse. He reached it just as Ben, having secured the old man, had gone back into the cellar to gather up the gold. Robert looked into the window, and, to his surprise, saw the old farmer lying bound hand and foot. He quickly leaped in, and asked: "What is the matter? Who has done this?" "Hush!" said the old man, "he'll hear you." "Who do you mean?" "My nephew." "Where is he?" "Down cellar. He's tied me here, and is stealing all my gold." "What shall I do? Can I help you?" "Cut the ropes first." Robert drew a jackknife from his pocket, and did as he was bidden. "Now," said Paul, rising with a sigh of relief from his constrained position, "while I bolt the cellar door, you go upstairs, and in the closet of the room over this you will find a gun. It is loaded. Bring it down." Robert hurried upstairs, and quickly returned with the weapon. "Do you know how to fire a gun?" asked Paul. "Yes," said Robert. "Then keep it. For I am nervous, and my hand trembles. If he breaks through the door, fire." Ben Haley would have been up before this, but it occurred to him to explore other parts of the cellar, that he might carry away as much booty as possible. He had rendered himself amenable to the law already, and he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so he argued. He was so busily occupied that he did not hear the noise of Robert's entrance into the room above, or he would at once have gone upstairs. In consequence of the delay his uncle and Robert had time to concert measures for opposing him. Finally, not succeeding in finding more gold, he pocketed what he had found, and went up the cellar stairs. He attempted to open the door, when, to his great surprise, he found that it resisted his efforts. "What makes the door stick so?" he muttered, not suspecting the true state of the case. But he was quickly enlightened. "You can't come up!" exclaimed the old man, in triumph. "I've bolted the door." "How did he get free? He must have untied the knots," thought Ben. "Does the old fool think he is going to keep me down here?" "Unlock the door," he shouted, in a loud, stern voice, "or it will be the worse for you." "Have you got the gold with you?" "Yes." "Then go down and leave it where you found it, and I will let you come up." "You're a fool," was the reply. "Do you think I am a child? Open the door, or I will burst it open with my foot." "You'd better not," said Paul, whose courage had returned with the presence of Robert and the possession of the gun. "Why not? What are you going to do about it?" asked Ben, derisively. "I've got help. You have more than one to contend with." "I wonder if he has any one with him?" thought Ben. "I believe the old fool is only trying to deceive me. At any rate, help or no help, it is time I were out of this hole." "If you don't open the door before I count three," he said, aloud, "I'll burst it open." "What shall I do," asked Robert, in a low voice, "if he comes out?" "If he tries to get away with the gold, fire!" said the old man. Robert determined only to inflict a wound. The idea of taking a human life, even under such circumstances, was one that made him shudder. He felt that gold was not to be set against life. "One--two--three!" counted Ben, deliberately. The door remaining locked, he drew back and kicked the door powerfully. Had he been on even ground, it would have yielded to the blow, but kicking from the stair beneath, placed him at a disadvantage. Nevertheless the door shook and trembled beneath the force of the attack made upon it. "Well, will you unlock it now?" he demanded, pausing. "No," said the old man, "not unless you carry back the gold." "I won't do that. I have had too much trouble to get it. But if you don't unlock the door at once I may be tempted to forget that you are my uncle." "I should like to forget that you are my nephew," said the old man. "The old fool has mustered up some courage," thought Ben. "I'll soon have him whining for mercy." He made a fresh attack upon the door. This time he did not desist until he had broken through the panel. Then with the whole force he could command he threw himself against the upper part of the door, and it came crashing into the kitchen. Ben Haley leaped through the opening and confronted his uncle, who receded in alarm. The sight of the burly form of his nephew, and his stern and menacing countenance, once more made him quail. Ben Haley looked around him, and his eyes lighted upon Robert Rushton standing beside the door with the gun in his hand. He burst into a derisive laugh, and turning to his uncle, said: "So this is the help you were talking about. He's only a baby. I could twist him around my finger. Just lay down that gun, boy! It isn't meant for children like you." CHAPTER XII. ESCAPE. Though he had a weapon in his hand, many boys in Robert's situation would have been unnerved. He was a mere boy, though strong of his age. Opposed to him was a tall, strong man, of desperate character, fully resolved to carry out his dishonest purpose, and not likely to shrink from violence, to which he was probably only too well accustomed. From the old man he was not likely to obtain assistance, for already Paul's courage had begun to dwindle, and he regarded his nephew with a scared look. "Lay down that gun, boy!" repeated Ben Haley. "I know you. You're the boy that rowed me across the river. You can row pretty well, but you're not quite a match for me even at that." "This gun makes me even with you," said Robert, returning his look unflinchingly. "Does it? Then all I can say is, that when you lose it you'll be in a bad pickle. Lay it down instantly." "Then lay down the gold you have in your pockets," said our hero, still pointing his gun at Haley. "Good boy! Brave boy!" said the old man, approvingly. "Look here, boy," said Haley, in quick, stern tones, "I've had enough of this nonsense. If you don't put down that gun in double quick time, you'll repent it. One word--yes or no!" "No," said Robert, resolutely. No sooner had he uttered the monosyllable than Haley sprang toward him with the design of wresting the gun from him. But Robert had his finger upon the trigger, and fired. The bullet entered the shoulder of the ruffian, but in the excitement of the moment he only knew that he was hit, but this incensed him. In spite of the wound he seized the musket and forcibly wrested it from our hero. He raised it in both hands and would probably in his blind fury have killed him on the spot, but for the sudden opening of the outer door, and entrance of a neighboring farmer, who felt sufficiently intimate to enter without knocking. This changed Haley's intention. Feeling that the odds were against him, he sprang through the window, gun in hand, and ran with rapid strides towards the river. "What's the matter?" demanded the new arrival, surveying the scene before him in astonishment. "He's gone off with my gold," exclaimed Paul Nichols, recovering from his stupefaction. "Run after him, catch him!" "Who is it?" "Ben Haley." "What, your nephew! I thought he was dead long ago." "I wish he had been," said Paul, wringing his hands. "He's taken all my money--I shall die in the poorhouse." "I can't understand how it all happened," said the neighbor, looking to Robert for an explanation. "Who fired the gun?" "I did," said our hero. "Did you hit him?" "I think so. I saw blood on his shirt. I must have hit him in the shoulder." "Don't stop to talk," said Paul, impatiently. "Go after him and get back the gold." "We can't do much," said the neighbor, evidently not very anxious to come into conflict with such a bold ruffian. "He has the gun with him." "What made you let him have it?" asked Paul. "I couldn't help it," said Robert. "But he can't fire it. It is unloaded, and I don't think he has any ammunition with him." "To be sure," said Paul, eagerly. "You see there's no danger. Go after him, both of you, He can't hurt ye." Somewhat reassured the neighbor followed Robert, who at once started in pursuit of the escaped burglar. He was still in sight, though he had improved the time consumed in the foregoing colloquy, and was already near the river bank. On he sped, bent on making good his escape with the money he had dishonestly acquired. One doubt was in his mind. Should he find a boat? If not, the river would prove an insuperable obstacle, and he would be compelled to turn and change the direction of his flight. Looking over his shoulder he saw Robert and the farmer on his track, and he clutched his gun the more firmly. "They'd better not touch me," he said to himself. "If I can't fire the gun I can brain either or both with it." Thoughts of crossing the stream by swimming occurred to him. A sailor by profession, he was an expert swimmer, and the river was not wide enough to daunt him. But his pockets were filled with the gold he had stolen, and gold is well known to be the heaviest of all the metals. But nevertheless he could not leave it behind since it was for this he had incurred his present peril. In this uncertainty he reached the bank of the river, when to his surprise and joy his eye rested upon Robert's boat. "The boy's boat!" he exclaimed, in exultation, "by all that's lucky! I will take the liberty of borrowing it without leave." He sprang in, and seizing one of the oars, pushed out into the stream, first drawing up the anchor. When Robert and his companion reached the shore he was already floating at a safe distance. "He's got my boat!" exclaimed our hero, in disappointment. "So he has!" ejaculated the other. "You're a little too late!" shouted Ben Haley, with a sneer. "Just carry back my compliments to the old fool yonder and tell him I left in too great a hurry to give him my note for the gold he kindly lent me. I'll attend to it when I get ready." He had hitherto sculled the boat. Now he took the other oar and commenced rowing. But here the wound, of which he had at first been scarcely conscious, began to be felt, and the first vigorous stroke brought a sharp twinge, besides increasing the flow of blood. His natural ferocity was stimulated by his unpleasant discovery, and he shook his fist menacingly at Robert, from whom he had received the wound. "There's a reckoning coming betwixt you and me, young one!" he cried, "and it'll be a heavy one. Ben Haley don't forget that sort of debt. The time'll come when he'll pay it back with interest. It mayn't come for years, but it'll come at last, you may be sure of that." Finding that he could not row on account of his wound, he rose to his feet, and sculled the boat across as well as he could with one hand. "I wish I had another boat," said Robert. "We could soon overtake him." "Better let him go," said the neighbor. "He was always a bad one, that Ben Haley. I couldn't begin to tell you all the bad things he did when he was a boy. He was a regular dare-devil. You must look out for him, or he'll do you a mischief some time, to pay for that wound." "He brought it on himself," said Robert "I gave him warning." He went back to the farmhouse to tell Paul of his nephew's escape. He was brave and bold, but the malignant glance with which Ben Haley uttered his menace, gave him a vague sense of discomfort. CHAPTER XIII. REVENGE. In spite of his wounded arm Ben Haley succeeded in propelling the boat to the opposite shore. The blood was steadily, though slowly, flowing from his wound, and had already stained his shirt red for a considerable space. In the excitement of first receiving it he had not felt the pain; now, however, the wound began to pain him, and, as might be expected, his feeling of animosity toward our hero was not diminished. "That cursed boy!" he muttered, between his teeth. "I wish I had had time to give him one blow--he wouldn't have wanted another. I hope the wound isn't serious--if it is, I may have paid dear for the gold." Still, the thought of the gold in his pockets afforded some satisfaction. He had been penniless; now he was the possessor of--as near as he could estimate, for he had not had time to count--five hundred dollars in gold. That was more than he had ever possessed before at one time, and would enable him to live at ease for a while. On reaching the shore he was about to leave the boat to its fate, when he espied a boy standing at a little distance, with a hatchet in his hand. This gave him an idea. "Come here, boy," he said. The boy came forward, and examined the stranger with curiosity. "Is that your hatchet?" he asked. "No, sir. It belongs to my father." "Would you mind selling it to me if I will give you money enough to buy a new one?" "This is an old hatchet." "It will suit me just as well, and I haven't time to buy another. Would your father sell it?" "Yes, sir; I guess so." "Very well. What will a new one cost you?" The boy named the price. "Here is the money, and twenty-five cents more to pay you for your trouble in going to the store." The boy pocketed the money with satisfaction. He was a farmer's son, and seldom had any money in his possession. He already had twenty-five cents saved up toward the purchase of a junior ball, and the stranger's gratuity would just make up the sum necessary to secure it. He was in a hurry to make the purchase, and, accordingly, no sooner had he received the money than he started at once for the village store. His departure was satisfactory to Ben Haley, who now had nothing to prevent his carrying out his plans. "I wanted to be revenged on the boy, and now I know how," he said. "I'll make some trouble for him with this hatchet." He drew the boat up and fastened it. Then he deliberately proceeded to cut away at the bottom with his newly-acquired hatchet. He had a strong arm, and his blows were made more effective by triumphant malice. The boat he supposed to belong to Robert, and he was determined to spoil it. He hacked away with such energy that soon there was a large hole in the bottom of the boat. Not content with inflicting this damage, he cut it in various other places, until it presented an appearance very different from the neat, stanch boat of which Will Paine had been so proud. At length Ben stopped, and contemplated the ruin he had wrought with malicious satisfaction. "That's the first instalment in my revenge," he said. "I should like to see my young ferryman's face when he sees his boat again. It'll cost him more than he'll ever get from my miserly uncle to repair it. It serves him right for meddling with matters that don't concern him. And now I must be getting away, for my affectionate uncle will soon be raising a hue and cry after me if I'm not very much mistaken." He would like to have gone at once to obtain medical assistance for his wound, but to go to the village doctor would be dangerous. He must wait till he had got out of the town limits, and the farther away the better. He knew when the train would start, and made his way across the fields to the station, arriving just in time to catch it. First, however, he bound a handkerchief round his shoulder to arrest the flow of blood. When he reached the station, and was purchasing his ticket, the station-master noticed the blood upon his shirt. "Are you hurt, sir?" he asked. "Yes, a little," said Ben Haley. "How did it happen?" inquired the other, with Yankee inquisitiveness. "I was out hunting," said Ben, carelessly, "with a friend who wasn't much used to firearms. In swinging his gun round, it accidentally went off, and I got shot through the shoulder." "That's bad," said the station-master, in a tone of sympathy. "You'd better go round to the doctor's, and have it attended to." "I would," said Ben, "but I am called away by business of the greatest importance. I can get along for a few hours, and then I'll have a doctor look at it. How soon will the train be here?" "It's coming now. Don't you hear it?" "That's the train I must take. You see I couldn't wait long enough for the doctor," added Ben, anxious to account satisfactorily for his inattention to the medical assistance of which he stood in need. When he was fairly on board the cars, and the train was under way, he felt considerably relieved. He was speeding fast away from the man he had robbed, and who was interested in his capture, and in a few days he might be at sea, able to snap his fingers at his miserly uncle and the boy whom he determined some day to meet and settle scores with. From one enemy of Robert the transition is brief and natural to another. At this very moment Halbert Davis was sauntering idly and discontentedly through the streets of the village. He was the son of a rich man, or of one whom most persons, his own family included, supposed to be rich; but this consciousness, though it made him proud, by no means made him happy. He had that morning at the breakfast table asked his father to give him a boat like Will Paine's, but Mr. Davis had answered by a decided refusal. "You don't need any boat," he said, sharply. "It wouldn't cost very much," pleaded Halbert. "How much do you suppose?" "Will Paine told me his father paid fifty dollars for his." "Why don't you borrow it sometimes?" "I can't borrow it. Will started a day or two since for boarding school." "Better still. I will hire it for you while he is away." "I thought of it myself," said Halbert, "but just before he went away Will lent it to the factory boy," sneering as he uttered the last two words. "Do you mean Robert Rushton?" "Yes." "That's only a boy's arrangement. I will see Mr. Paine, and propose to pay him for the use of the boat, and I presume he will be willing to accede to my terms." "When will you see him?" asked Halbert, hopefully. "I will try to see him in the course of the day." It turned out, however, that there was no need of calling on Mr. Paine, for five minutes later, having some business with Mr. Davis, he rang the bell, and was ushered into the breakfast-room. "Excuse my calling early," he said, "but I wished to see you about----" and here he stated his business, in which my readers will feel no interest. When that was over, Mr. Davis introduced the subject of the boat, and made the offer referred to. "I am sorry to refuse," said Mr. Paine, "but my son, before going away, passed his promise to Robert Rushton that he should have it during his absence." "Do you hold yourself bound by such a promise?" inquired Mrs. Davis, with a disagreeable smile. "Certainly," said the lawyer, gravely. "Robert is a valued friend of my son's, and I respect boyish friendship. I remember very well my own boyhood, and I had some strong friendships at that time." "I don't see what your son can find to like in Robert Rushton," said Mrs. Davis, with something of Halbert's manner. "I think him a very disagreeable and impertinent boy." Mr. Paine did not admire Mrs. Davis, and was not likely to be influenced by her prejudices. Without inquiry, therefore, into the cause of her unfavorable opinion, he said, "I have formed quite a different opinion of Robert. I am persuaded that you do him injustice." "He attacked Halbert ferociously the other day," said Mrs. Davis, determined to impart the information whether asked or not. "He has an ungovernable temper." Mr. Paine glanced shrewdly at Halbert, of whose arrogant and quarrelsome disposition he had heard from his own son, and replied, "I make it a point not to interfere in boys' quarrels. William speaks very highly of Robert, and it affords him great satisfaction, I know, to leave the boat in his charge." Mrs. Davis saw that there was no use in pursuing the subject, and it dropped. After the lawyer had gone Halbert made his petition anew, but without satisfactory results. The fact was, Mr. Davis had heard unfavorable reports from New York the day previous respecting a stock in which he had an interest, and it was not a favorable moment to prefer a request involving the outlay of money. It was this refusal which made Halbert discontented and unhappy. The factory boy, as he sneeringly called him, could have a boat, while he, a gentleman's son, was forced to go without one. Of course, he would not stoop to ask the loan of the boat, however much he wanted it, from a boy he disliked so much as Robert. He wondered whether Robert were out this morning. So, unconsciously, his steps led him to the shore of the river, where he knew the boat was generally kept. He cast his eye toward it, when what was his surprise to find the object of his desire half full of water, with a large hole in the bottom and defaced in other respects. CHAPTER XIV. TWO UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEWS. Halbert's first emotion was surprise, his second was gratification. His rival could no longer enjoy the boat which he had envied him. Not only that, but he would get into trouble with Mr. Paine on account of the damage which it had received. Being under his care, it was his duty to keep it in good condition. "I wonder how it happened?" thought Halbert. "Won't the young beggar be in a precious scrape when it's found out? Most likely he won't let Mr. Paine know." In this thought he judged Robert by himself. Straightway the plan suggested itself of going to the lawyer himself and informing him of Robert's delinquency. It would be a very agreeable way of taking revenge him. The plan so pleased him that he at once directed his steps toward Mr. Paine's office. On the way he overtook Hester Paine, the young lady on whose account he was chiefly incensed against Robert. Being as desirous as ever of standing in the young lady's good graces, he hurriedly advanced to her side, and lifting his hat with an air of ceremonious politeness, he said: "Good-morning, Hester." Hester Paine was not particularly well pleased with the meeting. She had been made acquainted by her brother with the quarrel between Halbert and Robert, and the mean revenge which the former had taken in procuring the dismissal of the latter from the factory. Having a partiality for Robert, this was not likely to recommend his enemy in her eyes. "Good-morning, Mr. Davis," she said, with cool politeness. "You are very ceremonious this morning, Miss Hester," said Halbert, who liked well enough to be called "Mr." by others, but not by Hester. "Am I?" asked Hester, indifferently. "How so?" "You called me Mr. Davis." "That's your name, isn't it?" "I am not called so by my intimate friends." "No, I suppose not," said Hester, thus disclaiming the title. Halbert bit his lips. He was not in love, not because he was too young, but because he was too selfish to be in love with anybody except himself. But he admired Hester, and the more she slighted him the more he was determined to force her to like him. He did, however, feel a little piqued at her behavior, and that influenced his next words. "Perhaps you'd rather have the factory boy walking beside you," he said, with not very good judgment, if he wanted to recommend himself to her. "There are a good many factory boys in town," she said. "I can't tell unless you tell me whom you mean." "I mean Robert Rushton." "Perhaps I might," said Hester. "He's a low fellow," said Halbert, bitterly. "No one thinks so but you," retorted Hester, indignantly. "My father was obliged to dismiss him from the factory." "I know all about that, and who was the means of having him sent away." "I suppose you mean me." "Yes, Halbert Davis, I mean you, and I consider it a very mean thing to do," said Hester, her cheeks flushed with the indignation she felt. "He attacked me like the low ruffian that he is," pleaded Halbert, in extenuation. "If he hadn't insulted me, he wouldn't have got into trouble." "You struck him first, you know you did. My brother told me all about it. You were angry because he walked home with me. I would rather go home alone any time than have your escort." "You're very polite, Miss Hester," said Halbert, angrily. "I can tell you some news about your favorite." "If it's anything bad, I won't believe it." "You'll have to believe it." "Well, what is it?" demanded Hester, who was not altogether unlike girls in general, and so felt curious to learn what it was that Halbert had to reveal. "Your brother was foolish enough to leave his boat in Rushton's care." "That is no news. Will was very glad to do Robert a favor." "He'll be sorry enough now." "Why will he?" "Because the boat is completely ruined." "I don't believe it," said Hester, hastily. "It's true, though. I was down at the river just now, and saw it with my own eyes. There is a great hole in the bottom, and it is hacked with a hatchet, so that it wouldn't bring half price." "Do you know who did it?" asked Hester, with the momentary thought that Halbert himself might have been tempted by his hatred into the commission of the outrage. "No, I don't. It was only accidentally I saw it." "Was Robert at the boat?" "No." "Have you asked him about it?" "No, I have not seen him." "Then I am sure some enemy has done it. I am sure it is no fault of his." "If your brother had let me have the boat, it wouldn't have happened. I offered him a fair price for its use." "He won't be sorry he refused, whatever has happened. But I must bid you good-morning, Mr. Davis," and the young lady, who was now at her own gate, opened it, and entered. "She might have been polite enough to invite me in," said Halbert, with chagrin. "I don't see how she can be so taken up with that low fellow." He waited till Hester had entered the house, and then bent his steps to Mr. Paine's office, which was a small one-story building in one corner of the yard. The lawyer was sitting at a table covered with papers, from which he looked up as Halbert entered the office. "Sit down, Halbert," he said. "Any message from your father?" "No, sir." "No legal business of your own?" he inquired, with a smile. "No, sir, no legal business." "Well, if you have any business, you may state it at once, as I am quite busy." "It is about the boat which your son lent to Robert Rushton." "I shall not interfere with that arrangement," said the lawyer, misunderstanding his object. "I told your father that this morning," and he resumed his writing. "I did not come to say anything about that. The boat wouldn't be of any use to me now." "Why not?" asked the lawyer, detecting something significant in the boy's tone. "Because," said Halbert, in a tone which he could not divest of the satisfaction he felt at his rival's misfortune, "the boat's completely ruined." Mr. Paine laid down his pen in genuine surprise. "Explain yourself," he said. So Halbert told the story once more, taking good care to make the damage quite as great as it was. "That is very strange," said the lawyer, thoughtfully. "I can't conceive how such damage could have happened to the boat." "Robert Rushton don't know how to manage a boat." "You are mistaken. He understands it very well. I am sure the injury you speak of could not have happened when he was in charge. You say there was not only a hole in the bottom, but it was otherwise defaced and injured?" "Yes, sir, it looked as if it had been hacked by a hatchet." "Then it is quite clear that Robert could have had nothing to do with it. It must have been done by some malicious person or persons." Knowing something of Halbert, Mr. Paine looked hard at him, his suspicions taking the same direction as his daughter's. But, as we know, Halbert was entirely innocent, and bore the gaze without confusion. "I don't see why Robert hasn't been and let me know of this," said Mr. Paine, musing. "He was probably afraid to tell you," said Halbert, with a slight sneer. "I know him better than that. You can testify," added the lawyer, significantly, "that he is not deficient in bravery." "I thought I would come and tell you," said Halbert, coloring a little. "I thought you would like to know." "You are very kind to take so much trouble," said Mr. Paine, but there was neither gratitude nor cordiality in his tone. Halbert thought it was time to be going, and accordingly got up and took his leave. As he opened the office door to go out, he found himself face to face with Robert Rushton, who passed him with a slight nod, and with an air of trouble entered the presence of his friend's father. CHAPTER XV. HALBERT'S MALICE. Robert was forced, by Ben Haley's, taking possession of his boat to give up for the present his design of recrossing the river. He felt bound to go back and inform Paul of Ben's escape. "He has carried off my gold," exclaimed Paul, in anguish. "Why didn't you catch him?" "He had too much start of us," said Robert's companion. "But even if we had come up with him, I am afraid he would have proved more than a match for us. He is a desperate man. How much money did he take away with him?" "More than five hundred dollars," wailed the old man. "I am completely ruined!" "Not quite so bad as that, Mr. Nichols. You have your farm left." But the old man was not to be comforted. He had become so wedded to his gold that to lose it was like losing his heart's blood. But was these no hope of recovery? "Why don't you go after him?" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Raise the neighbors. It isn't too late yet." "He's across the river before this," said Robert. "Get a boat and go after him." "I am willing," said our hero, promptly. "Where can we find a boat, Mr. Dunham?" "There's one about a quarter of a mile down the stream--Stetson's boat." "Let's go, then." "Very well, Robert. I've no idea we can do anything, but we will try." "Go, go. Don't waste a moment," implored the old man, in feverish impatience. Robert and Mr. Dunham started, and were soon rowing across the river in Stetson's boat. "Whereabout would he be likely to land?" asked the farmer. "There's my boat now," said Robert, pointing it out. "He has left it where I usually keep it." Quickly they rowed alongside. Then to his great sorrow Robert perceived the malicious injury which his enemy had wrought. "Oh, Mr. Dunham, look at that!" he said, struck with grief. "The boat is spoiled!" "Not so bad as that. It can be mended." "What will Will Paine say? What will his father say?" "Then it isn't your boat?" "No, that is the worst of it. It was lent me by Will Paine, and I promised to take such good care of it." "It isn't your fault, Robert?" "No, I couldn't help it, but still it wouldn't have happened if it had not been in my charge." "You can get it repaired, so that it will look almost as well as new." If Robert had had plenty of money, this suggestion would have comforted him, but it will be remembered that he was almost penniless, dependent on the fish he caught for the means of supporting his mother and himself. Now this resource was cut off. The boat couldn't be used until it was repaired. He felt morally bound to get it repaired, though he was guiltless of the damage. But how could he even do this? One thing was clear--Mr. Paine must at once be informed of the injury suffered by the boat. Robert shrank from informing him, but he knew it to be his duty, and he was too brave to put it off. But first he must try to find some clew to Ben Haley. He had now a personal interest in bringing to justice the man who had made him so much trouble. He had scarcely got on shore than the boy who had sold Ben Haley the hatchet, strolled up. "Who was that man who came across in your boat?" he asked. "Did you see him?" asked Robert, eagerly. "To be sure I did," said Tom Green, with satisfaction. "I sold him my old hatchet for money enough to buy a new one, and he give me a quarter besides for my trouble." "I wish you hadn't done it, Tom," said Robert, gravely. "See what he's done with it." Tom Green opened his eyes wide with astonishment. "What did he do that for?" he asked. "To be revenged on me. I'll tell you what for another time. Now I want to find him. Can you tell me where he went?" "No; I left him here, while I went to the store for a new hatchet." The old hatchet was found under a clump of bushes. Robert took possession of it, feeling that he had a right to it, as part compensation for the mischief it had done. "We'd better go to the railroad depot, Mr. Dunham," he said. "He'd be most likely to go there." "You're right. We'll go." They walked rapidly to the station, but too late, of course, for the train. The station-master was standing on the platform, superintending the removal of a trunk. "Mr. Cross," said Robert, "I want to find out if a particular man left by the last train. I'll describe him." "Yes," said the station-master, "that's the man I was wondering about. He had a wound in the shoulder." "He got that from me," said Robert. "Sho! you don't say so," returned the station-master, in surprise. "He said he was out hunting with a friend, and his friend's gun went off accidentally." "I don't believe he feels very friendly to me," said Robert, smiling. "He's stolen five or six hundred dollars in gold from old Paul Nichols." "It'll about kill the old man, won't it?" "He feels pretty bad about it. For what place did he buy a ticket?" "For Cranston; but that ain't no guide. When he gets there, he'll buy a ticket for further on." Had there been a telegraph station, Robert would have telegraphed on to have Ben Haley stopped, but there was none nearer than the next town. He determined to give information to a justice of the peace, and leave the matter in his hands. But Justice in a country town is slow, and it may as well be stated here, before anything was done Ben Haley was out of danger. But Robert was destined to fall in with him at a future day. This business attended to, Robert bent his steps to Mr. Paine's office. This brings us to his meeting with Halbert Davis at the door. He was slightly surprised at the encounter, but was far from guessing the object of Halbert's call. Mr. Paine looked up as he entered, and had no difficulty in guessing his errand. "What can I do for you, Robert?" he asked, kindly. "I bring bad news, Mr. Paine," said our hero, boldly plunging into the subject which had brought him to the office. "It's about the boat, isn't it?" said the lawyer. "What, do you know about it?" asked Robert, in surprise. "Yes; a disinterested friend brought the news." "Halbert Davis?" "The same. He takes a strong interest in your affairs," added the lawyer, dryly. "Now tell me how it happened." Robert gave a full explanation, the lawyer occasionally asking a question. "It seems, then," he said, "that you incurred this man's enmity by your defense of Mr. Nichols' money." "Yes, sir." "It was incurred in a good cause. I can't blame you, nor will my son. I will get Mr. Plane, the carpenter, to look at the boat and see what he can do to repair it." "Some time I will pay you the cost of the repairs, Mr. Paine. I would now if I had any money; but you know how I am situated." "I shall not call upon you to do that," said the lawyer, kindly. "It was not your fault." "But the damage would not have happened if Will had not lent the boat to me." "That is true; but in undertaking the defense of Mr. Nichols you showed a pluck and courage which most boys would not have exhibited. I am interested, like all good citizens, in the prevention of theft, and in this instance I am willing to assume the cost." "You are very kind, Mr. Paine. I was afraid you would blame me." "No, my boy; I am not so unreasonable. It will save me some trouble if you will yourself see Mr. Plane and obtain from him an estimate of the probable expense of putting the boat in order." Robert left the office, feeling quite relieved by the manner in which his communication had been received. A little way up the road he overtook Halbert Davis. In fact, Halbert was waiting for him, expressly to get an opportunity of enjoying his discomfiture at the ruin of the boat. "Hallo, Rushton!" he said. "Good-morning, Halbert!" "Are you going out in your boat this afternoon?" asked Halbert, maliciously. "You know why I can't." "I wonder what Will Paine will say when he sees the good care you take of it." "I don't believe he will blame me when he knows the circumstances." "You ain't fit to have the charge of a boat. I suppose you ran it on a rock." "Then you suppose wrong." "You won't be able to go out fishing any more. How will you make a living?" "Without your help," said Robert, coldly. "You will probably see me out again in a few days, if you take the trouble to look." "How can you go?" "Mr. Paine has asked me to see Mr. Plane about repairing the boat." "Is he going to pay the expenses?" "Yes." "Then he's a fool." "You'd better not tell him so, or he might give you a lesson in politeness." "You're a low fellow," said Halbert, angrily. "You are welcome to your opinion," returned Robert, indifferently. CHAPTER XVI. ON THE RAILROAD TRACK. Robert saw the carpenter, according to Mr. Paine's instructions, but found him so busy that he would not engage to give his attention to the boat under a week. The delay was regretted by our hero, since it cut him off from the employment by which he hoped to provide for his mother. Again Mrs. Rushton was in low spirits. "I am sorry you couldn't agree with Halbert Davis, Robert," she said, with a sigh. "Then you could have stayed in the factory, and got your wages regularly every week." "I know that, mother, but I am not willing to have Halbert 'boss me round,' even for a place in the factory." "Then, Robert, you quarreled with the man you took across the river." "I think I did right, mother," said Robert. "Don't get out of spirits. I don't expect to succeed always. But I think I shall come out right in the end." "I am sure I hope so." Mrs. Rushton was one of those who look on the dark side. She was distrustful of the future, and apt to anticipate bad fortune. Robert was very different. He inherited from his father an unusual amount of courage and self-reliance, and if one avenue was closed to him, he at once set out to find another. It is of this class that successful men are made, and we have hopes that Robert will develop into a prosperous and successful man. "I am sure I don't see what you can do," said Mrs. Rushton, "and we can't live on what I make by braiding straw." "I'll tell you what I'll do," said Robert, "I'll go on Sligo Hill and pick blueberries; I was passing a day or two ago, and saw the bushes quite covered. Just give me a couple of tin pails, and I'll see what I can do." The pails were provided, and Robert started on his expedition. The hill was not very high, nor was its soil very good. The lower part was used only to pasture a few cows. But this part was thickly covered with blueberry bushes, which this season were fuller than usual of large-sized berries. Robert soon settled to work, and picked steadily and rapidly. At the end of three hours he had filled both pails, containing, as near as he could estimate, eight quarts. "That's a pretty good afternoon's work," he said to himself. "Now I suppose I must turn peddler, and dispose of them." He decided to ask ten cents a quart. Later in the season the price would be reduced, but at that time the berries ought to command that price. The first house at which he called was Mr. Paine's. He was about to pass, when he saw Hester at the window. Pride suggested, "She may despise me for being a berry peddler," but Robert had no false shame. "At any rate, I won't be coward enough to try to hide it from her." Accordingly he walked up boldly to the door, and rang the bell. Hester had seen him from the window, and she answered the bell herself. "I am glad to see you, Robert," she said, frankly. "Won't you come in?" "Thank you," said our hero, "but I called on business." "You will find my father in his office," she said, looking a little disappointed. Robert smiled. "My business is not of a legal character," he said. "I've turned peddler, and would like to sell you some blueberries." "Oh, what nice berries! Where did you pick them?" "On Sligo." "I am sure mother will buy some. Will you wait a minute while I go and ask her?" "I will wait as long as you like." Hester soon returned with authority to buy four quarts. I suspect that she was the means of influencing so large a purchase. "They are ten cents a quart," said Robert, "but I don't think I ought to charge your father anything." "Why not?" "Because I shall owe him, or rather Will, a good deal of money." "I know what you mean--it's about the boat." "Did your father tell you?" "Yes, but I knew it before. Halbert Davis told me." "He takes a great interest in my affairs." "He's a mean boy. You mustn't mind what he says against you." Robert laughed. "I don't care what he thinks or says of me, unless he persuades others to think ill of me." "I shall never think ill of you, Robert," said Hester, warmly. "Thank you, Hester," said Robert, looking up into her glowing face with more gratification than he could express. "I hope I shall deserve your good opinion." "I am sure you will, Robert, But won't you come in?" "No, thank you. I must sell the rest of my berries." Robert left the house with forty cents in his pocket, the first fruits of his afternoon's work. Besides, he had four quarts left, for which he expected to find a ready sale. He had not gone far when he met Halbert. The latter was dressed with his usual care, with carefully polished shoes, neatly fitting gloves, and swinging a light cane, the successor of that which had been broken in his conflict with Robert. Our hero, on the other hand, I am obliged to confess, was by no means fashionably attired. His shoes were dusty, and his bare hands were stained with berry juice. He wore a coarse straw hat with a broad brim to shield him from the hot sun. Those of my readers who judge by dress alone would certainly have preferred Halbert Davis, who looked as if he had just stepped out of a band-box. But those who compared the two faces, the one bright, frank and resolute, the other supercilious and insincere, could hardly fail to prefer Robert in spite of his coarse attire and unfashionable air. Halbert scanned his rival with scornful eyes. He would have taken no notice of him, but concluded to speak in the hope of saying something disagreeable. "You have found a new business, I see," he said, with a sneer. "Yes," said Robert, quietly. "When one business gives out, I try another." "You've made a good choice," said Halbert. "It's what you are adapted for." "Thank you for the compliment, but I don't expect to stick to it all my life." "How do you sell your berries?" "Ten cents a quart." "You'd better call on your friend, Miss Hester Paine, and see if she won't buy some." "Thank you for the advice, but it comes too late. She bought four quarts of me." "She did!" returned Halbert, surprised. "I didn't think you'd go there." "Why not?" "She won't think much of a boy that has to pick berries for a living." "I don't think that will change her opinion of me. Why should it?" "It's a low business." "I don't see it." "Excuse my delaying you. I am afraid I may have interfered with your business. I say," he called out, as Robert was going on, "if you will call at our house, perhaps my mother may patronize you." "Very well," said Robert, "if I don't sell elsewhere, I'll call there. It makes no difference to me who buys my berries." "He's the proudest beggar I ever met," thought Halbert, looking after him. "Hester Paine must be hard up for an escort if she walks with a boy who peddles berries for a living. If I were her father, I would put a stop to it." The same evening there was a concert in the Town Hall. A free ticket was given to Robert in return for some slight service. Mr. Paine and his daughter were present, and Halbert Davis also. To the disgust of the latter, Robert actually had the presumption to walk home with Hester. Hester laughed and chatted gayly, and appeared to be quite unconscious that she was lowering herself by accepting the escort of a boy "who picked berries for a living." The next day Robert again repaired to Sligo. He had realized eighty cents from his sales the previous day, and he felt that picking berries was much better than remaining idle. Halbert's sneers did not for a moment discompose him. He had pride, but it was an honorable pride, and not of a kind that would prevent his engaging in any respectable employment necessary for the support of his mother and himself. Returning home with well-filled pails, he walked a part of the way on the railroad, as this shortened the distance. He had not walked far when he discovered on the track a huge rock, large enough to throw the train off the track. How it got there was a mystery. Just in front there was a steep descent on either side, the road crossing a valley, so that an accident would probably cause the entire train to be thrown down the embankment. Robert saw the danger at a glance, and it flashed upon him at the same moment that the train was nearly due. He sprang to the rock, and exerted his utmost strength to dislodge it. He could move it slightly, but it was too heavy to remove. He was still exerting his strength to the utmost when the whistle of the locomotive was heard. Robert was filled with horror, as he realized the peril of the approaching train, and his powerlessness to avert it. CHAPTER XVII. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST. The cars swept on at the rate of twenty miles an hour, the engineer wholly unconscious of the peril in front. Robert saw the fated train with its freight of human lives, and his heart grew sick within him as he thought of the terrible tragedy which was about to be enacted. Was there any possibility of his averting it? He threw himself against the rock and pushed with all the strength he could command. But, nerved as he was by desperation, he found the task greater than he could compass. And still the train came thundering on. He must withdraw to a place of safety, or he would himself be involved in the destruction which threatened the train. There was one thing more he could do, and he did it. He took his station on the rock which was just in the path of the advancing train, and waved his handkerchief frantically. It was a position to test the courage of the bravest. Robert was fully aware that he was exposing himself to a horrible death. Should he not be seen by the engineer it would be doubtful whether he could get out of the way in time to escape death--and that of the most frightful nature. But unless he did something a hundred lives perhaps might be lost. So he resolutely took his stand, waving, as we have said, his handkerchief and shouting, though the last was not likely to be of any avail. At first he was not seen. When the engineer at last caught sight of him it was with a feeling of anger at what he regarded as the foolhardiness of the boy. He slackened his speed, thinking he would leave his place, but Robert still maintained his position, his nerves strung to their highest tension, not alone at his own danger, but at the peril which he began to fear he could not avert. Reluctantly the engineer gave the signal to stop the train. He was only just in time. When it came to a stop there was an interval of only thirty-five feet between it and Robert Rushton, who, now that he had accomplished his object, withdrew to one side, a little paler than usual, but resolute and manly in his bearing. "What is the meaning of this foolery?" the engineer demanded, angrily. Robert pointed in silence to the huge rock which lay on the track. "How came that rock there?" asked the engineer, in a startled tone, as he took in the extent of the peril from which they had been saved. "I don't know," said Robert. "I tried to move it, but I couldn't." "You are a brave boy," said the engineer. "You have in all probability saved the train from destruction. But you ran a narrow risk yourself." "I know it," was the reply; "but it was the only thing I could do to catch your attention." "I will speak to you about it again. The first to be done is to move the rock." He left the engine and advanced toward the rock. By this time many of the passengers had got out, and were inquiring why the train was stopped at this point. The sight of the rock made a sensation. Though the peril was over, the thought that the train might have been precipitated down the embankment, and the majority of the passengers killed or seriously injured, impressed them not a little. They pressed forward, and several lending a hand, the rock was ousted from its its position, and rolled crashing over the bank. Among the passengers was a stout, good-looking man, a New York merchant. He had a large family at home waiting his return from a Western journey. He shuddered as he thought how near he had been to never meeting them again on earth. "It was providential, your seeing the rock," he said to the engineer. "We owe our lives to you." "You do me more than justice," replied the engineer. "It was not I who saved the train, but that boy." All eyes were turned upon Robert, who, unused to being the center of so many glances, blushed and seemed disposed to withdraw. "How is that?" inquired the merchant. "He saw the obstruction, and tried to remove it, but, not being able to do so, took his station on the rock, and, at the risk of his own life, drew my attention, and saved the train." "It was a noble act, my boy; what is your name?" "Robert Rushton." "It is a name that we shall all have cause to remember. Gentlemen," continued the merchant, turning to the group around him, "you see before you the preserver of your lives. Shall his act go unrewarded?" "No, no!" was the general exclamation. "I don't want any reward," said Robert, modestly. "Any boy would have done as much." "I don't know about that, my young friend. There are not many boys, or men, I think, that would have had the courage to act as you did. You may not ask or want any reward, but we should be forever disgraced if we failed to acknowledge our great indebtedness to you. I contribute one hundred dollars as my share of the testimonial to our young friend." "I follow with fifty!" said his next neighbor, "and shall ask for the privilege of taking him by the hand." Robert had won honors at school, but he had never before been in a position so trying to his modesty. The passengers, following the example of the last speaker, crowded around him, and took him by the hand, expressing their individual acknowledgments for the service he had rendered them. Our hero, whom we now designate thus appropriately, bore the ordeal with a self-possession which won the favor of all. While this was going on, the collection was rapidly being made by the merchant who had proposed it. The amounts contributed varied widely, but no one refused to give. In ten minutes the fund had reached over six hundred dollars. "Master Robert Rushton," said the merchant, "I have great pleasure in handing you this money, freely contributed by the passengers on this train, as a slight acknowledgment of the great service which you have rendered them at the risk of your own life. It does not often fall to the lot of a boy to perform a deed so heroic. We are all your debtors, and if the time ever comes that you need a friend, I for one shall be glad to show my sense of indebtedness." "All aboard!" shouted the conductor. The passengers hurried into the cars, leaving our hero standing by the track, with one hand full of bank notes and in the other the card of the New York merchant. It was only about fifteen minutes since Robert had first signaled the train, yet how in this brief time had his fortunes changed! From the cars now rapidly receding he looked to the roll of bills, and he could hardly realize that all this money was his own. He sat down and counted it over. "Six hundred and thirty-five dollars!" he exclaimed. "I must have made a mistake." But a second count turned out precisely the same. "How happy mother will be!" he thought, joyfully. "I must go and tell her the good news." He was so occupied with the thoughts of his wonderful good fortune that he nearly forgot to take the berries which he had picked. "I shan't need to sell them now," he said. "We'll use a part of them ourselves, and what we can't use I will give away." He carefully stored away the money in his coat pocket, and for the sake of security buttoned it tight. It was a new thing for him to be the custodian of so much treasure. As Halbert Davis usually spent the latter part of the afternoon in promenading the streets, sporting his kids and swinging his jaunty cane, it was not surprising that Robert encountered him again. "So, you've been berrying again?" he said, stopping short. "Yes," said Robert, briefly. "You haven't got the boat repaired, I suppose." "Not yet." "It's lucky for you this is berrying season." "Why?" "Because you'd probably have to go to the poorhouse," said Halbert, insolently. "I don't know about that," said Robert, coolly. "I rather think I could buy you out, Halbert Davis, watch, gloves, cane and all." "What do you mean?" demanded Halbert, haughtily. "You seem to forget that you are a beggar, or next to it." Robert set down his pails, and, opening his coat, drew out a handful of bills. "Does that look like going to the almshouse?" he said. "They're not yours," returned Halbert, considerably astonished, for, though he did not know the denomination of the bills, it was evident that there was a considerable amount of money. "It belongs to me, every dollar of it," returned Robert. "I don't believe it. Where did you get it? Picking berries, I suppose," he added, with a sneer. "It makes no difference to you where I got it," said our hero, returning the money to his pocket. "I shan't go to the almshouse till this I is all gone." "He must have stolen it," muttered Halbert, looking after Robert with disappointment and chagrin. It was certainly very vexatious that, in spite of all his attempts to humble and ruin our hero, he seemed more prosperous than ever. CHAPTER XVIII. A VISIT TO THE LAWYER. Mrs. Rushton was braiding straw when Robert entered with his berries. "Couldn't you sell your berries, Robert?" she asked. "I haven't tried yet, mother." "The berrying season won't last much longer," said his mother, despondently. "Don't borrow trouble, mother. I am sure we shall get along well." "You feel more confidence than I do." "I just met Halbert Davis in the street." "Have you made up with him?" "It is for him to make up with me." "I am afraid you are too high-spirited, Robert. Did Halbert speak to you?" "Oh, yes," said Robert, laughing. "He takes a great interest in my affairs. He predicts that we shall come to the poorhouse yet." "He may be right." "Now, mother, don't be so desponding. We've got enough money to pay our expenses for more than a year, even if we both stop work." "What can you mean, Robert?" said his mother, looking up in surprise. "You must be crazy." "Does that look like going to the poorhouse?" asked Robert, drawing out his money. Mrs. Rushton uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Whose money is that, Robert?" "Mine!" "You haven't done anything wrong?" "No, mother; I thought you knew me too well for that. I see you are anxious to hear how I obtained it, so I'll tell you all about it." He sat down, and in brief words told his mother the story of the train and its peril, how he had rescued it, and, lastly, of the generous gift which he had so unexpectedly received. The mother's heart was touched, and she forgot all her forebodings. "My son, I am proud of you," she said, her eyes moist. "You have done a noble deed, and you deserve the reward. But what a risk you ran!" "I know it, mother, but we won't think of that, now that it is over. How much, money do you think I have here?" "Two or three hundred dollars." "Six hundred and thirty-five! So you see, mother, we needn't go to the poorhouse just yet. Now, how much better off should I have been if I had kept my place in the factory? It would have taken me more than two years to earn as much money as this. But that isn't all. I have been the means of saving a great many lives, for the train was sure to be thrown down the embankment. I shall remember that all my life." "We have reason to be grateful to Heaven that you have been the means of doing so much good, Robert, while, at the same time, you have benefited yourself." "That is true, mother." "I shall be afraid to have so much money in the house. If it were known, we might be robbed." "I will leave it with Mr. Paine until I get a chance to put it in a savings bank. He has a safe in his office. At the same time I will carry him some berries as a present. It won't be much, but I should like to do it on account of his kindness about the boat. I will offer now to bear the expense of its repair." After washing his hands and adjusting his clothes a little, for Robert, though no fop like Halbert, was not regardless of appearances, especially as he thought Hester might see him, he set out for the lawyer's office. "Excuse my bringing in my berries," said Robert, as he entered the office, "but I want to ask your acceptance of them." Many persons, under the supposition that Robert was too poor to afford a gift, would have declined it, or offered to pay for it, thinking they were acting kindly and considerately. But Mr. Paine knew that Robert would be mortified by such an offer, and he answered: "Thank you, Robert; I will accept your gift with thanks on one condition." "What is it, Mr. Paine?" inquired our hero, a little puzzled. "That you will take tea with us to-morrow evening, and help us do justice to them." "Thank you," said Robert, not a little pleased at the invitation, "but I shouldn't like to leave my mother at home alone." "Oh, we must have your mother, too. Hester will call this evening, and invite her." "Then," said Robert, "I can answer for myself, and I think for her, that we should both be very happy to come." The lawyer's social position made such an invitation particularly gratifying to Robert. Besides, he was led to value it more on account of the persistent efforts of Halbert to injure him in the general estimation. Then, too, it was pleasant to think that he was to sit down to the same table with Hester, as her father's guest, and to receive a call from her at his own house. Nothing that Mr. Paine could have done would have afforded him an equal amount of gratification. "There is one other matter I wanted to speak to you about, Mr. Paine," he said. "Will you take care of some money for me until I get a chance to deposit it in the savings bank?" "Certainly, Robert," was the reply, but the lawyer's manner showed some surprise. He knew the circumstances of the Rushtons, and he had not supposed they had any money on hand. "How much is it?" "Six hundred and thirty-five dollars," answered Robert, producing it. "Will you count it, and see if it is all right?" "Is this your money?" asked the lawyer, laying down his pen and gazing at Robert in astonishment. "Yes, sir," said Robert, enjoying his surprise. "I will tell you how I got it." So the story was told, with a modest reserve as to his own courage, but still showing, without his intending it, how nobly he had behaved. "Give me your hand, Robert," said Mr. Paine, cordially. "You have shown yourself a hero. We shall be proud of your company to tea to-morrow evening." Robert flushed with gratification at the high compliment conveyed in these words. What did he care then for Halbert Davis and his petty malice! He had the approval of his own conscience, the good opinion of those whom he most respected and a provision against want sufficient to avert all present anxiety. "There is one thing more, Mr. Paine," he added. "It's about the boat Will was kind enough to lend me." "Have you seen the carpenter about repairing it?" "Yes, sir, and he will attend to it as soon as he can spare the time. But that was not what I wanted to say. I think I ought to bear the expense of repairing it. I would have spoken about it at first, but then I had no money, and didn't know when I should have any. Will you be kind enough to take as much of my money as will be needed to pay Mr. Plane's bill when it comes in?" "Certainly not, Robert. It was not your fault that the boat was injured." "It wouldn't have happened if I had not borrowed it. It isn't right that the expense should fall on you." "Don't trouble yourself about that, Robert. I am able and willing to pay it. It is very honorable in you to make the offer, and I like you the better for having made it. Won't you need any of this money for present expenses?" "Perhaps I had better take the thirty-five dollars. Mother may be in want of something." Robert received back the sum named, and returned home, much pleased with his interview. About seven o'clock, sitting at the window of the little cottage, he saw Hester Paine opening the front gate. He sprang to his feet and opened the door. "Good-evening, Robert," she said. "Is your mother at home?" "Yes, Hester. Won't you come in?" "Thank you, Robert. Father has been telling me what a hero you were, and it made me feel proud that you were a friend of mine." Robert's face lighted with pleasure. "You compliment me more than I deserve," he answered, modestly; "but it gives me great pleasure to know that you think well of me." "I am sure that there is no boy in Millville that would have dared to do such a thing. Good-evening, Mrs. Rushton. Are you not proud of your son?" "He is a good son to me," said Mrs. Rushton, with a glance of affection. "It is such a splendid thing he did. He will be quite a hero. Indeed, he is one already. I've got a New York paper giving an account of the whole thing. I brought it over, thinking you might like to read it." She displayed a copy of a great city daily, in which full justice was done to Robert's bravery. Our hero listened with modest pleasure while it was being read. "I don't deserve all that," he said. "You must let us judge of that," said Hester. "But I have come this evening, Mrs. Rushton, to ask you to take tea with us to-morrow evening, you and Robert. You will come, won't you?" Mrs. Rushton was pleased with this mark of attention, and after a slight demur, accepted. I do not intend to give an account of the next evening, and how Robert, in particular, enjoyed it. That can be imagined, as well as Halbert's chagrin when he heard of the attention his rival was receiving in a quarter where he himself so earnestly desired to stand well. I must pass on to a communication received by Mrs. Rushton, a communication of a very unexpected character, which had an important effect upon the fortunes of our hero. CHAPTER XIX. THE MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. It was not often that Mrs. Rushton received a letter. Neither she nor her husband had possessed many relatives, and such as either had were occupied with their own families, and little communication passed between them and Captain Rushton's family. Robert, therefore, seldom called at the post office. One day, however, as he stepped in by a neighbor's request to inquire for letters for the latter, the postmaster said, "There's a letter for your mother, Robert." "Is there?" said our hero, surprised, "When did it come?" "Yesterday. I was going to ask some one to carry it round to her, as you don't often call here." He handed the letter to Robert, who surveyed it with curiosity. It was postmarked "Boston," and addressed in a bold business hand to "Mrs. Captain Rushton, Millville." "Who can be writing to mother from Boston?" thought Robert. The size of the letter also excited his curiosity. There were two stamps upon it, and it appeared bulky. Robert hurried home, and rushed into the kitchen where his mother was at work. "Here's a letter for you, mother," he said. "A letter for me!" repeated Mrs. Rushton. "From Boston." "I don't know who would be likely to write me from there. Open it for me, Robert." He tore open the envelope. It contained two inclosures--one a letter in the same handwriting as the address; the other a large sheet of foolscap rumpled up, and appearing once to have been rolled up, was written in pencil. Mrs. Rushton had no sooner looked at the latter than she exclaimed, in agitation: "Robert, it is your father's handwriting. Read it to me, I am too agitated to make it out." Robert was equally excited. Was his father still alive, or was this letter a communication from the dead? "First let me read the other," he said. "It will explain about this." His mother sank back into a chair too weak with agitation to stand, while her son rapidly read the following letter: "BOSTON, August 15, 1853. MRS. RUSHTON, DEAR MADAM: The fate of our ship _Norman_, which left this port now more than two years since, under the command of your husband, has until now been veiled in uncertainty. We had given up all hopes of obtaining any light upon the circumstances of its loss, when by a singular chance information was brought us yesterday. The ship _Argo_, while in the South Pacific, picked up a bottle floating upon the surface of the water. On opening it, it was found to contain two communications, one addressed to us, the other to you, the latter to be forwarded to you by us. Ours contains the particulars of the loss of the _Norman_, and doubtless your own letter also contains the same particulars. There is a bare possibility that your husband is still alive, but as so long a period has passed since the letters were written it would not be well to place too much confidence in such a hope. But even if Captain Rushton is dead, it will be a sad satisfaction to you to receive from him this last communication, and learn the particulars of his loss. We lose no time in forwarding to you the letter referred to, and remain, with much sympathy, yours respectfully, WINSLOW & CO." Mrs. Rushton listened to this letter with eager and painful interest, her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon Robert. "Now read your father's letter," she said, in a low tone. Robert unfolded the sheet, and his eyes filled with tears as he gazed upon the well-known handwriting of the father whose loss he had so long lamented. This letter, too, we transcribe: "November 7, 1851. MY DEAR WIFE AND SON: Whether these lines will ever meet your eyes I know not. Whether I will be permitted again to look upon your dear faces, I also am ignorant. The good ship _Norman_, in which I sailed from Boston not quite three months ago, is burned to the water's edge, and I find myself, with five of the sailors, afloat on the vast sea at the mercy of the elements, and with a limited supply of food. The chances are against our ever seeing land. Hundreds of miles away from any known shores, our only hope of safety is in attracting the attention of some vessel. In the broad pathways of the ocean such a chance is doubtful. Fortunately I have a few sheets of paper and a pencil with me, and I write these lines, knowing well how improbable it is that you will ever read them. Yet it is a satisfaction to do what I can to let you know the position in which I stand. But for the revengeful and malignant disposition of one man I should still be walking the deck of the _Norman_ as its captain. But to my story: My first mate was a man named Haley--Benjamin Haley--whose name you will perhaps remember. He was born in our neighborhood, or, at all events, once lived there, being the nephew of old Paul Nichols. He was a wild young man, and bore a bad reputation. Finally he disappeared, and, as it seems, embraced the profession of a sailor. I was not prepossessed in his favor, and was not very well pleased to find him my second in command. However, he was regularly engaged, and it was of no use for me to say anything against him. I think, however, that he suspected the state of my feelings, as, while studiously polite, I did not make an effort to be cordial. At any rate, he must have taken a dislike to me early in the voyage, though whether at that time he meditated evil, I cannot say. After a time I found that he was disposed to encroach upon my prerogatives as captain of the vessel, and issue commands which he knew to be in defiance of my wishes. You can imagine that I would not pass over such conduct unnoticed. I summoned him to an interview, and informed him in decided terms that I must be master in my own ship. He said little, but I saw from his expression that there could thereafter be no amicable relations between us. I pass over the days that succeeded--days in which Haley went to the furthest verge of insolence that he felt would be safe. At length, carried away by impatience, I reprimanded him publicly. He grew pale with passion, turned on his heel, and strode away. That night I was roused from my sleep by the cry of 'Fire!' I sprang to my feet and took immediate measures to extinguish the flames. But the incendiary had taken care to do his work so well that it was already impossible. I did not at first miss Haley, until, inquiring for him, I learned that he was missing, and one of the ship's boats. It was evident that he had deliberately fired the ship in order to revenge himself upon me. His hatred must have been extreme, or he would not have been willing to incur so great a risk. Though he escaped from the ship, his position in an open boat must be extremely perilous. When all hope of saving the ship was abandoned, we manned the remaining boats hastily, putting in each such a stock of provisions as we could carry without overloading the boats. Twenty-four hours have now passed, and we are still tossing about on the ocean. A storm would be our destruction. At this solemn time, my dear wife, my thoughts turn to you and my dear son, whom I am likely never to see again. There is one thing most of all which I wish you to know, but can hardly hope that these few lines will reach you. Just before I left home, on my present voyage, I deposited five thousand dollars with Mr. Davis, the superintendent of the factory, in trust for you, in case I should not return. You will be surprised to learn that I have so much money. It has been the accumulation of years, and was intended as a provision for you and Robert. I have no reason to doubt the integrity of Mr. Davis, yet I wish I had acquainted you with the fact of this deposit, and placed his written acknowledgment in your hands. My reason for concealment was, that I might surprise you at the end of this voyage. When this letter comes to hand (if it ever should come to hand), in case the superintendent has not accounted to you for the money placed in his hands, let Robert go to him and claim the money in my name. But I can hardly believe this to be necessary. Should I never return, I am persuaded that Mr. Davis will be true to the trust I have reposed in him, and come forward like an honest man to your relief. And now, my dear wife and son, farewell! My hope is weak that I shall ever again see you, yet it is possible. May Heaven bless you, and permit us to meet again in another world, if not in this! I shall inclose this letter, and one to my owners, in a bottle, which I have by me, and commit it to the sea, trusting that the merciful waves may waft it to the shore." Here Captain Rushton signed his name. The feelings with which Robert read and his mother listened to this letter, were varied. Love and pity for the husband and father, now doubtless long dead, were blended with surprise at the revelation of the deposit made in the hands of the superintendent of the mill. "Mother," said Robert, "did you know anything of this money father speaks of?" "No," said Mrs. Rushton, "he never told me. It is strange that Mr. Davis has never informed us of it. Two years have passed, and we have long given him up as lost." "Mother," said Robert, "it is my opinion that he never intends to let us know." "I cannot believe he would be so dishonorable." "But why should he keep back the knowledge? He knows that we are poor and need the money." "But he has the reputation of an honorable man." "Many have had that reputation who do not deserve it," said Robert. "The temptation must have proved too strong for him." "What shall we do?" "I know what I am going to do," said Robert, resolutely. "I am going to his house, and shall claim restitution of the money which father intrusted to him. He has had it two years, and, with the interest, it will amount to nearer six than five thousand dollars. It will be a fortune, mother." "Don't be hasty or impetuous, Robert," said his mother. "Speak to him respectfully." "I shall be civil if he is," said Robert. He took his cap, and putting it on, left the cottage and walked with a quick pace to the house of the superintendent. CHAPTER XX. A DISAGREEABLE SURPRISE. Mr. Davis was seated in his office, but it was his own personal affairs rather than the business of the factory that engaged his attention. He was just in receipt of a letter from his broker in New York, stating that there were but slender chances of a rise in the price of some securities in which he had invested heavily. He was advised to sell out at once, in order to guard against a probable further depreciation. This was far from satisfactory, since an immediate sale would involve a loss of nearly a thousand dollars. Mr. Davis felt despondent, and, in consequence, irritable. It was at this moment that one of the factory hands came in and told him that Robert Rushton wished to see him. The superintendent would have refused an interview but for one consideration. He thought that our hero was about to beg to be taken back into his employ. This request he intended to refuse, and enjoyed in advance the humiliation of young Rushton. "Good-morning, sir," said Robert, removing his hat on entering. "I suppose you want to be taken back," said the superintendent, abruptly. "No, sir," said Robert. "I have come on quite a different errand." Mr. Davis was disappointed. He was cheated of his expected triumph. Moreover, looking into our young hero's face, he saw that he was entirely self-possessed, and had by no means the air of one about to ask a favor. "Then state your business at once," he said, roughly. "My time is too valuable to be taken up by trifles." "My business is important to both of us," said Robert. "We have just received a letter from my father." The superintendent started and turned pale. This was the most unwelcome intelligence he could have received. He supposed, of course, that Captain Rushton was alive, and likely to reclaim the sum, which he was in no position to surrender. "Your father!" he stammered. "Where is he? I thought he was dead." "I am afraid he is," said Robert, soberly. "Then how can you just have received a letter from him?" demanded Mr. Davis, recovering from his momentary dismay. "The letter was inclosed in a bottle, which was picked up in the South Pacific, and brought to the owners of the vessel. My father's ship was burned to the water's edge, and at the time of writing the letter he was afloat on the ocean with five of his sailors in a small boat." "How long ago was this? I mean when was the letter dated." "Nearly two years ago--in the November after he sailed." "Then, of course, he must have perished," said the superintendent, with a feeling of satisfaction. "However, I suppose your mother is glad to have heard from him. Is that all you have to tell me?" "No, sir," said Robert, looking boldly in the face of his former employer. "My father added in his letter, that just before sailing he deposited with you the sum of five thousand dollars, to be given to my mother in case he never returned." So the worst had come! The dead had revealed the secret which the superintendent hoped would never be known. He was threatened with ruin. He had no means of paying the deposit unless by sacrificing all his property, and it was doubtful whether even then he would be able wholly to make it up. If Robert possessed his acknowledgment he would have no defense to make. This he must ascertain before committing himself. "Supposing this story to be true," he said, in a half-sneering tone, "you are, of course, prepared to show me my receipt for the money?" "That my father carried away with him. He did not send it with the letter." All the superintendent's confidence returned. He no longer felt afraid, since all evidence of the deposit was doubtless at the bottom of the sea with the ill-fated captain. He resolved to deny the trust altogether. "Rushton," he said, "I have listened patiently to what you had to say, and in return I answer that in the whole course of my life I have never known of a more barefaced attempt at fraud. In this case you have selected the wrong customer." "What!" exclaimed Robert, hardly crediting the testimony of his ears; "do you mean to deny that my father deposited five thousand dollars with you just before sailing on his last voyage?" "I certainly do, and in the most unqualified terms. Had such been the case, do you think I would have kept the knowledge of it from your mother so long after your father's supposed death?" "There might be reasons for that," said Robert, significantly. "None of your impertinent insinuations, you young rascal," said Mr. Davis, hotly. "The best advice I can give you is, to say nothing to any one about this extraordinary claim. It will only injure you, and I shall be compelled to resort to legal measures to punish you for circulating stories calculated to injure my reputation." If the superintendent expected to intimidate Robert by this menace he was entirely mistaken in the character of our young hero. He bore the angry words and threatening glances of his enemy without quailing, as resolute and determined as ever. "Mr. Davis," he said, "if there is no truth in this story, do you think my father, with death before his eyes, would have written it to my mother?" "I have no evidence, except your word, that any such letter has been received." "I can show it to you, if you desire it, in my father's handwriting." "We will suppose, then, for a moment, that such a letter has been received, and was written by your father. I can understand how, being about to die, and feeling that his family were without provision, he should have written such a letter with the intention of giving you a claim upon me, whom he no doubt selected supposing me to be a rich man. It was not justifiable, but something can be excused to a man finding himself in such a position." Robert was filled with indignation as he listened to this aspersion upon his father's memory. He would not have cared half so much for any insult to himself. "Mr. Davis," he said, boldly, "it is enough for you to cheat my mother out of the money which my father left her, but when you accuse my father of fraud you go too far. You know better than any one that everything which he wrote is true." The superintendent flushed under the boy's honest scorn, and, unable to defend himself truthfully, he worked himself into a rage. "What! do you dare insult me in my own office?" he exclaimed, half rising from his desk, and glaring at our hero. "Out of my sight at once, or I may be tempted to strike you!" "Before I leave you, Mr. Davis," said Robert, undauntedly, "I wish you to tell me finally whether you deny the deposit referred to in my father's letter?" "And I tell you, once for all," exclaimed the superintendent, angrily, "if you don't get out of my office I will kick you out." "I will leave you now," said our hero, not intimidated; "but you have not heard the last of me. I will not rest until I see justice done to my mother." So saying, he walked deliberately from the office, leaving Mr. Davis in a state of mind no means comfortable. True, the receipt had doubtless gone to the bottom of the sea with the ill-fated captain, and, as no one was cognizant of the transaction, probably no claim could be enforced against his denial. But if the letter should be shown, as Robert would doubtless be inclined to do, he was aware that, however the law might decide, popular opinion would be against him, and his reputation would be ruined. This was an unpleasant prospect, as the superintendent valued his character. Besides, the five thousand dollars were gone and not likely to be recovered. Had they still been in his possession, that would have been some compensation. CHAPTER XXI. A DENIAL. Robert left the superintendent's office in deep thought. He understood very well that it would be impossible to enforce his claim without more satisfactory testimony than his father's letter. If any one had been cognizant of the transaction between Mr. Davis and his father it would have helped matters, but no one, so far as he knew, was even aware that his father had possessed so large a sum as five thousand dollars. Had Captain Rushton inclosed the receipt, that would have been sufficient, but it had probably gone to the bottom with him. But, after all, was it certain that his father was dead? It was not certain, but our hero was forced to admit that the chances of his father's being alive were extremely slender. Finding himself utterly at a loss, he resolved to call upon his firm friend, Squire Paine, the lawyer. Going to his office, he was fortunate enough to find him in, and unengaged. "Good-morning, Robert," said the lawyer, pleasantly. "Good-morning, sir. You find me a frequent visitor." "Always welcome," was the pleasant reply. "You know I am your banker, and it is only natural for you to call upon me." "Yes, sir," said Robert, smiling; "but it is on different business that I have come to consult you this morning." "Go on. I will give you the best advice in my power." The lawyer listened with surprise to the story Robert had to tell. "This is certainly a strange tale," he said, after a pause. "But a true one," said Robert, hastily. "I do not question that. It affords another illustration of the old saying that truth is stranger than fiction. That a letter committed to the deep so many thousand miles away should have finally reached its destination is very remarkable, I may say Providential." "Do you think there is any chance of my father being yet alive?" "There is a bare chance, but I cannot encourage you to place much reliance upon it." "If he had been picked up by any vessel I suppose he would have written." "You would doubtless have seen him at home before this time in that case. Still there might be circumstances," added the lawyer, slowly, "that would prevent his communicating with friends at home. For instance, his boat might have drifted to some uninhabited island out of the course of ordinary navigation. I don't say it is at all probable, but there is such a probability." "Is there any chance of making Mr. Davis return the money my father deposited with him?" "There again there are difficulties. He may demand the return of his receipt, or he may continue to deny the trust altogether." "Won't the letter prove anything?" "It may produce a general conviction that such a deposit was made, since, admitting the letter to be genuine, no one, considering especially the character of your father, can readily believe that in the immediate presence of death he would make any such statement unless thoroughly reliable. But moral conviction and legal proof are quite different things. Unless that receipt is produced I don't see that anything can be done." "Perhaps my father might have put that in a bottle also at a later date." "He might have done so when he became satisfied that there was no chance of a rescue. But even supposing him to have done it, the chances are ten to one that it will never find its way to your mother. The reception of the first letter was almost a miracle." "I have no doubt you are right, Mr. Paine," said Robert; "but it seems very hard that my poor father's hard earnings should go to such an unprincipled man, and my mother be left destitute." "That is true, Robert, but I am obliged to say that your only hope is in awakening Mr. Davis to a sense of justice." "There isn't much chance of that," said Robert, shaking his head. "If you will leave the matter in my hands, I will call upon him to-night, and see what I can do." "I shall feel very glad if you will do so, Squire Paine. I don't want to leave anything undone." "Then I will do so. I don't imagine it will do any good, but we can but try." Robert left the office, making up his mind to await the report of the lawyer's visit before moving further. That evening, the lawyer called at the house of the superintendent. Mrs. Davis and Halbert were in the room. After a little unimportant conversation, he said: "Mr. Davis, may I ask the favor of a few minutes' conversation with you in private?" "Certainly," said the superintendent, quite in the dark as to the business which had called his guest to the house. He led the way into another room, and both took seats. "I may as well say to begin with," commenced the lawyer, "that I call in behalf of the family of the late Captain Rushton." The superintendent started nervously. "That boy has lost no time," he muttered to himself. "I suppose you understand what I have to say?" "I presume I can guess," said the superintendent, coldly. "The boy came into my office this morning, and made a most extraordinary claim, which I treated with contempt. Finding him persistent I ordered him out of my office. I need not say that no sane man would for a moment put confidence in such an incredible story or claim." "I can't quite agree with you there," said the lawyer, quietly. "There is nothing incredible about the story. It is remarkable, I grant, but such things have happened before, and will again." "I suppose you refer to the picking up of the bottle at sea." "Yes; I fail to see what there is incredible about it. If the handwriting can be identified as that of the late Captain Rushton, and Robert says both his mother and himself recognized it, the story becomes credible and will meet with general belief." "I thought you were too sensible and practical a man," said the superintendent, sneering, "to be taken in by so palpable a humbug. Why, it reads like a romance." "In spite of all that, it may be true enough," returned the lawyer, composedly. "You may believe it, if you please. It seems to me quite unworthy of belief." "Waiving that point, Robert, doubtless, acquainted you with the statement made in the letter that Captain Rushton, just before sailing on his last voyage, deposited with you five thousand dollars. What have you to say to that?" "What have I to say?" returned the superintendent. "That Captain Rushton never possessed five thousand dollars in his life. I don't believe he possessed one quarter of the sum." "What authority have you for saying that? Did he make you his confidant?" asked the lawyer, keenly. "Yes," said the superintendent, promptly. "When last at home, he called at my house one day, and in the course of conversation remarked that sailors seldom saved any money. 'For instance,' said he, 'I have followed the sea for many years, and have many times resolved to accumulate a provision for my wife and child, but as yet I have scarcely done more than to begin.' He then told me that he had little more than a thousand dollars, but meant to increase that, if possible, during his coming voyage." To this statement Squire Paine listened attentively, fully believing it to be an impromptu fabrication, as it really was. "Did he say anything about what he had done with this thousand dollars or more?" he asked. "A part he left for his wife to draw from time to time for expenses; the rest, I suppose, he took with him." Mr. Paine sat silent for a moment. Things looked unpromising, he couldn't but acknowledge, for his young client. In the absence of legal proof, and with an adroit and unscrupulous antagonist, whose interests were so strongly enlisted in defeating justice, it was difficult to see what was to be done. "I understand then, Mr. Davis," he said, finally, "that you deny the justice of this claim?" "Certainly I do," said the superintendent. "It is a palpable fraud. This boy is a precocious young swindler, and will come to a bad end." "I have a different opinion of him." "You are deceived in him, then. I have no doubt he got up the letter himself." "I don't agree with you. I have seen the letter; it is in Captain Rushton's handwriting. Moreover, I have seen the letter of the owners, which accompanied it." The superintendent was in a tight place, and he knew it. But there was nothing to do but to persist in his denial. "Then I can only say that Captain Rushton was a party to the fraud," he said. "You must be aware, Mr. Davis, that when the public learns the facts in the case, the general belief will be the other way." "I can't help that," said the other, doggedly. "Whatever the public chooses to think, I won't admit the justice of this outrageous claim." "Then I have only to bid you good-evening," said the lawyer, coldly, affecting not to see the hand which the superintendent extended. The latter felt the slight, and foresaw that from others he must expect similar coldness, but there was no help for it. To restore the money would be ruin. He had entered into the path of dishonesty, and he was forced to keep on in it. CHAPTER XXII. ROBERT'S NEW PROJECT. Mr. Paine called at Mrs. Rushton's cottage, and communicated the particulars of his interview with the superintendent. "It is evident," he said, "that Mr. Davis is swayed by his interests, and feeling legally secure, prefers to defraud you rather than to surrender the five thousand dollars." "I wouldn't have believed it of Mr. Davis," said Mrs. Rushton; "he is considered such a respectable man." "I have heard rumors that he is dabbling in speculations, and I suspect he may find it inconvenient to pay away so large a sum of money." "He had no right to speculate with my mother's money," said Robert, indignantly. "You are right there. He should have invested it securely." "Mr. Paine," said Robert, after a pause, "I have an idea that father is still living, and that some day I shall find him." The lawyer shook his head. "There is not one chance in ten that he is living," he said. "It is only a fancy of yours." "It may be, but I can't get it out of my head." "I hope you will prove correct, but I need not tell you of the many arguments against such a theory." "I know them all, but still I believe he is living. Mr. Paine," continued Robert, earnestly, "I feel so strongly on the subject that, with my mother's permission, I, mean to go out into the world in search of him." "I must say, Robert," said Mr. Paine, "I did not expect such a visionary scheme from a boy of your good sense. You must see yourself how wild it is." "I know it," said our hero; "but I want to take a year, at any rate, to see the world. If, at the end of that time, I discover no trace of my father, I will come home content." "But what will become of your mother during that time?" "I will leave four hundred dollars in your hands for her. The rest I will draw for my own uses." "But you don't expect to travel round the world on two hundred dollars, surely?" said the lawyer. "I shall work my way as far as I can," said Robert. "I can't afford to travel as a gentleman." "Suppose you find yourself without money in a foreign land?" "I am not afraid. I am willing to work, and I can make my way." "Surely, Mrs. Rushton, you do not approve Robert's scheme?" said Mr. Paine. But to his surprise he found that Mrs. Rushton was inclined to regard it favorably. She seemed to share Robert's belief that her husband was still living, and that Robert could find him. She was not a woman in the habit of reasoning, and had no conception of the difficulties in his way. The money left behind in the hands of Mr. Paine, supplemented by her own earnings, would be enough to maintain her for two years, and this thought made her easy, for she had a great dread of poverty and destitution. When the lawyer found how Mrs. Rushton felt on the subject, he ceased his objections to the plan; for, though he had no confidence in our young hero's success in the object he had in view, he thought that a year's tour might benefit him by extending his knowledge of the world and increasing his self-reliance. "How soon do you wish to start, Robert?" he asked. "It will take me a week to get your clothes ready," said Mrs. Rushton. "Then by a week from Monday I will start," said Robert. "Have you formed any definite plans about the manner of going?" "I will go to New York first, and call on the gentleman who got up the subscription for me. I will tell him my story, and ask his advice." "The most sensible thing you could do. As to the money, I will have that ready for you. Of course, you will call on me before you go." The superintendent had made up his mind that Robert would spread the report of the deposit, and nervously awaited the result. But to his relief he observed no change in the demeanor of his fellow-townsmen. He could only conclude that, for reasons of his own, the boy he had wronged had concluded to defer the exposure. Next he heard with a feeling of satisfaction that Robert had decided to go abroad in quest of his father. He had no doubt that Captain Rushton was dead, and regarded the plan as utterly quixotic and foolish, but still he felt glad that it had been undertaken. "If the boy never comes back, I shan't mourn much," he said to himself. "His mother is a weak woman, who will never give me any trouble, but this young rascal has a strong and resolute will, and I shall feel more comfortable to have him out of the way." When Robert got ready to leave he made a farewell call on the lawyer, and drew two hundred dollars of his money. "I don't know but one hundred will do," he said. "Perhaps I ought to leave five hundred for my mother." "You carry little enough, Robert. Don't have any anxiety about your mother. I will not see her suffer." Robert grasped his hand in earnest gratitude. "How can I thank you?" he said. "You need not thank me. I had a warm regard for your father, and shall be glad to help your mother if there is any occasion. Not only this, but if in your wanderings you find yourself in a tight place, and in want of help, write to me, and I will help you." "You are a true friend," said Robert, gratefully. "I wish my father had intrusted his money to you instead of to the superintendent." "I wish he had as matters have turned out, I should have taken care that your interests did not suffer." "Oh," exclaimed Robert, fervently, "if I could only find my father, and bring him home to confront this false friend, and convict him of his base fraud, I believe I would willingly give ten years of my life." "That question can only be solved by time. I, too, should earnestly rejoice if such an event could be brought about. And now, Robert, good-by, and Heaven bless you. Don't forget that you can count always on my friendship and assistance." On the way home Robert fell in with Halbert Davis. Halbert, of course, knew nothing of the claim made upon his father, but he had heard that Robert proposed to leave home. He was both sorry and glad on account of this--sorry because he had hoped to see our hero fall into poverty and destitution, and enjoy the spectacle of his humiliation. Now he was afraid Robert would succeed and deprive him of the enjoyment he had counted upon. On the other hand, Robert's departure would leave the field free so far as concerned Hester Paine, and he hoped to win the favor of that young lady in the absence of any competitor. Of this there was not the slightest chance, but Halbert was blinded by his own vanity to the obvious dislike which Hester entertained for him. Now when he saw Robert approaching he couldn't forego the pleasure of a final taunt. "So you're going to leave town, Rushton?'" he commenced. "Yes, Davis," answered Robert, in the same tone. "Shall you miss me much?" "I guess I shall live through it," said Halbert. "I suppose you are going because you can't make a living here!" "Not exactly. However, I hope to do better elsewhere." "If you're going to try for a place, you'd better not mention that you got turned out of the factory. You needn't apply to my father for a recommendation." "I shan't need any recommendation from your father," said Robert. "He is about the last man that I would apply to." "That's where you are right," said Halbert. "What sort of a place are you going to try for?" He knew nothing of Robert's intention to seek his father, but supposed he meant to obtain a situation in New York. "You seem particularly interested in my movements, Davis." "Call me Mr. Davis, if you please," said Halbert, haughtily. "When you call me Mr. Rushton, I will return the compliment." "You are impertinent." "Not more so than you are." "You don't seem to realize the difference in our positions." "No, I don't, except that I prefer my own." Disgusted with Robert's evident determination to withhold the respect which he considered his due, Halbert tried him on another tack. "Have you bidden farewell to Hester Paine?" he asked, with a sneer. "Yes," said Robert. "I suppose she was very much affected!" continued Halbert. "She said she was very sorry to part with me." "I admire her taste." "You would admire it more if she had a higher appreciation of you." "I shall be good friends with her, when you are no longer here to slander me to her." "I am not quite so mean as that," said Robert. "If she chooses to like you, I shan't try to prevent it." "I ought to be very much obliged to you, I am sure." "You needn't trouble yourself to be grateful," returned Robert, coolly. "But I must bid you good-by, as I have considerable to do." "Don't let me detain you," said Halbert, with an elaborate share of politeness. "I wonder why Halbert hates me so much!" he thought. "I don't like him, but I don't wish him any harm." He looked with satisfaction upon a little cornelian ring which he wore upon one of his fingers. It was of very trifling value, but it was a parting gift from Hester, and as such he valued it far above its cost. CHAPTER XXIII. A DISHONEST BAGGAGE-SMASHER. On the next Monday morning Robert started for the city. At the moment of parting he began to realize that he had undertaken a difficult task. His life hitherto had been quiet and free from excitement. Now he was about to go out into the great world, and fight his own way. With only two hundred dollars in his pocket he was going in search of a father, who, when last heard from was floating in an open boat on the South Pacific. The probabilities were all against that father's being still alive. If he were, he had no clew to his present whereabouts. All this Robert thought over as he was riding in the cars to the city. He acknowledged that the chances were all against his success, but in spite of all, he had a feeling, for which he could not account, that his father was still living, and that he should find him some day. At any rate, there was something attractive in the idea of going out to unknown lands to meet unknown adventures, and so his momentary depression was succeeded by a return of his old confidence. Arrived in the city, he took his carpetbag in his hand, and crossing the street, walked at random, not being familiar with the streets, as he had not been in New York but twice before, and that some time since. "I don't know where to go," thought Robert. "I wish I knew where to find some cheap hotel." Just then a boy, in well-ventilated garments and a rimless straw hat, with a blacking box over his shoulder, approached. "Shine your boots, mister?" he asked. Robert glanced at his shoes, which were rather deficient in polish, and finding that the expense would be only five cents, told him to go ahead. "I'll give you the bulliest shine you ever had," said the ragamuffin. "That's right! Go ahead!" said Robert. When the boy got through, he cast a speculative glance at the carpetbag. "Smash yer baggage?" he asked. "What's that?" "Carry yer bag." "Do you know of any good, cheap hotel where I can put up?" asked Robert. "Eu-ro-pean hotel?" said the urchin, accenting the second syllable. "What kind of a hotel is that?" "You take a room, and get your grub where you like." "Yes, that will suit me." "I'll show you one and take yer bag along for two shillings." "All right," said our hero. "Go ahead." The boy shouldered the carpetbag and started in advance, Robert following. He found a considerable difference between the crowded streets of New York and the quiet roads of Millville. His spirits rose, and he felt that life was just beginning for him. Brave and bold by temperament, he did not shrink from trying his luck on a broader arena than was afforded by the little village whence he came. Such confidence is felt by many who eventually fail, but Robert was one who combined ability and willingness to work with confidence, and the chances were in favor of his succeeding. Unused to the city streets, Robert was a little more cautious about crossing than the young Arab who carried his bag. So, at one broad thoroughfare, the latter got safely across, while Robert was still on the other side waiting for a good opportunity to cross in turn. The bootblack, seeing that communication was for the present cut off by a long line of vehicles, was assailed by a sudden temptation. For his services as porter he would receive but twenty-five cents, while here was an opportunity to appropriate the entire bag, which must be far more valuable. He was not naturally a bad boy, but his street education had given him rather loose ideas on the subject of property. Obeying his impulse, then, he started rapidly, bag in hand, up a side street. "Hold on, there! Where are you going?" called out Robert. He received no answer, but saw the baggage-smasher quickening his pace and dodging round the corner. He attempted to dash across the street, but was compelled to turn back, after being nearly run over. "I wish I could get hold of the young rascal!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Who do you mane, Johnny?" asked a boy at his side. "A boy has run off with my carpetbag," said Robert. "I know him. It's Jim Malone." "Do you know where I can find him?" asked Robert, eagerly. "If you'll help me get back my bag, I'll give you a dollar." "I'll do it then. Come along of me. Here's a chance to cross." Following his new guide, Robert dashed across the street at some risk, and found himself safe on the other side. "Now where do you think he's gone?" demanded Robert. "It's likely he'll go home." "Do you know where he lives?" "No.--Mulberry street." "Has he got any father and mother?" "He's got a mother, but the ould woman's drunk most all the time." "Then she won't care about his stealing?" "No, she'll think he's smart." "Then we'll go there. Is it far?" "Not more than twenty minutes." The boy was right. Jim steered for home, not being able to open the bag in the street without suspicion. His intention was to appropriate a part of the clothing to his own use, and dispose of the rest to a pawnbroker or second-hand dealer, who, as long as he got a good bargain, would not be too particular about inquiring into the customer's right to the property. He did not, however, wholly escape suspicion. He was stopped by a policeman, who demanded, "Whose bag is that, Johnny?" "It belongs to a gentleman that wants it carried to the St. Nicholas," answered Jim, promptly. "Where is the gentleman?" "He's took a car to Wall street on business." "How came he to trust you with the bag? Wasn't he afraid you'd steal it?" "Oh, he knows me. I've smashed baggage for him more'n once." This might be true. At any rate, it was plausible, and the policeman, having no ground of detention, suffered him to go on. Congratulating himself on getting off so well, Jim sped on his way, and arrived in quick time at the miserable room in Mulberry street, which he called home. His mother lay on a wretched bed in the corner, half stupefied with drink. She lifted up her head as her son entered. "What have you there, Jimmy?" she asked. "It's a bag, mother." "Whose is it?" "It's mine now." "And where did ye get it?" "A boy gave it to me to carry to a chape hotel, so I brought it home. This is a chape hotel, isn't it?" "You're a smart boy, an' I always said it, Jimmy. Let me open it," and the old woman, with considerable alacrity, rose to her feet and came to Jim's side. "I'll open it myself, mother, that is, I if I had a kay. Haven't you got one?" "I have that same. I picked up a bunch of kays in the strate last week." She fumbled in her pocket, and drew out half a dozen keys of different sizes, attached to a steel ring. "Bully for you, old woman!" said Jim. "Give 'em here." "Let me open the bag," said Mrs. Malone, persuasively. "No, you don't," said her dutiful son. "'Tain't none of yours. It's mine." "The kays is mine," said his mother, "and I'll kape 'em." "Give 'em here," said Jim, finding a compromise necessary, "and I'll give you fifty cents out of what I get." "That's the way to talk, darlint," said his mother, approvingly. "You wouldn't have the heart to chate your ould mother out of her share?" "It's better I did," said Jim; "you'll only get drunk on the money." "Shure a little drink will do me no harm," said Mrs. Malone. Meanwhile the young Arab had tried key after key until he found one that fitted--the bag flew open, and Robert's humble stock of clothing lay exposed to view. There was a woolen suit, four shirts, half a dozen collars, some stockings and handkerchiefs. Besides these there was the little Bible which Robert had had given him by his father just before he went on his last voyage. It was the only book our hero had room for, but in the adventurous career upon which he had entered, exposed to perils of the sea and land, he felt that he would need this as his constant guide. "Them shirts'll fit me," said Jim. "I guess I'll kape 'em, and the close besides." "Then where'll you git the money for me?" asked his mother. "I'll sell the handkerchiefs and stockings. I don't nade them," said Jim, whose ideas of full dress fell considerably short of the ordinary standard. "I won't nade the collars either." "You don't nade all the shirts," said his mother. "I'll kape two," said Jim. "It'll make me look respectable. Maybe I'll kape two collars, so I can sit up for a gentleman of fashion." "You'll be too proud to walk with your ould mother," said Mrs. Malone. "Maybe I will," said Jim, surveying his mother critically. "You aint much of a beauty, ould woman." "I was a purty gal, once," said Mrs. Malone, "but hard work and bad luck has wore on me." "The whisky's had something to do with it," said Jim. "Hard work didn't make your face so red." "Is it my own boy talks to me like that?" said the old woman, wiping her eyes on her dress. But her sorrow was quickly succeeded by a different emotion, as the door opened suddenly, and Robert Rushton entered the room. CHAPTER XXIV. A GOOD BEGINNING. Jim started to his feet at the sight of the equally unwelcome and unexpected visitor. His mother, ignorant that she saw before her the owner of the bag, supposed it might be a customer wanting some washing done. "Good-morning, sir," said she, "And have yez business with me?" "No," said Robert, "I have business with your son, if that's he." "Shure he's my son, and a smart bye he is too." "He's a little too smart sometimes," returned our hero. "I gave him my carpetbag to carry this morning, and he ran away with it." Mrs. Malone's face fell at this unexpected intelligence. "Shur an' it was a mistake of his," she said. "He's too honest entirely to stale the value of a pin, let alone a carpetbag." Meanwhile Jim was rapidly reviewing the situation. He was not naturally bad, but he had fallen a victim to sudden temptation. He was ashamed, and determined to make amends by a frank confession. "My mother is wrong," he said; "I meant to kape it, and I'm sorry. Here's the bag, wid nothing taken out of it." "That's right, to own up," said Robert, favorably impressed with his frank confession. "Give me the bag and it'll be all right. I suppose you were poor, and that tempted you. I am poor, too, and couldn't afford to lose it. But I'd rather starve than steal, and I hope you will not be dishonest again." "I won't!" said Jim, stoutly. "I'll go with you now to a chape hotel, and won't charge you nothin'." "I've got a boy downstairs who will take it. Don't forget what you said just now." "No, I won't," said Jim. "Shure if I'd known what a bully young gentleman you was, I wouldn't have took it on no account." So Robert descended the stairs, having by his forbearance probably effected a moral reformation in Jim, and confirmed in him the good principles, which, in spite of his mother's bad example, had already taken root in his heart. If the community, while keeping vigilant watch over the young outcasts that throng our streets, plying their petty avocations, would not always condemn, but encourage them sometimes to a better life, the results would soon appear in the diminution of the offenses for which they are most frequently arrested. His new guide shouldered Robert's carpetbag, and conducted him to a hotel of good standing, managed on the European system. Dismissing the boy with the promised reward, Robert went up to his room on the fifth floor, and after attending to his toilet, sallied out into the street and made his way to the warehouse of the merchant who had been instrumental in raising the fund for him. "Mr. Morgan is engaged," said a clerk to whom he spoke. "I will wait for him, if you please," said Robert. "Is it any business that I can attend to?" asked the clerk. "No, I wish to see Mr. Morgan himself." Mr. Morgan was engaged with two gentlemen, and our hero was obliged to wait nearly half an hour. At the end of that time, the merchant consented to see him. He did not at first recognize him, but said, inquiringly, "Well, my young friend, from whom do you come?" "I come from no one, sir." "Have you business with me?" "You do not remember me, Mr. Morgan. Do you remember when the cars came so near running off the track a short time since at Millville?" "Certainly I do," said Mr. Morgan, heartily; "and I now remember you as the brave boy who saved all our lives." "You gave me your card and told me I might call on you." "To be sure, I did, and I am very glad to see you. You must go home and dine with me to-day." "Thank you, sir, for your kind invitation." "This is my address," said the merchant, writing it in pencil, and handing it to Robert. "We dine at half-past six. You had better be at the door at six. We will then talk over your plans, for I suppose you have some, and I will do what I can to promote them. At present I am busy, and am afraid I must ask you to excuse me." "Thank you, sir," said Robert, gratefully. He left the office, not a little elated at his favorable reception. Mr. Morgan, judging from his place of business, must be a man of great wealth, and could no doubt be of essential service to him. What was quite as important, he seemed disposed to help him. "That's a good beginning," thought Robert. "I wish mother knew how well I have succeeded so far. I'll just write and let her know that I have arrived safe. To-morrow perhaps I shall have better news to tell." He went back to his hotel, and feeling hungry, made a substantial meal. He found the restaurants moderate in price, and within his means. Six o'clock found him ringing the bell of a handsome brownstone house on Fifth avenue. Though not disposed to be shy, he felt a little embarrassed as the door opened and a servant in livery stood before him. "Is Mr. Morgan at home?" inquired Robert. "Yes, sir," said the servant, glancing speculatively at the neat but coarse garments of our hero. "He invited me to dine with him," said Robert. "Won't you walk in, sir?" said the servant, with another glance of mild surprise at the dress of the dinner guest. "If you'll walk in here," opening the door of a sumptuously furnished parlor, "I will announce you. What name shall I say?" "Robert Rushton." Robert entered the parlor, and sat down on a sofa. He looked around him with a little, pardonable curiosity, for he had never before been in an elegant city mansion. "I wonder whether I shall ever be rich enough to live like this!" he thought. The room, though elegant, was dark, and to our hero, who was used to bright, sunny rooms, it seemed a little gloomy. He mentally decided that he would prefer a plain country house; not so plain, indeed, as the little cottage where his mother lived, but as nice, perhaps, as the superintendent's house, which was the finest in the village, and the most magnificent he had until this time known. Its glories were wholly eclipsed by the house he was in, but Robert thought he would prefer it. While he was looking about him, Mr. Morgan entered, and his warm and cordial manner made his boy guest feel quite at his ease. "I must make you acquainted with my wife and children," he said. "They have heard of you, and are anxious to see you." Mrs. Morgan gave Robert a reception as warm as her husband had done. "So this is the young hero of whom I have heard!" she said. "I am afraid you give me too much credit," said Robert, modestly. This modest disclaimer produced a still more favorable impression upon both Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. I do not propose to speak in detail of the dinner that followed. The merchant and his wife succeeded in making Robert feel entirely at home, and he displayed an ease and self-possession wholly free from boldness that won their good opinion. When the dinner was over, Mr. Morgan commenced: "Now, Robert, dinner being over, let us come to business. Tell me your plans, and I will consider how I can promote them." In reply, Robert communicated the particulars, already known to the reader, of his father's letter, his own conviction of his still living, and his desire to go in search of him. "I am afraid you will be disappointed," said the merchant, "in the object of your expedition. It may, however, be pleasant for you to see something of the world, and luckily it is in my power to help you. I have a vessel which sails for Calcutta early next week. You shall go as a passenger." "Couldn't I go as cabin-boy?" asked Robert. "I am afraid the price of a ticket will be beyond my means." "I think not," said the merchant, smiling, "since you will go free. As you do not propose to follow the sea, it will not be worth while to go as cabin-boy. Besides, it would interfere with your liberty to leave the vessel whenever you deemed it desirable in order to carry on your search for your father." "You are very kind, Mr. Morgan," said Robert, gratefully. "So I ought to be and mean to be," said the merchant. "You know I am in your debt." We pass over the few and simple preparations which Robert made for his long voyage. In these he was aided by Mrs. Morgan, who sent on board, without his knowledge, a trunk containing a complete outfit, considerably better than the contents of the humble carpetbag he had brought from home. He didn't go on board till the morning on which the ship was to sail. He went down into the cabin, and did not come up until the ship had actually started. Coming on deck, he saw a figure which seemed familiar to him. From his dress, and the commands he appeared to be issuing, Robert judged that it was the mate. He tried to think where he could have met him, when the mate turned full around, and, alike to his surprise and dismay, he recognized Ben Haley, whom he had wounded in his successful attempt to rob his uncle. CHAPTER XXV. A DECLARATION OF WAR. If Robert was surprised, Ben Haley had even more reason for astonishment. He had supposed his young enemy, as he chose to consider him, quietly living at home in the small village of Millville. He was far from expecting to meet him on shipboard bound to India. There was one difference, however, between the surprise felt by the two. Robert was disagreeably surprised, but a flash of satisfaction lit up the face of the mate, as he realized that the boy who had wounded him was on the same ship, and consequently, as he supposed, in his power. "How came you here?" he exclaimed, hastily advancing toward Robert. Resenting the tone of authority in which these words were spoken, Robert answered, composedly: "I walked on board." "You'd better not be impudent, young one," said Ben, roughly. "When you tell me what right you have to question me in that style," said Robert, coolly, "I will apologize." "I am the mate of this vessel, as you will soon find out." "So I supposed," said Robert. "And you, I suppose, are the cabin-boy. Change your clothes at once, and report for duty." Robert felt sincerely thankful at that moment that he was not the cabin-boy, for he foresaw that in that case he would be subjected to brutal treatment from the mate--treatment which his subordinate position would make him powerless to resent. Now, as a passenger, he felt independent, and though it was disagreeable to have the mate for an enemy, he did not feel afraid. "You've made a mistake, Mr. Haley," said our hero. "I am not the cabin-boy." "What are you, then?" "I am a passenger." "You are telling a lie. We don't take passengers," said Ben Haley, determined not to believe that the boy was out of his power. "If you will consult the captain, you may learn your mistake," said Robert. Ben Haley couldn't help crediting this statement, since it would have done Robert no good to misrepresent the facts of the case. He resolved, however, to ask the captain about it, and inquire how it happened that he had been received as a passenger, contrary to the usual custom. "You will hear from me again," he said, in a tone of menace. Robert turned away indifferently, so far as appearance went, but he couldn't help feeling a degree of apprehension as he thought of the long voyage he was to take in company with his enemy, who doubtless would have it in his power to annoy him, even if he abstained from positive injury. "He is a bad man, and will injure me if he can," he reflected; "but I think I can take care of myself. If I can't I will appeal to the captain." Meanwhile the mate went up to the captain. "Captain Evans," said he, "is that boy a passenger?" "Yes, Mr. Haley." "It is something unusual to take passengers, is it not?" "Yes; but this lad is a friend of the owner; and Mr. Morgan has given me directions to treat him with particular consideration." Ben Haley was puzzled. How did it happen that Mr. Morgan, one of the merchant princes of New York, had become interested in an obscure country boy? "I don't understand it," he said, perplexed. "I suppose the boy is a relation of Mr. Morgan." "Nothing of the kind. He is of poor family, from a small country town." "Then you know him?" "I know something of him and his family. He is one of the most impudent young rascals I ever met." "Indeed!" returned the captain, surprised. "From what I have seen of him, I have come to quite a different conclusion. He has been very gentlemanly and polite to me." "He can appear so, but you will find out, sooner or later. He has not the slightest regard for truth, and will tell the most unblushing falsehoods with the coolest and most matter-of-fact air." "I shouldn't have supposed it," said Captain Evans, looking over at our hero, at the other extremity of the deck. "Appearances are deceitful, certainly." "They are in this case." This terminated the colloquy for the time. The mate had done what he could to prejudice the captain against the boy he hated. Not, however, with entire success. Captain Evans had a mind of his own, and did not choose to adopt any man's judgment or prejudices blindly. He resolved to watch Robert a little more closely than he had done, in order to see whether his own observation confirmed the opinion expressed by the mate. Of the latter he did not know much, since this was the first voyage on which they had sailed together; but Captain Evans was obliged to confess that he did not wholly like his first officer. He appeared to be a capable seaman, and, doubtless, understood his duties, but there was a bold and reckless expression which impressed him unfavorably. Ben Haley, on his part, had learned something, but not much. He had ascertained that Robert was a _protege_ of the owner, and was recommended to the special care of the captain; but what could be his object in undertaking the present voyage, he did not understand. He was a little afraid that Robert would divulge the not very creditable part he had played at Millville; and that he might not be believed in that case, he had represented him to the captain as an habitual liar. After some consideration, he decided to change his tactics, and induce our hero to believe he was his friend, or, at least, not hostile to him. To this he was impelled by two motives. First, to secure his silence respecting the robbery; and, next, to so far get into his confidence as to draw out of him the object of his present expedition. Thus, he would lull his suspicions to sleep, and might thereafter gratify his malice the more securely. He accordingly approached our hero, and tapped him on the shoulder. Robert drew away slightly. Haley saw the movement, and hated the boy the more for it. "Well, my lad," he said, "I find your story is correct." "Those who know me don't generally doubt my word," said Robert, coldly. "Well, I don't know you, or, at least, not intimately," said Haley, "and you must confess that I haven't the best reasons to like you." "Did you suffer much inconvenience from your wound?" asked Robert. "Not much. It proved to be slight. You were a bold boy to wing me. I could have crushed you easily." "I suppose you could, but you know how I was situated. I couldn't run away, and desert your uncle." "I don't know about that. You don't understand that little affair. I suppose you think I had no right to the gold I took." "I certainly do think so." "Then you are mistaken. My uncle got his money from my grandfather. A part should have gone to my mother, and, consequently, to me, but he didn't choose to act honestly. My object in calling upon him was to induce him to do me justice at last. But you know the old man has become a miser, and makes money his idol. The long and short of it was, that, as he wouldn't listen to reason, I determined to take the law into my own hands, and carry off what I thought ought to come to me." Robert listened to this explanation without putting much faith in it. It was not at all according to the story given by Mr. Nichols, and he knew, moreover, that the man before him had passed a wild and dissolute youth. "I suppose what I did was not strictly legal," continued Ben Haley, lightly; "but we sailors are not much versed in the quips of the law. To my thinking, law defeats justice about as often as it aids it." "I don't know very much about law," said Robert, perceiving that some reply was expected. "That's just my case," said Ben, "and the less I have to do with it the better it will suit me. I suppose my uncle made a great fuss about the money I carried off." "Yes," said Robert. "It was quite a blow to him, and he has been nervous ever since for fear you would come back again." Ben Haley shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "He needn't be afraid. I don't want to trouble him, but I was bound he shouldn't keep from me what was rightly my due. I haven't got all I ought to have, but I am not a lover of money, and I shall let it go." "I hope you won't go near him again, for he got a severe shock the last time." "When you get back, if you get a chance to see him privately, you may tell him there is no danger of that." "I shall be glad to do so," said Robert. "I thought I would explain the matter to you," continued the mate, in an off-hand manner, "for I didn't want you to remain under a false impression. So you are going to see a little of the world?" "Yes, sir." "I suppose that is your only object?" "No. I have another object in view." The mate waited to learn what this object was, but Robert stopped, and did not seem inclined to go on. "Well," said Haley, after a slight pause, "as we are to be together on a long voyage, we may as well be friends. Here's my hand." To his surprise, Robert made no motion to take it. "Mr. Haley," said he, "I don't like to refuse your hand, but when I tell you that I am the son of Captain Rushton, of the ship, _Norman_, you will understand why I cannot accept your hand." Ben Haley started back in dismay. How could Robert have learned anything of his treachery to his father? Had the dead come back from the bottom of the sea to expose him? Was Captain Rushton still alive? He did not venture to ask, but he felt his hatred for Robert growing more intense. "Boy," he said, in a tone of concentrated passion, "you have done a bold thing in rejecting my hand. I might have been your friend. Think of me henceforth as your relentless enemy." He walked away, his face dark with the evil passions which Robert's slight had aroused in his breast. CHAPTER XXVI. OUT ON THE OCEAN. We must now go back nearly two years. Five men were floating about in a boat in the Southern ocean. They looked gaunt and famished. For a week they had lived on short allowance, and now for two days they had been entirely without food. There was in their faces that look, well-nigh hopeless, which their wretched situation naturally produced. For one day, also, they had been without water, and the torments of thirst were worse than the cravings of hunger. These men were Captain Rushton and four sailors of the ship _Norman_, whose burning has already been described. One of the sailors, Bunsby, was better educated and more intelligent than the rest, and the captain spoke to him as a friend and an equal, for all the distinctions of rank were broken down by the immediate prospect of a terrible death. "How is all this going to end, Bunsby?" said the captain, in a low voice, turning from a vain search for some sail; in sight, and addressing his subordinate. "I am afraid there is only one way," answered Bunsby. "There is not much prospect of our meeting a ship." "And, if we do, it is doubtful if we can attract their attention." "I should like the chance to try." "I never knew before how much worse thirst is than hunger." "Do you know, captain, if this lasts much longer, I shall be tempted to swallow some of this sea water." "It will only make matters worse." "I know it, but, at least, it will moisten my throat." The other sailors sat stupid and silent, apparently incapable of motion, "I wish I had a plug of tobacco," said one, at last. "If there were any use in wishing, I'd wish myself on shore," said the second. "We'll never see land again," said the third, gloomily. "We're bound for Davy Jones' locker." "I'd like to see my old mother before I go down," said the first. "I've got a mother, too," said the third. "If I could only have a drop of the warm tea such as she used to make! She's sitting down to dinner now, most likely, little thinking that her Jack is dying of hunger out here." There was a pause, and the captain spoke again. "I wish I knew whether that bottle will ever reach shore. When was it we launched it?" "Four days since." "I've got something here I wish I could get to my wife." He drew from his pocketbook a small, folded paper. "What is that, captain?" asked Bunsby. "It is my wife's fortune." "How is that, captain?" "That paper is good for five thousand dollars." "Five thousand dollars wouldn't do us much good here. It wouldn't buy a pound of bread, or a pint of water." "No; but it would--I hope it will--save my wife and son from suffering. Just before I sailed on this voyage I took five thousand dollars--nearly all my savings--to a man in our village to keep till I returned, or, if I did not return, to keep in trust for my wife and child. This is the paper he gave me in acknowledgment." "Is he a man you can trust, captain?" "I think so. It is the superintendent of the factory in our village--a man rich, or, at any rate, well-to-do. He has a good reputation for integrity." "Your wife knew you had left the money in his hands?" "No; I meant it as a surprise to her." "It is a pity you did not leave that paper in her hands." "What do you mean, Bunsby?" asked the captain, nervously. "You don't think this man will betray his trust?" "I can't say, captain, for I don't know the man; but I don't like to trust any man too far." Captain Rushton was silent for a moment. There was a look of trouble on his face. "You make me feel anxious, Bunsby. It is hard enough to feel that I shall probably never again see my wife and child--on earth, I mean--but to think that they may possibly suffer want makes it more bitter." "The man may be honest, captain: Don't trouble yourself too much." "I see that I made a mistake. I should have left this paper with my wife. Davis can keep this money, and no one will be the wiser. It is a terrible temptation." "Particularly if the man is pressed for money." "I don't think that. He is considered a rich man. He ought to be one, and my money would be only a trifle to him." "Let us hope it is so, captain," said Bunsby, who felt that further discussion would do no good, and only embitter the last moments of his commander. But anxiety did not so readily leave the captain. Added to the pangs of hunger and the cravings of thirst was the haunting fear that by his imprudence his wife and child would suffer. "Do you think it would do any good, Bunsby," he said, after a pause, "to put this receipt in a bottle, as I did the letter?" "No, captain, it is too great a risk. There is not more than one chance in a hundred of its reaching its destination. Besides, suppose you should be picked up, and go home without the receipt; he might refuse to pay you." "He would do so at the peril of his life, then," said the captain, fiercely. "Do you think, if I were alive, I would let any man rob me of the savings of my life?" "Other men have done so." "It would not be safe to try it on me, Bunsby." "Well, captain?" "It is possible that I may perish, but you may be saved." "Not much chance of it." "Yet it is possible. Now, if that happens, I have a favor to ask of you." "Name it, captain." "I want you, if I die first, to take this paper, and guard it carefully; and, if you live to get back, to take it to Millville, and see that justice is done to my wife and child." "I promise that, captain; but I think we shall die together." Twenty-four hours passed. The little boat still rocked hither and thither on the ocean billows. The five faces looked more haggard, and there was a wild, eager look upon them, as they scanned the horizon, hoping to see a ship. Their lips and throats were dry and parched. "I can't stand it no longer," said one--it was the sailor I have called Jack--"I shall drink some of the sea water." "Don't do it, Jack," said Bunsby. "You'll suffer more than ever." "I can't," said Jack, desperately; and, scooping up some water in the hollow of his hand, he drank it eagerly. Again and again he drank with feverish eagerness. "How is it?" said the second sailor, "I feel better," said Jack; "my throat so dry." "Then I'll take some, too." The other two sailors, unheeding the remonstrances of Bunsby and the captain, followed the example of Jack. They felt relief for the moment, but soon their torments became unendurable. With parched throats, gasping for breath, they lay back in agony. Suffering themselves, Captain Rushton and Bunsby regarded with pity the greater sufferings of their wretched companions. "This is horrible," said the captain. "Yes," said Bunsby, sadly. "It can't last much longer now." His words were truer than he thought. Unable to endure his suffering, the sailor named Jack suddenly staggered to his feet. "I can't stand it any longer," he said, wildly; "good-by, boys," and before his companions well knew what he intended to do, he had leaped over the side of the boat, and sunk in the ocean waves. There was a thrilling silence, as the waters closed over his body. Then the second sailor also rose to his feet. "I'm going after Jack," he said, and he, too, plunged into the waves. The captain rose as if to hinder him, but Bunsby placed his hand upon his arm. "It's just as well, captain. We must all come to that, and the sooner, the more suffering is saved." "That's so," said the other sailor, tormented like the other two by thirst, aggravated by his draughts of seawater. "Good-by, Bunsby! Good-by, captain! I'm going!" He, too, plunged into the sea, and Bunsby and the captain were left alone. "You won't desert me, Bunsby?" said the captain. "No, captain. I haven't swallowed seawater like those poor fellows. I can stand it better." "There is no hope of life," said the captain, quietly; "but I don't like to go unbidden into my Maker's presence." "Nor I. I'll stand by you, captain." "This is a fearful thing, Bunsby. If it would only rain." "That would be some relief." As if in answer to his wish, the drops began to fall--slowly at first, then more copiously, till at last their clothing was saturated, and the boat partly filled with water. Eagerly they squeezed out the welcome dregs from their clothing, and felt a blessed relief. They filled two bottles they had remaining with the precious fluid. "If those poor fellows had only waited," said the captain. "They are out of suffering now," said Bunsby. The relief was only temporary, and they felt it to be so. They were without food, and the two bottles of water would not last them long. Still, there was a slight return of hope, which survives under the most discouraging circumstances. CHAPTER XXVII. FRANK PRICE. The ship _Argonaut_, bound for Calcutta, was speeding along with a fair wind, when the man at the lookout called: "Boat in sight!" "Where away?" The sailor pointed, out a small boat a mile distant, nearly in the ship's track, rising and falling with the billows. "Is there any one in it?" "I see two men lying in the bottom. They are motionless. They may be dead." The boat was soon overtaken. It was the boat from the ill-fated _Norman_, Captain Rushton and Bunsby were lying stretched out in the bottom, both motionless and apparently without life. Bunsby was really dead. But there was still some life left in the captain, which, under the care of the surgeon of the ship, was carefully husbanded until he was out of immediate danger. But his system, from the long privation of food, had received such a shock, that his mind, sympathizing with it, he fell into a kind of stupor, mental and physical, and though strength and vigor came slowly back, Captain Rushton was in mind a child. Oblivion of the past seemed to have come over him. He did not remember who he was, or that he had a wife and child. "Poor man!" said the surgeon; "I greatly fear his mind has completely given way." "It is a pity some of his friends were not here," said the captain of the ship that had rescued him. "The sight of a familiar face might restore him." "It is possible, but I am not sure of even that." "Is there any clew to his identity?" "I have found none." It will at once occur to the reader that the receipt would have supplied the necessary information, since it was dated Millville, and contained the captain's name. But this was concealed in an inner pocket in Captain Rushton's vest, and escaped the attention of the surgeon. So, nameless and unknown, he was carried to Calcutta, which he reached without any perceptible improvement in his mental condition. Arrived at Calcutta, the question arose: "What shall we do with him?" It was a perplexing question, since if carried back to New York, it might be difficult to identify him there, or send him back to his friends. Besides, the care of a man in his condition would be a greater responsibility than most shipmasters would care to undertake. It was at this crisis that a large-hearted and princely American merchant, resident in Calcutta, who had learned the particulars of the captain's condition, came forward, saying: "Leave him here. I will find him a home in some suitable boarding-house, and defray such expenses as may be required. God has blessed me with abundant means. It is only right that I should employ a portion in His service. I hope, under good treatment, he may recover wholly, and be able to tell me who he is, and where is his home. When that is ascertained, if his health is sufficiently good, I will send him home at my own expense." The offer was thankfully accepted, and the generous merchant was as good as his word. A home was found for Captain Rushton in the boarding-house of Mrs. Start, a widow, who, thrown upon her own exertions for support, had, by the help of the merchant already referred to, opened a boarding-house, which was now quite remunerative. "He will require considerable care, Mrs. Start," said Mr. Perkins, the merchant, "but I am ready and willing to compensate you for all the trouble to which you are put. Will you take him?" "Certainly I will," said the warm-hearted widow, "if only because you ask it. But for you, I should not be earning a comfortable living, with a little money laid up in the bank, besides." "Thank you, Mrs. Start," said the merchant. "I know the poor man could be in no better hands. But you mustn't let any considerations of gratitude interfere with your charging a fair price for your trouble. I am able and willing to pay whatever is suitable." "I don't believe we shall quarrel on that point," said the widow, smiling. "I will do all I can for your friend. What is his name?" "That I don't know." "We shall have to call him something." "Call him Smith, then. That will answer till we find out his real name, as we may some day, when his mind comes back, as I hope it may." From that time, therefore, Captain Rushton was known as Mr. Smith. He recovered in a considerable degree his bodily health, but mentally he remained in the same condition. Sometimes he fixed his eyes upon Mrs. Start, and seemed struggling to remember something of the past; but after a few moments his face would assume a baffled look, and he would give up the attempt as fruitless. One day when Mrs. Start addressed him as Mr. Smith, he asked: "Why do you call me by that name?" "Is not that your name?" she asked. "No." "What, then, is it?" He put his hand to his brow, and seemed to be thinking. At length he turned to the widow, and said, abruptly: "Do you not know my name?" "No." "Nor do I," he answered, and left the room hastily. She continued, therefore, to address him as Mr. Smith, and he gradually became accustomed to it, and answered to it. Leaving Captain Rushton at Calcutta, with the assurance that, though separated from home and family, he will receive all the care that his condition requires, we will return to our hero, shut up on shipboard with his worst enemy. I say this advisedly, for though Halbert Davis disliked him, it was only the feeling of a boy, and was free from the intensity of Ben Haley's hatred. No doubt, it was imprudent for him to reject the mate's hand, but Robert felt that he could not grasp in friendship the hand which had deprived him of a father. He was bold enough to brave the consequences of this act, which he foresaw clearly. Ben Haley, however, was in no hurry to take the vengeance which he was fully resolved sooner or later to wreak upon our young hero. He was content to bide his time. Had Robert been less watchful, indeed, he might have supposed that the mate's feelings toward him had changed. When they met, as in the narrow limits of the ship they must do every day, the forms of courtesy passed between them. Robert always saluted the mate, and Haley responded by a nod, or a cool good-morning, but did not indulge in any conversation. Sometimes, however, turning suddenly, Robert would catch a malignant glance from the mate, but Haley's expression immediately changed, when thus surprised, and he assumed an air of indifference. With Captain Evans, on the other hand, Robert was on excellent terms. The captain liked the bold, manly boy, and talked much with him of the different countries he had visited, and seemed glad to answer the questions which our hero asked. "Robert," said the captain, one day, "how is it that you and Mr. Haley seem to have nothing to say to each other?" "I don't think he likes me, Captain Evans," said Robert. "Is there any reason for it, or is it merely a prejudice?" "There is a reason for it, but I don't care to mention it. Not that it is anything I have reason to regret, or to be ashamed of," he added, hastily. "It is on Mr. Haley's account that I prefer to keep it secret." "Is there no chance of your being on better terms?" asked the captain, good-naturedly, desirous of effecting a reconciliation. Robert shook his head. "I don't wish to be reconciled, captain," he said. "I will tell you this much, that Mr. Haley has done me and my family an injury which, perhaps, can never be repaired. I cannot forget it, and though I am willing to be civil to him, since we are thrown together, I do not want his friendship, even if he desired mine, as I am sure he does not." Captain Evans was puzzled by this explanation, which threw very little light upon the subject, and made no further efforts to bring the two together. Time passed, and whatever might be Ben Haley's feelings, he abstained from any attempt to injure him. Robert's suspicions were lulled to sleep, and he ceased to be as vigilant and watchful as he had been. His frank, familiar manner made him a favorite on shipboard. He had a friendly word for all the sailors, which was appreciated, for it was known that he was the _protege_ of the owner. He was supposed by some to be a relation, or, at any rate, a near connection, and so was treated with unusual respect. All the sailors had a kind word for him, and many were the praises which he received in the forecastle. Among those most devoted to him was a boy of fourteen, Frank Price, who had sailed in the capacity of cabin-boy. The poor boy was very seasick at first, and Captain Evans had been indulgent, and excused him from duty until he got better. He was not sturdy enough for the life upon which he had entered, and would gladly have found himself again in the comfortable home which a mistaken impulse had led him to exchange for the sea. With this boy, Robert, who was of about the same age, struck up a friendship, which was returned twofold by Frank, whose heart, naturally warm, was easily won by kindness. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE NEW CAPTAIN. The voyage was more than half completed, and nothing of importance had occurred to mark it. But at this time, Captain Evans fell sick. His sickness proved to be a fever, and was very severe. The surgeon was in constant attendance, but the malady baffled all his skill. At the end of seven days, it terminated fatally, to the great grief of all on board, with whom the good-natured captain was very popular. There was one exception, however, to the general grief. It is an ill wind that blows good to no one, and Ben Haley did not lament much for an event which promoted him to the command of the vessel. Of course, he did not show this feeling publicly, but in secret his heart bounded with exultation at the thought that he was, for the time, master of the ship and all on board. He was not slow in asserting his new position. Five minutes after the captain breathed his last, one of the sailors approached him, and asked for orders, addressing him as "Mr. Haley." "Captain Haley!" roared the new commander. "If you don't know my position on board this ship, it's time you found it out!" "Ay, ay, sir," stammered the sailor, taken aback at his unexpected violence. Robert mourned sincerely at the death of Captain Evans, by whom he had always been treated with the utmost kindness. Even had he not been influenced by such a feeling, he would have regarded with apprehension the elevation to the command of one whom he well knew to be actuated by a feeling of enmity to himself. He resolved to be as prudent as possible, and avoid, as far as he could, any altercation with Haley. But the latter was determined, now that he had reached the command, to pick a quarrel with our hero, and began to cast about for a fitting occasion. Now that Captain Evans was dead, Robert spent as much time as the latter's duties would permit with Frank Price. The boys held long and confidential conversations together, imparting to each other their respective hopes and wishes. Haley observed their intimacy and mutual attachment, and, unable to assert his authority over Robert, who was a passenger, determined to strike at him through his friend. His determination was strengthened by a conversation which he overheard between the boys when they supposed him beyond earshot. "I wish Captain Evans were alive," said Frank. "I liked him, and I don't like Captain Haley." "Captain Evans was an excellent man," said Robert. "He knew how to treat a fellow," said Frank. "As long as he saw us doing our best, he was easy with us. Captain Haley is a tyrant." "Be careful what you say, Frank," said Robert. "It isn't safe to say much about the officers." "I wouldn't say anything, except to you. You are my friend." "I am your true friend, Frank, and I don't want you to get into any trouble." "I am sure you don't like the captain any better than I do." "I don't like the captain, for more reasons than I can tell you; but I shall keep quiet, as long as I am on board this ship." "Are you going back with us?" "I don't know. It will depend upon circumstances. I don't think I shall, though I might have done so had Captain Evans remained in command." "I wish I could leave it, and stay with you." "I wish you could, Frank. Perhaps you can." "I will try." Haley overheard the last part of this conversation. He took particular notice of Robert's remark that he would keep quiet as long as he remained on board the ship, and inferred that on arrival at the destined port our hero would expose all he knew about him. This made him uneasy, for it would injure, if not destroy, his prospect of remaining in command of the _Argonaut_. He resented also the dislike which Robert had cautiously expressed, and the similar feeling cherished by the cabin-boy. He had half a mind to break in upon their conversation on the spot; but, after a moment's thought, walked away, his neighborhood unsuspected by the two boys. "They shall both rue their impudence," he muttered. "They shall find out that they cannot insult me with impunity." The next day, when both boys were on deck, Captain Haley harshly ordered Frank to attend to a certain duty which he had already performed. "I have done so, sir," said Frank, in a respectful tone. "None of your impudence, you young rascal!" roared the captain, lashing himself into a rage. Frank looked up into his face in astonishment, unable to account for so violent an outbreak. "What do you mean by looking me in the face in that impudent manner?" demanded Captain Haley, furiously. "I didn't mean to be impudent, Captain Haley," said Frank. "What have I done?" "What have you done? You, a cabin-boy, have dared to insult your captain, and, by heavens, you shall rue it! Strip off your jacket." Frank turned pale. He knew what this order meant. Public floggings were sometimes administered on shipboard, but, under the command of Captain Evans, nothing of the kind had taken place. Robert, who had heard the whole, listened, with unmeasured indignation, to this wanton abuse on the part of Captain Haley. His eyes flashed, and his youthful form dilated with righteous indignation. Robert was not the only one who witnessed with indignation the captain's brutality. Such of the sailors as happened to be on deck shared his feelings. Haley, looking about him, caught the look with which Robert regarded him, and triumphed inwardly that he had found a way to chafe him. "What have you got to say about it?" he demanded, addressing our hero, with a sneer. "Since you have asked my opinion," said Robert, boldly, "I will express it. Frank Price has not been guilty of any impudence, and deserves no punishment." This was a bold speech to be made by a boy to a captain on his own deck, and the sailors who heard it inwardly applauded the pluck of the boy who uttered it. "What do you mean by that, sir?" exclaimed Haley, his eyes lighting up fiercely, as he strode to the spot where Robert stood, and frowned upon him, menacingly. "You asked my opinion, and I gave it," said Robert, not flinching. "I have a great mind to have you flogged, too!" said Haley. "I am not one of your crew, Captain Haley," said Robert, coolly; "and you have no right to lay a hand on me." "What is to prevent me, I should like to know?" "I am here as a passenger, and a friend of the owner of this vessel. If I receive any ill-treatment, it shall be reported to him." If the sailors had dared, they would have applauded the stripling who, undaunted by the menacing attitude of the captain, faced him boldly and fearlessly. Haley would gladly have knocked him down, but there was something in the resolute mien of his young passenger that made him pause. He knew that he would keep his word, and that, with such representations as he might make, he would stand no further chance of being employed by Mr. Morgan. "I have an account to settle with you, boy," he said; "and the settlement will not long be delayed. When a passenger tries to incite mutiny, he forfeits his privileges as a passenger." "Who has done this, Captain Haley?" "You have done it." "I deny it," said Robert. "Your denial is worth nothing. I have a right to throw you into irons, and may yet do it. At present I have other business in hand." He left Robert, and walked back to Frank Price, who, not having Robert's courage, had been a terrified listener to the colloquy between him and the captain. "Now, boy," he said, harshly, "I will give you a lesson that you shall remember to the latest day of your life. Bring me the cat." The barbarous cat, as it was called, once in use on our ships, was brought, and Captain Haley signaled to one of the sailors to approach. "Bates," he said, in a tone of authority, "give that boy a dozen lashes." Bates was a stout sailor, rough in appearance, but with a warm and kindly heart. He had a boy of his own at home, about the age of Frank Price, and his heart had warmed to the boy whose position he felt to be far from an enviable one. The task now imposed upon him was a most distasteful and unwelcome one. He was a good sailor, and aimed on all occasions to show proper obedience to the commands of his officers, but now he could not. "Captain Haley," he said, not stirring from his position, "I hope you will excuse me." "Is this mutiny?" roared the captain. "No, Captain Haley. I always mean to do my duty on board ship." "I have told you to flog this boy!" "I can't do it, Captain Haley. I have a boy of my own about the size of that lad there, and, if I struck him, I'd think it was my own boy that stood in his place." This unexpected opposition excited the fierce resentment of the captain. He felt that a crisis had come, and he was determined to be obeyed. "Unless you do as I bid you, I will keep you in irons for the rest of the voyage!" "You are the captain of this ship, and can throw me in irons, if you like," said Bates, with an air of dignity despite his tarred hands and sailor jacket. "I have refused to do no duty that belongs to me. When I signed my name to the ship's papers, I did not agree to flog boys." "Put him in irons!" roared the captain, incensed. "We will see who is captain of this ship!" The mandate was obeyed, and Bates was lodged in the forecastle, securely ironed. The captain himself seized the cat, and was about to apply it to the luckless cabin-boy, when a terrible blast, springing up in an instant, as it were, struck the ship, almost throwing it upon its side. There was no time for punishment now. The safety of the ship required instant action, and Frank Price was permitted to replace his jacket without having received a blow. CHAPTER XXIX. THE CAPTAIN'S REVENGE. The storm which commenced so suddenly was one of great violence. It required all the captain's seamanship, and the efforts of all the crew, to withstand it. However reluctant to do it, Captain Haley was forced to release Bates from his irons, and order him to duty. The latter worked energetically, and showed that he did not intend to shirk any part of his duties as seaman. But the result of the storm was that the vessel was driven out of her course, and her rigging suffered considerable injury. The wind blew all night. Toward morning it abated, and, as the morning light broke, the lookout described a small island distant about a league. The captain looked at it through his glass, and then examined the chart. "I can't make out what island that is," he said. "It is not large enough," suggested the mate, "to find a place on the map." "Perhaps it is as you say," said Captain Haley, thoughtfully. "I have a mind to go on shore and explore it. There may be some fresh fruits that will vary our diet." This plan was carried out. A boat was got ready, and the captain got in, with four sailors to row. Just as he was about to descend into the boat, he turned to Robert, who was looking curiously toward land, and said: "Rushton, would you like to go with us?" It was precisely what Robert wanted. He had a boy's love of adventure, and the thought of exploring an island, perhaps hitherto unknown, struck his fancy, and he eagerly accepted the invitation. "Jump in, then," said Haley, striving to appear indifferent; but there was a gleam of exultation in his eye, which he took care to conceal from the unsuspecting boy. Swiftly the boat sped through the waters, pulled by the strong arms of four stout sailors, and, reaching the island, was drawn into a little cove, which seemed made for it. "Now for an exploring expedition," said the captain. "Boys," addressing the sailors, "remain near the boat. I will soon be back. Rushton," he said, turning to our hero, "go where you like, but be back in an hour." "Yes, sir," answered Robert. Had it been Captain Evans, instead of Captain Haley, he would have proposed to join him; but, knowing what he did of the latter, he preferred his own company. The island was about five miles in circumference. Near the shore, it was bare of vegetation, but further inland there were numerous trees, some producing fruit. After some weeks of the monotonous life on shipboard, Robert enjoyed pressing the solid earth once more. Besides, this was the first foreign shore his foot had ever trodden. The thought that he was thousands of miles away from home, and that, possibly, the land upon which he now walked had never before been trodden by a civilized foot, filled him with a sense of excitement and exhilaration. "What would mother say if she should see me now?" he thought. "What a wonderful chance it would be if my father had been wafted in his boat to this island, and I should come upon him unexpectedly!" It was very improbable, but Robert thought enough of it to look about him carefully. But everywhere the land seemed to be virgin, without other inhabitants than the birds of strange plumage and note, which sang in the branches of the trees. "I don't believe any one ever lived here," thought Robert. It struck him that he should like to live upon the island a week, if he could be sure of being taken off at the end of that time. The cool breezes from the ocean swept over the little island, and made it delightfully cool at morning and evening, though hot in the middle of the day. Robert sauntered along till he came to a little valley. He descended the slope, and sat down in the shade of a broad-leaved tree. The grass beneath him made a soft couch, and he felt that he should enjoy lying there the rest of the day. But his time was limited. The captain had told him to be back in an hour, and he felt that it was time for him to be stirring. "I shall not have time to go any further," he reflected. "I must be getting back to the boat." As this occurred to him, he rose to his feet, and, looking up, he started a little at seeing the captain himself descending the slope. "Well, Robert," said Captain Haley, "how do you like the island?" "Very much, indeed," said our hero. "It seems pleasant to be on land after being on shipboard so many weeks." "Quite true. This is a beautiful place you have found." "I was resting under this tree, listening to the birds, but I felt afraid I should not be back to the boat in time, and was just starting to return." "I think we can overstay our time a little," said Haley. "They won't go back without me, I reckon," he added, with a laugh. Robert was nothing loth to stay, and resumed his place on the grass. The captain threw himself on the grass beside him. "I suppose you have read 'Robinson Crusoe?'" he said. "Oh, yes; more than once." "I wonder how it would seem to live on such an island as this?" "I should like it very well," said Robert; "that is, if I could go off at any time. I was just thinking of it when you come up." "Were you?" asked the captain, showing his teeth in an unpleasant smile, which, however, Robert did not see. "You think you would like it?" "Yes, sir." "I am glad of that." "Why?" asked Robert, turning round and looking his companion in the face. "Because," said Haley, changing his tone, "I am going to give you a chance to try it." Robert sprang to his feet in instant alarm, but too late. Haley had grasped him by the shoulder, and in his grasp the boy's strength was nothing. "What are you going to do?" asked Robert, with fearful foreboding. "Wait a minute and you will see!" The captain had drawn a stout cord, brought for the purpose, from his pocket, and, dragging Robert to a tree, tied him securely to the trunk. The terrible fate destined for him was presented vividly to the imagination of our hero; and, brave as he was, it almost unmanned him. Finding his struggles useless, he resorted to expostulation. "I am sure you cannot mean this, Captain Haley!" he said. "You won't leave me to perish miserably on this island?" "Won't I?" returned the captain, with an evil light in his eyes. "Why won't I?" "Surely, you will not be so inhuman?" "Look here, boy," said the captain, "you needn't try to come any of your high-flown notions about humanity over me. I owe you a debt, and, by Heaven! I'm going to pay it! You didn't think much of humanity when you wounded me." "I couldn't help it," said Robert. "I didn't want to hurt you. I only wanted to protect your uncle." "That's all very well; but, when you interfered in a family quarrel, you meddled with what did not concern you. Besides, you have been inciting my crew to mutiny." "I have not done so," said Robert. "I overheard you the other night giving some of your precious advice to my cabin-boy. Besides, you had the impudence to interfere with me in a matter of discipline." "Frank Price deserved no punishment." "That is for me to decide. When you dared to be impudent to me on my own deck, I swore to be revenged, and the time has come sooner than I anticipated." "Captain Haley," said Robert, "in all that I have done I have tried to do right. If I have done wrong, it was because I erred in judgment. If you will let me go, I will promise to say nothing of the attempt you make to keep me here." "You are very kind," sneered the captain; "but I mean to take care of that myself. You may make all the complaints you like after I have left you here." "There is One who will hear me," said Robert. "I shall not be wholly without friends." "Who do you mean?" "God!" said Robert, solemnly. "Rubbish!" retorted Haley, contemptuously. "I shall not despair while I have Him to appeal to." "Just as you like," said the captain, shrugging his shoulders. "You are welcome to all the comfort you can find in your present situation." By this time, Robert was bound to the trunk of the tree by a cord, which passed around his waist. In addition to this Haley tied his wrists together, fearing that otherwise he might be able to unfasten the knot. He now rose to his feet, and looked down upon the young captive, with an air of triumph. "Have you any messages to send by me, Rushton?" he said, with a sneer. "Are you quite determined to leave me here?" asked Robert, in anguish. "Quite so." "What will the sailors say when I do not return?" "Don't trouble yourself about them. I will take care of that. If you have got anything to say, say it quick, for I must be going." "Captain Haley," said Robert, his courage rising, and looking the captain firmly in the face, "I may die here, and so gratify your enmity; but the time will come when you will repent what you are doing." "I'll risk that," said Haley, coolly. "Good-by." He walked up the slope, and disappeared from view, leaving Robert bound to the tree, a helpless prisoner. CHAPTER XXX. A FRIEND IN NEED. Captain Haley kept on his way to the shore. The four sailors were all within hail, and on the captain's approach got the boat in readiness to return. "Where is the boy?" asked Haley. "Hasn't he got back?" "No, sir." "That is strange. I told him to be back in an hour, and it is already past that time." "Perhaps he hasn't a watch," suggested one of the sailors. "I will wait ten minutes for him," said Haley, taking out his watch. "If he is not back in that time, I must go without him." The sailors did not reply, but looked anxiously inland, hoping to catch sight of Robert returning. But, bound as he was, we can understand why they looked in vain. "Shall I go and look for him?" asked one. "No," said Haley, decidedly; "I cannot spare you." The ten minutes were soon up. "Into the boat with you," commanded the captain. "I shall wait no longer." Slowly and reluctantly, the sailors took their places, for Robert was a favorite with them. "Now, men, give way," said Haley. "If the boy is lost, it is his own fault." They reached the vessel in due time. There was a murmur among the crew, when it was found that Robert had been left behind; but, knowing the captain's disposition, no one except Bates dared to expostulate. "Captain Haley," said he, approaching and touching his hat, "will you give me leave to go on shore for the young gentleman that was left?" "No," said the captain. "He had fair warning to be back in time, and chose to disregard it. My duty to the owners will not permit me to delay the ship on his account." "He was a relation of the owner," suggested Bates. "No, he was not; and, if he said so, he lied. Go about your duty, and take care I have no more fault to find with you, or you go back in irons!" Bates ventured upon no further expostulation. He saw through the captain's subterfuge, and felt persuaded that it had been his deliberate intention from the first to abandon Robert to his fate. He began to think busily, and finally resolved to go to the island and search for him. For this purpose, a boat would be needful, since the distance, nearly a league, was too far to swim. Now, to appropriate one of the ship's boats when the captain was on deck would be impossible, but Haley, within five minutes, went below. Bates now proceeded to carry out his plan. "What are you going to do?" demanded one of the sailors. "I'm going after the boy." "You'll be left along with him." "I'll take the risk. He shan't say he didn't have one friend." By the connivance of his fellow-sailors, Bates got safely off with the boat, and began to pull toward shore. He was already a mile distant from the vessel when Captain Haley came on deck. "Who is that in the boat?" he demanded, abruptly. "I don't know, sir." He pointed the glass toward the boat, and, though he could not fairly distinguish the stout sailor who was pulling the boat through the water, he suspected that it was Bates. "Where is Bates?" he asked. No one had seen him. "The fool has gone to destruction," said Captain Haley. "I shall not go after him. He is welcome to live on the island if he chooses." His reason for not pursuing the fugitive may be readily understood. He feared that Robert would be found bound to the tree, and the story the boy would tell would go heavily against him. He hurried preparation for the vessel's departure, and in a short time it was speeding away from the island with two less on board. I must now go back to Robert, whom we left bound to a tree. After the captain left him, he struggled hard to unloose the cords which bound him. The love of life was strong within him, and the thought of dying under such circumstances was appalling. He struggled manfully, but, though he was strong for a boy, the cord was strong, also, and the captain knew how to tie a knot. Robert ceased at last, tired with his efforts. A feeling of despair came over him, and the tears started, unbidden, to his eyes, as he thought how his mother would watch and wait for him in vain--how lonely she would feel, with husband and son both taken from her. Could it be that he was to die, when life had only just commenced, thousands of miles away from home, in utter solitude? Had he come so far for this? Then, again, he feared that his mother would suffer want and privation when the money which he had left behind was exhausted. In his pocket there were nearly two hundred dollars, not likely to be of any service to him. He wished that they were in her possession. "If only he had left me free and unbound," thought Robert, "I might pick up a living on the island, and perhaps some day attract the attention of some vessel." With this thought, and the hope it brought, he made renewed efforts to release himself, striving to untie the cord which fastened his wrists with his teeth. He made some progress, and felt encouraged, but it was hard work, and he was compelled to stop, from time to time, to rest. It was in one of these intervals that he heard his name called. Feeling sure that there was no one on the island but himself, he thought he was deceived. But the sound came nearer, and he distinctly heard "Robert!" "Here I am!" he shouted, in return, his heart filled with sudden thanksgiving. "Captain Haley only meant to frighten me," he thought. "He has sent some men back for me." In his gratitude, he thanked Heaven fervently for so changing the heart of his enemy, and once more life looked bright. "Robert!" he heard again. "Here!" he shouted, with all the strength of his lungs. This time the sound reached Bates, who, running up his boat on shore, and securing it, was exploring the island in search of our hero. Looking around him, he at length, from the edge of the valley, descried Robert. "Is that you, lad?" he asked. "Yes, Bates; come and untie me!" Bates saw his situation with surprise and indignation. "That's some of the captain's work!" he at once decided. "He must be a cursed scoundrel to leave that poor lad there to die!" He quickened his steps, and was soon at the side of our hero. "Who tied you to the tree, lad?" he asked. "Did Captain Haley send you for me?" asked Robert first, for he had made up his mind in that case not to expose him. "No; I stole one of the ship's boats, and came for you without leave." "The captain didn't know of your coming?" "No; I asked his leave, and he wouldn't give it." "It was Captain Haley that tied me here," said Robert, his scruples removed. "What did he do that for, lad?" "It's a long story, Bates. It's because he hates me, and wishes me harm. Untie these cords, and I'll tell you all about it." "That I'll do in a jiffy, my lad. I'm an old sailor and I can untie knots as well as tie them." In five minutes Robert was free. He stretched his limbs, with a feeling of great relief, and then turned to Bates, whose hand he grasped. "I owe my life to you, Bates!" he said. "Maybe not, lad. We're in a tight place yet." "Has the ship gone?" "Most likely. The captain won't send back for either of us in a hurry." "And you have made yourself a prisoner here for my sake?" asked Robert, moved by the noble conduct of the rough sailor. "I couldn't abide to leave you alone. There's more chance for two than for one." "Heaven bless you, Bates! I won't soon forget what you have done for me. Do you think there is any chance for us?" "Of course there is, lad. We've got a boat, and we can live here till some vessel comes within sight." "Let us go down to the shore, and see if we can see anything of the ship." The two bent their steps to the shore, and looked out to sea. They could still see the ship, but it was already becoming a speck in the distant waters. "They have left us," said Robert, turning to his companion. "Ay, lad, the false-hearted villain has done his worst!" "I didn't think any man would be so inhuman." "You're young, lad, and you don't know what a sight of villainy there is in the world. We've got to live here a while, likely. Have you seen anything in the line of grub here-abouts?" "There is fruit on some of the trees." "That's something. Maybe we shall find some roots, besides. We'll draw the boat farther upon shore, and go on an exploring expedition." The boat was drawn completely up, and placed, bottom upward, at a safe distance from the sea. Then Robert and his companion started to explore the island which had so unexpectedly become their home. CHAPTER XXXI. THE ISLAND REALM. But for the knowledge that he was a prisoner, Robert would have enjoyed his present situation. The island, though small, was covered with a luxuriant vegetation, and was swept by cooling breezes, which tempered the ardor of the sun's rays. And, of this island realm, he and his companion were the undisputed sovereigns. There was no one to dispute their sway. All that it yielded was at their absolute disposal. "I wonder what is the name of this island?" said Robert. "Perhaps it has no name. Mayhap we are the first that ever visited it." "I have a great mind to declare myself the king," said our young hero, smiling, "unless you want the office." "You shall be captain, and I will be mate," said Bates, to whom the distinctions of sea life were more familiar than those of courts. "How long do you think we shall have to stay here?" asked Robert, anxiously. "There's no telling, lad. We'll have to stick up a pole on the seashore, and run up a flag when any vessel comes near." "We have no flag." "Have you a handkerchief?" "Only one," said Robert. "That's one more than I have. We'll rig that up when it's wanted." "Where shall we sleep?" "That's what I have been thinking. We must build a house." "A brownstone front?" said Robert. "The governor ought to live in a good house." "So he shall," said Bates. "He shall have the first on the island." "I wonder if it rains often?" "Not much at this season. In the winter a good deal of rain falls, but I hope we won't be here then." "Where shall we build our house?" "It would be pleasanter inland, but we must be near the shore, so as to be in sight of ships." "That's true, Bates. That is the most important consideration." They set to work at once, and built a hut, something like an Indian's wigwam, about a hundred yards from the shore. It was composed, for the most part, of branches of trees and inclosed an inner space of about fifteen feet in diameter. They gathered large quantities of leaves, which were spread upon the ground for beds. "That's softer than our bunks aboard ship," said Bates. "Yes," said Robert. "I wouldn't wish any better bed. It is easy to build and furnish a house of your own here." "The next thing is dinner," said his companion. "Shall we go to market?" asked Robert, with a smile. "We'll find a market just outside." "You mean the trees?" "Yes; we'll find our dinner already cooked on them." The fruit of which they partook freely was quite sweet and palatable. Still, one kind of food cloys after a time, and so our new settlers found it. Besides, it was not very substantial, and failed to keep up their wonted strength. This set them to looking up some other article which might impart variety to their fare. At last they succeeded in finding an esculent root, which they partook of at first with some caution, fearing that it might be unwholesome. Finding, however, that eating it produced no unpleasant effects, they continued the use of it. Even this, however, failed to afford them as much variety as they wished. "I feel as if I should like some fish for breakfast," said Robert one morning, on waking up. "So should I, lad," returned Bates. "Why shouldn't we have some?" "You mean that we shall go fishing?" "Yes; we've got a boat, and I have some cord. We'll rig up fishing lines, and go out on a fishing cruise." Robert adopted the idea with alacrity. It promised variety and excitement. "I wonder we hadn't thought of it before. I used to be a fisherman, Bates." "Did you?" "Yes; I supplied the market at home for a short time, till Captain Haley smashed my boat." "The mean lubber! I wish we had him here." "I don't; I prefer his room to his company." "I'd try how he'd like being tied to a tree." "I don't think you'd untie him again in a hurry." "You may bet high on that, lad." They rigged their fishing lines--cutting poles from the trees--and armed them with hooks, of which, by good luck, Bates happened to have a supply with him. Then they launched the ship's boat, in which Bates had come to the island, and put out to sea. Robert enjoyed the row in the early morning, and wondered they had not thought of taking out the boat before. At last they came to the business which brought them out, and in about half an hour had succeeded in catching four fishes, weighing perhaps fifteen pounds altogether. "That'll be enough for us, unless you are very hungry," said Robert. "Now, suppose we land and cook them." "Ay, ay, lad!" Of course, their cooking arrangements were very primitive. In the first place, they were compelled to make a fire by the method in use among the savages, of rubbing two sticks smartly together, and catching the flame in a little prepared tinder. The fish were baked over the fire thus kindled. Though the outside was smoked, the inside was sweet and palatable, and neither was disposed to be fastidious. The preparation of the meal took considerable time, but they had abundance of that, and occupation prevented their brooding over their solitary situation. "I wish I had 'Robinson Crusoe' here," said Robert--"we might get some hints from his adventures. I didn't imagine, when I used to read them, that I should ever be in a similar position." "I've heard about him," said Bates; "but I never was much of a reader, and I never read his yarn. You might maybe tell me something of it." "I will tell you all I can remember, but that isn't very much," said Robert. He rehearsed to the attentive sailor such portions as he could call to mind of the wonderful story which for centuries to come is destined to enchain the attention of adventurous boys. "That's a pretty good yarn," said Bates, approvingly. "Did he ever get off the island?" "Yes, he got off, and became quite rich before he died." "Maybe it'll be so with us, lad." "I hope so. I don't know what I should do if I were alone as he was. It's selfish in me, Bates, to be glad that you are shut up here with me, but I cannot help it." "You needn't try, lad. It would be mighty dull being alone here, 'specially if you was tied to a tree." "But suppose we should never get off!" "We won't suppose that, lad. We are sure to get off some time." This confident assurance always cheered up Robert, and for the time inspired him with equal confidence. But when day after day passed away and the promised ship did not come in sight, he used to ponder thoughtfully over his situation, and the possibility that he might have to spend years at least on this lonely island. What in the meantime would become of his mother? She might die, and if he ever returned it would be to realize the loss he had sustained. The island, pleasant as it was, began to lose its charm. If his sailor companion ever shared his feelings, he never manifested them, unwilling to let the boy see that he was becoming discouraged. At length--about six weeks after their arrival upon the island--they were returning from an excursion to the other side of the island, when, on arriving in sight of the shore, an unexpected sight greeted their eyes. A pole had been planted in the sand, and from it waved the familiar flag, dear to the heart of every American--the star-spangled banner. They no sooner caught sight of it, than, in joyful excitement, they ran to the shore with all the speed they could muster. CHAPTER XXXII. A SUCCESSFUL MISSION. There was no one in sight, but it was evident that a party from an American ship had visited the island. Had they departed? That was a momentous question. Instinctively the eyes of both sought the sea. They saw an American ship riding at anchor a mile or more from shore. "Give me your handkerchief, Robert," said Bates; "I'll signal them." "It isn't very clean," said our hero. "It'll do. See, they are looking at us." "Your eyes must be good." "I'm used to looking out to sea, lad." He waved the handkerchief aloft, and felt sure that he had attracted the attention of those on board. But there was no motion to put off a boat. "Do they see it?" asked Robert, eagerly. "I think so." "Do you think they will come for us? If not, we can put off in our boat." "I think the party that planted that flagstaff hasn't got back. It is exploring the island, and will be back soon." "Of course it is," said Robert, suddenly. "Don't you see their boat?" "Ay, ay, lad; it's all right. All we've got to do is to stay here till they come." They had not long to wait. A party of sailors, headed by an officer, came out of the woods, and headed for the shore. They stopped short in surprise at the sight of Robert and Bates. "Who are you?" asked the leader, approaching. Bates touched his hat, for he judged this was the captain of the vessel he had seen. "I am a sailor from the ship _Argonaut_, bound from New York to Calcutta, and this young gentleman is Robert Rushton, passenger aboard the same ship." "Where is your ship?" "I don't know, captain." "How came you here?" "We were left here. The vessel went without us." "How long have you been here?" "Six weeks." "There is something about this which I do not understand. Are you here of your own accord?" "We are anxious to get away, captain," said Robert. "Will you take us?" "To be sure I will. There's room enough on my ship for both of you. But I can't understand how you were left here." "It's a long yarn, captain," said Bates. "If you haven't time to hear it now, I will tell you aboard ship." "You look like a good seaman," said the captain, addressing Bates. "I'm short-handed just now. If you will engage with me, I will enroll you among my crew." "That I'll do," said Bates, with satisfaction. "I wasn't made for a passenger." "My ship is the _Superior_, bound from Boston to Calcutta; so your destination will be the same. My name is Smith. Do you know the name of this island?" "I never heard of it before." "I have taken possession of it in the name of the United States, supposing myself the first discoverer." "That's all right. To my mind, the Star-Spangled Banner is the best that can wave over it." "We might offer the captain our boat," suggested Robert. The offer was made and accepted; and, while the captain and his party returned in one boat, Robert and Bates rowed to the ship in their own, and were soon on the deck of the _Superior_ to their unbounded satisfaction. "This is something like," said Bates. "The island is well enough, but there's nothing like the deck of a good ship." "I don't think I wholly agree with you," said Robert, smiling; "but just at present I do. I am glad enough to be here. We may meet Captain Haley at Calcutta," he added, after a pause. "Likely he'll have got away before we get there." "I hope not. I should like to meet him face to face, and charge him with his treachery. I don't think he'll be over glad to see me." "That's so, lad. He don't expect ever to set eyes on you again." Robert soon felt at home on the new vessel. Captain Smith he found to be a very different man from Captain Haley. When he heard the story told him by our hero, he said: "I like your pluck, Robert. You've had contrary winds so far, but you've borne up against them. The wind's changed now, and you are likely to have a prosperous voyage. This Captain Haley is a disgrace to the service. He'll be overhauled some time." "When I get back to New York I shall tell Mr. Morgan how he treated me." "That will put a spoke in his wheel." "There's one thing I want to speak to you about, Captain Smith. How much will my passage be?" "Nothing at all." "But I have some money with me. I am willing to pay." "Keep your money, my lad. You will need it all before you get through. I was once a poor boy myself, obliged to struggle for my living. I haven't forgotten that time, and it makes me willing to lend a helping hand to others in the same position." "You are very kind, Captain Smith," said Robert, gratefully. "I ought to be. How long do you want to stay in Calcutta?" "Only long enough to look about for my father." "Then you can return to New York in my ship. It shall cost you nothing." This offer was gratefully accepted--the more so that our hero had begun to realize that two hundred dollars was a small sum to carry on a journey of such length. At last they reached Calcutta. Robert surveyed with much interest the great city of India, so different in its external appearance from New York, the only great city besides that he knew anything about. "Well, Robert," said Captain Smith, on their arrival, "what are your plans? Will you make your home on board the ship, or board in the city, during our stay in port?" "I think," said Robert, "I should prefer to live in the city, if you would recommend me to a good boarding place." "That I can do. I am in the habit of boarding at a quiet house kept by a widow. Her terms are reasonable, and you can do no better than go there with me." "Thank you, Captain Smith. I shall be glad to follow your advice." So it happened that Captain Smith and Robert engaged board at the house of Mrs. Start, where, it will be remembered, that Captain Rushton was also a boarder, passing still under the name of Smith. Physically he had considerably improved, but mentally he was not yet recovered. His mind had received a shock, which, as it proved, a shock equally great was needed to bring it back to its proper balance. "By the way," said Mrs. Start to Captain Smith, "we have another gentleman of your name here." "Indeed?" "You will see him at dinner. Poor gentleman, his mind is affected, and we only gave him this name because we didn't know his real name." Robert little dreamed who it was of whom Mrs. Start was speaking, nor did he look forward with any particular curiosity to seeing the other Mr. Smith. When dinner was announced, Robert and the captain were early in their seats, and were introduced to the other boarders as they came in. Finally Captain Rushton entered, and moved forward to a seat beside the landlady. Robert chanced to look up as he entered, and his heart made a mighty bound when in the new Mr. Smith he recognized his father. "Father!" he exclaimed, eagerly, springing from his seat, and overturning his chair in his haste. Captain Rushton looked at him for a moment in bewilderment. Then all at once the mists that had obscured his faculties were dispelled, and he cried, "Robert! my dear son, how came you here?" "I came in search of you, father. Thank Heaven I have found you alive and well." "I think I have been in a dream, Robert. They call me Smith. That surely is not my name." "Rushton, father! You have not forgotten?" "Yes, that is it. Often it has been on the tip of my tongue, and then it slipped away from me. But, tell me, how came you here?" "I am indebted to the kindness of this gentleman--Captain Smith, father--who rescued me from great peril." This scene, of course, excited great astonishment among the boarders, and the worthy landlady who had been uniformly kind to Captain Rushton, was rejoiced at his sudden recovery. Feeling that mutual explanations in public would be unpleasant, she proposed to send dinner for both to Captain Rushton's room, and this offer was gladly accepted. "And how did you leave your mother, Robert?" asked the captain. "She was well, father, but mourning for your loss." "I wish I could fly to her." "You shall go back with me in Captain Smith's vessel. I am sure he will take us as passengers." "So we will. You are sure your mother is well provided for? But Mr. Davis has, no doubt, supplied her with money?" "Not a cent, father." "Not a cent! I deposited five thousand dollars with him for her benefit, just before sailing!" "So you wrote in the letter which you sent in the bottle." "Was that letter received?" "Yes; it was that which led me to come in search of you." "And did you go to Mr. Davis?" "He denied the deposit, and demanded to see the receipt." "The villain! He thought I was at the bottom of the sea, and the receipt with me. He shall find his mistake!" "Then you have the receipt still, father?" "To be sure I have," and Captain Rushton drew it from the pocket where it had laid concealed for two years and more. Robert regarded it with satisfaction. "He won't dare to deny it after this. I wish we were going back at once." "Now, Robert, tell me all that has happened in my absence, and how you raised money enough to come out here." So father and son exchanged narrations. Captain Rushton was astonished to find that the same man, Ben Haley, who had been the cause of his misfortunes, had also come so near compassing the destruction of his son. "Thanks to a kind Providence," he said, "his wicked machinations have failed, and we are alive to defeat his evil schemes." CHAPTER XXXIII. DEFEATED. In due time the _Superior_ cleared for New York, and among the passengers were Robert and his father. Since the meeting with his son Captain Rushton's mental malady had completely disappeared, and his mental recovery affected his physical health favorably. His step became firm and elastic, his eye was bright, and Robert thought he had never looked better. Leaving the two to pursue their voyage home, we return to Captain Haley. After leaving Robert to his fate, he kept on his way, rejoicing with a wicked satisfaction that he had got rid of an enemy who had it in his power to do him harm, for what Robert might suffer in his island prison, he cared little. He took it for granted that he would never get away, but would pass his life, be it longer or shorter, in dreary exile. Though the crew did not know all, they knew that the captain had heartlessly left Robert to his fate, and all were animated by a common feeling of dislike to their commander, who never under any circumstances would have been popular. But there was no one among them bold enough to come forward and charge Haley with his crime, even when they reached Calcutta. The captain moved among them, and his orders were obeyed, but not with alacrity. This satisfied him, for he cared nothing for the attachment of those under his command. One day in Calcutta he had a surprise. He met Captain Rushton one day when out walking. It seemed like one risen from the dead, for he supposed him lying at the bottom of the sea. Could his eyes deceive him, or was this really the man whom he had so grossly injured? Captain Rushton did not see Haley, for he was partly turned away from him, and was busily conversing with a gentleman of his acquaintance. Haley drew near, and heard Captain Rushton addressed as Mr. Smith. He at once decided that, in spite of the wonderful resemblance, it was not the man he supposed, and breathed more freely in consequence. But he could not help looking back to wonder at the surprising likeness. "They are as near alike as if they were brothers," he said to himself. He did not again catch sight of Captain Rushton while in Calcutta. Before Robert arrived, Captain Haley had sailed for home. But he met with storms, and his vessel received injuries that delayed her, so that his ship only reached New York on the same day with the _Superior_, bearing as passengers Robert and his father. Our hero lost no time in calling upon his friend, Mr. Morgan, and actually reached the office an hour before Haley, the _Superior_ having reached her pier a little in advance of the other vessel. When Robert walked into the office, Mr. Morgan, who was at his desk, looked up, and recognized him at once. "Welcome back, my young friend," he said, cordially, rising to meet him. "I am glad to see you, but I didn't expect you quite so soon. How did you happen to come in advance of the captain?" "Then you have not heard what happened at sea?" said Robert. "Yes," said the merchant. "I heard, much to my regret, of Captain Evans' death. He was a worthy man, and I am truly sorry to lose him. What do you think of his successor, Captain Haley? He has never before sailed for me." "After I have told my story, you can judge of him for yourself. I did not return on your vessel, Mr. Morgan, but on the _Superior_, Captain Smith." "How is that?" asked the merchant, surprised. "Because Captain Haley left me on an island in the Southern Ocean, bound to a tree, and probably supposes that I am dead." "Your story seems incredible, Robert. Give me a full account of all that led to this action on the part of the captain." My readers shall not be wearied with a repetition of details with which they are already familiar. Robert related what had happened to him in a straightforward manner, and Mr. Morgan never thought of doubting his statements. "This Haley must be a villain," he said. "You are, indeed, fortunate in having escaped from the snare he laid for you." "I have been fortunate in another way also," said Robert. "I have succeeded in the object of my voyage." "You have not found your father?" "I found him in Calcutta, and I have brought him home with me." "You must have been born under a lucky star, Robert," said the merchant. "Were your father's adventures as remarkable as yours?" "It was the same man who nearly succeeded in accomplishing the ruin of both--Captain Haley was my father's mate, and was he who, in revenge for some fancied slight, set fire to the vessel in mid-ocean, and then escaped." Scarcely had this revelation been made, when a clerk entered, and approaching Mr. Morgan, said, "Captain Haley would like to see you." Mr. Morgan glanced at Robert significantly. "I wish to know what explanation Mr. Haley has to give of your disappearance. There is a closet. Go in, and close the door partially, so that you may hear what passes without yourself being seen." Robert was hardly established in his place of concealment when Haley entered the office. "Good-morning, Mr. Morgan," he said, deferentially, for he wished to keep in his employer's good graces. "Good-morning, sir," said the merchant, formally. "Captain Haley, I believe?" "Yes, sir I succeeded to the command of the _Argonaut_ upon the lamented death of my friend, Captain Evans. His death happened on our passage out. I proceeded at once to Calcutta, and after disposing of the cargo sailed for home." "Your voyage has been a long one." "Yes, we have had stress of weather, which has delayed us materially. I regret this, but did the best I could under the circumstances. I hope to have discharged my duties in a manner satisfactory to you." "I cannot, of course, blame you for delay, since the weather was quite beyond your control," said the merchant, but his tone was marked by coldness, for which Haley found it difficult to account. He was anxious to remain in command of the _Argonaut_, but the want of cordiality evinced by his employer made him doubtful of his success. He was not timid, however, and resolved to broach the subject. "I hope, Mr. Morgan," he said, "that you have sufficient confidence in me to intrust me I with the command of the _Argonaut_ on her next voyage?" "He certainly is not lacking in audacity," thought Mr. Morgan. "We will speak of that matter hereafter," he said. "Did my young friend, Robert Rushton, return with you?" Now was the critical moment. In spite of his audacity, Haley felt embarrassed. "No, sir," he replied. "Indeed! I expected that you would bring him back." "May I ask if the boy is a relative of yours?" "No, he is not." "So much the better." "Why do you say that? I am particularly interested in him." "Then, sir, my task becomes more painful and embarrassing." "You speak in enigmas, Captain Haley." "I hesitate to speak plainly. I know you will be pained by what I have to tell you." "Don't consider my feelings, Captain Haley, but say what you have to say." "Then I regret to say that the boy, Robert Rushton, is unworthy of your friendship." "This is a grievous charge. Of course, I expect you to substantiate it." "I will do so. Shortly after the death of Captain Evans and my accession to the command I found that this boy was trying to undermine my influence with the men, from what motives I cannot guess. I remonstrated with him mildly but firmly, but only received insolence in return. Nevertheless I continued to treat him well on account of the interest you felt in him. So things went on till we reached Calcutta. He left me at that time, and to my surprise did not return to the ship. I was able to account for his disappearance, however, when I missed one hundred and fifty dollars, of which I have not the slightest doubt that he robbed me. I should have taken measures to have him arrested, but since you felt an interest in him I preferred to suffer the loss in silence. I fear, Mr. Morgan, that you have been greatly deceived in him." "I suspect that I have been deceived," said Mr. Morgan, gravely. "It is only fair, however, Captain Haley, to hear both sides, and I will therefore summon the boy himself to answer your charge. Robert!" At the summons, to Captain Haley's equal surprise and dismay, Robert stepped from the closet in which he had been concealed. "What have you to say, Robert?" asked the merchant. "Captain Haley knows very well the falsehood of what he says," said our hero, calmly. "It was not at Calcutta I left the _Argonaut_, nor was it of my own accord. Captain Haley, with his own hands, tied me to a tree on a small island in the Southern Ocean, and there left me, as he supposed, to a solitary death. But Heaven did not forsake me, and sent first a brave sailor and afterward a ship to my assistance. The charge that I stole money from him I shall not answer, for I know Mr. Morgan will not believe it." Captain Haley was not a fool, and he knew that it would be useless to press the charge further. He rose from his seat; his face was dark with anger and smarting under a sense of defeat. "You have not done with me yet," he said to Robert, and without another word left the office. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CUP AND THE LIP. Affairs in Millville had gone on much as usual. Mrs. Rushton had not yet exhausted the supply of money left by Robert in the hands of his friend the lawyer. Her expenses were small, and were eked out by her earnings; for she continued to braid straw, and was able in this way to earn two dollars a week. Indeed, she made it a point to be as economical as possible, for she thought it likely Robert would spend all his money, and return penniless. She had received no letter from him since the one announcing his being about to sail for Calcutta, and this made her naturally anxious. But Mr. Paine assured her that letters were likely to be irregular, and there was no ground for alarm. So she waited with what patience she could till Robert should return, hoping that by some strange chance he might succeed in his quest, and bring his father back with him. Meanwhile, fortune had improved with Mr. Davis, the superintendent of the factory. He had lost largely by speculation, but had blundered at last into the purchase of a stock in which some interested parties had effected a corner. It went up rapidly, and on the morning when we introduce him again to the reader he was in high good spirits, having just received intelligence from his broker that he had cleared seven thousand dollars by selling at the top of the market. "Another cup of coffee, Mrs. Davis," he said, passing his cup across the table. Seeing that his father appeared in good humor, Halbert ventured to prefer a request, which, however, he had little hope of having granted. "Have you seen Will Paine's pony?" he said, paving the way for the request. "Yes," said his father; "I saw him on it yesterday." "It's a regular beauty--I wish I had one." "How much did it cost?" "Two hundred dollars." "That is rather a high price." "But it will increase in value every year. I wish you would buy me one, father." "I think I will," said the superintendent, helping himself to a fresh slice of toast. "Do you mean it?" asked Halbert, in the utmost astonishment. "Certainly I do. I can afford you a pony as well as Mr. Paine can afford to buy William one." "Thank you!" said Halbert, his selfish nature more nearly affected by gratitude than ever before. "You are very kind. When will you see about it?" "I am busy. You may go yourself and ask Mr. Paine where he got William's pony, and if he knows of any other equally good." "That I will," said Halbert, leaving the table in haste. "Halbert, you have eaten scarcely anything," said his mother. "I am not hungry," said the excited boy, seizing his hat, and dashing off in the direction of Mr. Paine's office. "By the way, Mrs. Davis," said the husband, "I think you mentioned last week that the parlor needed a new carpet." "So it does. The old one is looking very shabby." "How much will a new one cost?" "I can get a nice Brussels for a hundred dollars." "Well, you may order one." It was the wife's turn to be astonished, for on broaching the subject the week previous, her husband had given her a lecture on extravagance, and absolutely refused to consider her request. This was before the tidings of his good fortune. She was not slow to accept the present concession, and assumed an unusually affectionate manner, in the excess of her delight. Meanwhile, Halbert, in opening the front door, came in collision with a boy taller and stouter than himself, brown and sunburned. But, changed as he was, he was not slow in recognizing his old enemy, Robert Rushton. "What, are you back again?" he said, ungraciously. "So it appears. Is your father at home?" "Yes; but he is at breakfast. I don't think you can see him." "I'll make the attempt, at any rate," said Robert. "Where have you been all this time?" asked Halbert, more from curiosity than interest. "I went to Calcutta." "Common sailor, I suppose," said Halbert, contemptuously. "No, I was a passenger." "Where did you get your money to pay the passage?" "I'm sorry that I can't stop to gratify your curiosity just at present, but I have important business with your father." "You're getting mighty important," sneered Halbert. "Am I?" "I wouldn't advise you to put on so many airs, just because you've been to Calcutta." "I never thought of putting on any. I see you haven't changed much since I went away. You have the same agreeable, gentlemanly manners." "Do you mean to say that I am not a gentleman?" blustered Halbert. "Not at all. You may be one, but you don't show it." "I have a great mind to put you out of the yard." Robert glanced at Halbert's figure, slight compared with his own, and laughed. "I think you would find it a difficult undertaking," he said. Halbert privately came to the same conclusion, and decided to war only with words. "I have got something better to do than to stand here listening to your impudence. I won't soil my fingers by touching you." "That's a sensible conclusion. Good-morning." Halbert did not deign to respond, but walked off, holding his nose very high in the air. Then, as he thought of the pony, he quickened his pace, and bent his steps to Mr. Paine's office. "A young man to see you, Mr. Davis," said Bridget, entering the breakfast-room. "Who is it?" "I think it's young Robert Rushton, but he's much grown entirely." "That boy home again!" exclaimed the superintendent, in displeased surprise. "Well, you may ask him into the next room." "Good-morning, Mr. Davis," said Robert, as the superintendent entered. "Good-morning. When did you get home?" was the cold reply. "Last evening." "Where have you been?" "To Calcutta." "On a fool's errand." "I felt it my duty to search for my father." "I could have told you beforehand you would not succeed. Did you go as a sailor?" "No." "Where did you raise money to pay your expenses?" "I found friends who helped me." "It is a poor policy for a boy to live on charity." "I never intend to do it," said Robert, firmly. "But I would rather do it than live on money that did not belong to me." "What do you mean by that, sir?" said the superintendent, suspiciously. "It was a general remark," said Robert. "May I ask what is your motive in calling upon me?" asked Mr. Davis. "I suppose you have some object." "I have, and I think you can guess it." "I am not good at guessing," said Davis, haughtily. "Then I will not put you to that trouble. You remember, before I sailed for Calcutta, I called here and asked you to restore the sum of five thousand dollars deposited with you by my father?" "I remember it, and at the time I stigmatized the claim as a fraudulent one. No such sum was ever deposited with me by your father." "How can you say that, when my father expressly stated it in the letter, written by him, from the boat in which he was drifting about on the ocean?" "I have no proof that the letter was genuine, and even if it were, I deny the claim. I am not responsible for money I never received." "I understand you then refuse to pay the money?" "You would have understood it long ago, if you had not been uncommonly thick-headed," sneered the superintendent. "Let this be the end of it. When you present my note of acknowledgment for the amount, I will pay it and not before." "That is all I ask," said Robert. "What?" demanded the superintendent. "I mean that this assurance is all I want. The note shall be presented to you in the course of the day." "What do you mean?" asked Davis, startled. "I mean this, Mr. Davis: that I found my father in Calcutta. He came home with me, and, far from having perished at sea, is now alive and well. He has with him your note for five thousand dollars, and will present it in person." "You are deceiving me!" exclaimed Davis, in consternation. "You will soon learn whether I am deceiving you or not," said Robert. "I will now bid you good-morning. My father will call upon you in the course of the day." He rose to go, leaving the superintendent thunderstruck at the intelligence of Captain Rushton's return. The five thousand dollars, with arrears of interest, would take the greater part of the money whose sudden acquisition had so elated him. While he was considering the situation, his wife entered. "I think, Mr. Davis," she said, "I will go to New York to-day to buy carpeting, if you can spare the money." "Neither now nor at any other time," he roared, savagely; "the old carpet must do." "Why, then, did you tell me fifteen minutes since that I might buy one? What do you mean by such trifling, Mr. Davis?" said his wife, her eyes flashing. "I mean what I say. I've changed my mind. I can't afford to buy a new carpet." There was a stormy scene between man and wife, which may be passed over in silence. It ended with a fit of hysterics on the part of Mrs. Davis, while her husband put on his hat and walked gloomily over to the factory. Here he soon received a call from Halbert, who informed him, with great elation, that Mr. Paine knew of a desirable pony which could be had on the same terms as his son's. "I've changed my mind," said his father. "A pony will cost too much money." All Halbert's entreaties were unavailing, and he finally left his father's presence in a very unfilial frame of mind. CHAPTER XXXV. CONCLUSION. The arrival of Captain Rushton, confidently supposed to be dead, produced a great sensation in Millville, and many were the congratulatory visits received at the little cottage. Mrs. Rushton was doubly happy at the unexpected return of her husband and son, and felt for the first time in her life perfectly happy. She cared little for poverty or riches, as long as she had regained her chief treasures. When Captain Rushton called upon the superintendent, the latter received him with embarrassment, knowing that the captain was aware of his intended dishonesty. He tried to evade immediate payment, but on this point his creditor was peremptory. He had no further confidence in Mr. Davis, and felt that the sooner he got his money back into his hands the better. It was fortunate for him that the superintendent had been at last successful in speculation, or restitution would have been impossible. As is was, he received his money in full, nearly six thousand dollars, which he at once invested in bank stock of reliable city banks, yielding a good annual income. Only the day after the payment of this sum, a committee of investigation appointed by the directors, whose suspicions had been excited, visited the factory, and subjected the superintendent's books to a thorough scrutiny. The result showed that Mr. Davis, in whom hitherto perfect confidence had been felt, had for years pursued a system of embezzlement, which he had covered up by false entries in his books, and had appropriated to his own use from fifteen to twenty thousand dollars belonging to the corporation. While this investigation was pending, the superintendent disappeared, leaving his wife and son unprovided for. His estate was seized in part satisfaction of the amounts he had appropriated, and Halbert's pride was brought low. The wealth and position upon which he had based his aristocratic pretensions vanished, and in bitter mortification he found himself reduced to poverty. He could no longer flaunt his cane and promenade the streets in kid gloves, but was glad to accept a position in the factory store, where he was compelled to dress according to his work. In fact, he had exchanged positions with Robert, who was now, owing to a circumstance which will at once be mentioned, possessed of a considerable inheritance. The old farmer, Paul Nichols, whom Robert tried to defend from his unprincipled nephew, Ben Haley, died suddenly of heart disease. Speculation was rife as to who would inherit the estate which he left behind him. He had no near relation except Ben Haley, and so great was the dislike he entertained toward him that no one anticipated that the estate would go to him, unless through Paul's dying intestate. But shortly after Haley's visit, his uncle made a will, which he deposited in the hands of Lawyer Paine. On the day after the funeral, the latter met Captain Rushton and Robert, and said: "Will you come to my office this afternoon at three o'clock?" "Certainly," said the captain. "I suppose you don't want me, Mr. Paine?" said Robert. "I do want you, particularly," said the lawyer. Our hero wondered a little why his presence was required, but dismissed the matter from his mind, until three o'clock found him in the lawyer's office. "Gentlemen," said the lawyer, "I am about to read the last will and testament of our neighbor, Paul Nichols, recently deceased." This preamble created surprise, for this was the first intimation that such a will was in existence. The document was brief, and the substance of it was contained in the following paragraph: "Having no near relatives, except Benjamin Haley, for whom I have neither regard nor affection, and who, moreover, has recently stolen a considerable sum of money from me, I leave all of which I may die possessed, whether in land or money, to my brave young friend, Robert Rushton, who courageously defended me from my said nephew, at his own bodily risk, and I hope he may live long to enjoy the property I bequeath him." No one was more surprised than Robert at the unexpected inheritance. He could hardly realize that he was now possessed of a considerable property in his own right. It may be said here that, including the value of the farm, and the gold concealed, his inheritance amounted to quite ten thousand dollars. Paul had considerately supplied the lawyer with a list of the hiding places where he had secreted his money on the strictest injunctions of secrecy, and this made the task of finding it quite easy. Congratulations poured in upon our hero, who received them with modest satisfaction. "It is a good thing to have a rich son," said Captain Rushton, humorously. "Robert, I hope you won't look down upon me on account of my comparative poverty." "Father," said Robert, "I wish you would take this money--I don't want it." "I shall do nothing of the kind, Robert. It is fairly and deservedly yours, though I confess you may attribute it partly to good luck, for virtue is not always so well rewarded in this world. I will take care of it for you, and if you choose to pay your own expenses out of your income, I shall allow you to do so, since you are now rich and prosperous." "You must take all the income, father. Then it will not be necessary for you to go to sea again." "I have already made up my mind to stay on land hereafter," said Captain Rushton. "My cruise in an open boat without provisions has cured me of my love for the sea. With the little money I have saved, and the help of a rich son, I think I can afford to stay on shore." The cottage was enlarged by the erection of another story, as well as by the addition of a wing and the throwing out of two bay windows, and was otherwise refitted and so metamorphosed by fresh paint and new furniture, that it became one of the most attractive houses in Millville. Captain Rushton, who knew something of agriculture, decided to carry on Robert's farm himself, and found the employment both pleasant and profitable. "My only trouble," he used to say, jocosely, "is that I have a very exacting landlord. Unless the rent were punctually paid, he would be sure to resort to legal means to recover it." When Ben Haley heard that his uncle's estate had been bequeathed to the boy whom he had persecuted, and whom for that reason he hated, his rage and disappointment were unbounded. If he had not been within two hours of sailing in command of a ship bound to South America, he would at once have gone down to Millville, and in his fury he might have done serious injury to the boy who had superseded him. But he could not delay the day of sailing, and so, much against his will, he was forced to forego his vengeance until his return. But this was destined to be his last voyage. While at Rio Janeiro he became engaged in a fracas with the keeper of a low grogshop, when the latter, who was a desperate ruffian, snatched a knife from his girdle, and drove it into the heart of the unhappy captain, who fell back on the floor and expired without a groan. Thus terminated a misguided and ill-spent life. I should have been glad to report Ben Haley's reformation instead of his death, but for the sake of Robert, whom he hated so intensely, I am relieved that thin source of peril is closed. Robert, being now in easy circumstances, decided to pursue his studies for two years longer, and accordingly placed himself in a school of high reputation, where he made rapid improvement. He then entered upon a business life under the auspices of his friend, Mr. Morgan, and promises in time to become a prominent and wealthy merchant. He passes every Sunday at home in the little cottage occupied by his father, who, however, has ceased to be a farmer, having been promoted to the post of superintendent of the factory, formerly occupied by Mr. Davis. For the first twelve months the post was filled by a new man, who proved to be incompetent, and then was offered to Captain Rushton, whose excellent executive talents were well known. He soon made himself familiar with his duties, and the post is likely to be his as long as he cares to hold it. Hester Paine, as a young lady, fulfills the promise of her girlhood. The mutual attachment which existed between her and Robert, when boy and girl, still continues, and there is some ground for the report which comes from Millville--that they are engaged. The alliance will be in the highest degree pleasing to both families, for if Hester is fair and attractive, Robert is energetic and of excellent principles, and possessed of precisely those qualities which, with fair good fortune will, under the favor of Providence, insure his success in life. THE END. 
43940	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 43940-h.htm or 43940-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43940/43940-h/43940-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43940/43940-h.zip) Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [Illustration: IT WAS THE LONGEST HIT THAT EVER HAD BEEN MADE ON THE POLO GROUNDS.] BASEBALL JOE, HOME RUN KING Or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record by LESTER CHADWICK Author of "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," "Baseball Joe in the Big League," "The Rival Pitchers," "The Eight-Oared Victors," etc. ILLUSTRATED New York Cupples & Leon Company * * * * * * BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK =THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES= =12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.= BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE BASEBALL JOE AT YALE BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD BASEBALL JOE, HOME RUN KING =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= =12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.= THE RIVAL PITCHERS A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK BATTING TO WIN THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York * * * * * * Copyright, 1922, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY =Baseball Joe, Home Run King= Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A DANGEROUS PLUNGE 1 II A SURPRISE 17 III REGGIE TURNS UP 33 IV THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 43 V "PLAY BALL!" 54 VI GETTING THE JUMP 61 VII STEALING HOME 71 VIII A BASEBALL IDOL 79 IX AN OLD ENEMY 87 X THREE IN A ROW 94 XI RIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER 101 XII JIM'S WINNING WAYS 108 XIII A BREAK IN THE LUCK 117 XIV A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE 123 XV AN EVENING RIDE 131 XVI THE ATTACK ON THE ROAD 136 XVII FALLING BEHIND 143 XVIII IN THE THROES OF A SLUMP 151 XIX A CLOSE CALL 157 XX SPEEDING UP 163 XXI THE WINNING STREAK 170 XXII STRIVING FOR MASTERY 178 XXIII HOLDING THEM DOWN 184 XXIV A CRUSHING BLOW 191 XXV LINING THEM OUT 197 XXVI THE TIRELESS FOE 203 XXVII CHAMPIONS OF THE LEAGUE 210 XXVIII THE WORLD SERIES 218 XXIX THE GAME OF HIS LIFE 224 XXX CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD 230 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IT WAS THE LONGEST HIT THAT EVER HAD BEEN MADE ON THE POLO GROUNDS. THERE WAS NO DOUBT OF THE WARMTH OF THAT WELCOME. SUDDENLY PICKING UP THE BALL HE HURLED IT TO SECOND. "GREAT SCOTT!" HE CRIED. "WHAT�S THE MATTER WITH YOUR HAND?" BASEBALL JOE, HOME RUN KING CHAPTER I A DANGEROUS PLUNGE "I'm going to tie you up in knots, old man," said Jim Barclay, with a smile, as he picked up the ball and stepped into the box in batting practice at the training camp. "I've heard that kind of talk before," retorted Joe Matson, known all over the country as "Baseball Joe," the king pitcher of the Giants. "But untying knots is the best thing I do. Give me the best you have in the shop." Jim wound up and put one over that just cut the corner of the plate. Joe made a mighty swing at it, but it was just beyond his reach. "Nearly broke your back reaching for that one, eh?" laughed Jim, as the ball was thrown back to him. "I was just kidding you that time," grinned Joe. "I'm going to kill the next one." Again the ball whizzed to the plate. It was a fast, straight ball with a slight hop to it. Joe caught it near the end of his bat and "leaned on it" heavily. The ball soared out between right and center, and the outfielders covering that position gave one look at it and then turned and ran with the ball. But it kept on and on until it cleared the fence, and the discomfited fielders threw up their hands and came slowly back to their positions. Jim looked sheepish, and Joe, who was his chum and best friend, laughed outright as he relinquished the bat to the next man in line. "A sweet home run, Jim," he remarked. "I should say so!" snorted Jim. "That hit was good for two home runs. The ball was ticketed for kingdom come." "Who was it said that pitchers couldn't hit?" laughed Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giant team, as he took Joe's place. "I'll tell the world that some of them can!" exclaimed Jim, as he prepared to try his luck again. "Gee, Joe, if that had happened to me in a regular game, it would have broken my heart." Two keen-eyed men in uniform had been standing near the side lines, watching intently every move of the players, as they tried out their batting eyes and arms. One was stocky and of medium height, with hair that had begun to grey at the temples. The other was stout and ruddy, with a twinkle in his eyes that bespoke good nature. Both were veterans of many hard-fought baseball campaigns, and both had played on the Baltimore Orioles when that great organization of stars was the sensation of the baseball world. "Did you see that hit, Robbie?" asked McRae, the manager of the Giants, of his stout companion. "Not all of it," replied Robson, the coach of the team. "But I followed it as far as the fence. That was a whale of a wallop. I'll bet the ball's going yet," and the man chuckled gleefully. "Of course, this was only in practice," mused McRae. "Perhaps Barclay wasn't trying over hard." "Don't kid yourself, Mac," replied Robson. "Barclay wasn't just lobbing them up. That ball came over like a bullet. It had a hop on it too, but Joe gauged it just right. I tell you that boy is a wonder. If he wasn't a wizard in the box, he'd be a terror at the bat." "I wish there were two of him, Robbie," said the manager, smiling. "One to cover the mound and the other to use as a pinch hitter or play him in the outfield. That would make a combination hard to beat." "It was the best day's work you ever did when you got that lad from St. Louis," remarked Robson. "I'll bet the Cardinal's manager feels like throwing a fit every time he thinks what a fool he was to let him go." "Well," said McRae, "if everybody's foresight in baseball was as good as his hindsight, there'd be no trading done. I don't mind saying that I throw out my chest a little for having seen what was in the kid. He's certainly been the making of the team." "One thing is certain; and that is that you wouldn't have the World's Championship tucked away if it hadn't been for his great work in the Series," rejoined Robson. "He just had those Chicago birds eating out of his hand." "Right you are," admitted McRae. "Here's hoping he'll repeat this season." "Don't worry a bit about that," was Robson's confident answer. "You can see for yourself that he's been going great guns in practice. And even at that he hasn't been letting himself out. He's taking good care of that old soup-bone of his." "He was never better in his life," declared McRae. "I'll admit that I was a little worried for fear that the trip around the world had taken something out of him. You know what a strain he was under in that All-Star League affair, Robbie. But it hasn't seemed to affect him at all." "He'll need all he's got this year," said Robbie thoughtfully. "We'll have to depend more on the pitching than we did last year, because we're not so strong on the batting end. When Burkett quit, it took away a good deal of our hitting strength, and you've seen that Mylert is slipping. On the form he's shown in practice this spring, he won't be good for more than a two hundred and fifty per cent average, and that's about sixty points below what he showed last year." "I know it," agreed the manager, a worried look coming into his face. "And what makes it worse is that Larry, too, is slow in rounding into form. Instead of lining them out, he's sending them up in the air. He'll be just pie for the fielders if he keeps it up. I can't understand the thing at all." "Oh, well," said Robbie, whose jolly disposition never let him stay long under a cloud, "here's hoping that they'll come to the scratch when the season opens. Some of the rookies look pretty good to me, and if the old-timers fall down we may be able to fill their places all right. Come along, Mac; let's finish working out that schedule for the trip north. We'll have to get a hustle on to be in shape to start to-morrow." McRae gave the signal to his men that practice time was over, and the young athletes, nothing loth to drop their work and get down to the hotel for dinner, began to gather up their bats preparatory to jumping into the bus which was waiting outside the grounds. But before they got to it, McRae and Robson had climbed in and given the signal to the driver to start. "No, you don't!" he called out with a grin, as the bus started away. "You fellows leg it down to the hotel. It's only two miles, and you need the exercise. Get a move on, or Robbie and I will clear the table before you get there." There were grunts and groans from the players, for the sun was warm and the practice had been strenuous. But there was no help for it, and they dropped into a dog trot that was quickened by the thought of the dinner that was waiting for them at the end of the journey. They reached the hotel in good time, took a shower bath, changed into their regular clothes, and were soon at the table with an appetite that swept the board and made the colored waiters roll their eyes in wonder, not unmixed with awe. After the meal was finished, Joe and Jim were on their way to the room they shared together when they passed McRae and Robbie, who were sitting in the lobby enjoying their after-dinner cigars. McRae beckoned to them, and they went over to where the pair was sitting. "Well, boys," said the manager, as he motioned to a couple of chairs into which they dropped, "our spring practice is over and I don't mind saying that I'm feeling good over the way you fellows ate up your work. Both of you look as fit as fiddles." "That's sure the way we feel," answered Joe, and Jim murmured acquiescence. "In fact you look so good," went on McRae, knocking the ashes from his cigar and settling back comfortably in his chair, "that I'm going to call training finished, as far as you two are concerned. Just now you're right at the top of your form, and I don't want to take any chances on your going stale. So I'm going to let you rest up for the next week or ten days. All you have to do is to take good care of yourselves--and I know you boys well enough to be sure you'll do that--and turn up in shape when the season opens week after next." Joe and Jim looked at each other, and the same thought was in the mind of each. This seemed too good to be true! "We start north to-morrow," went on McRae, "in two lots, playing minor league teams on the way to keep in practice. The regulars will go along with me, while Robbie will take the second string men and the rookies. We'll jog along in easy fashion and hope to reach the Polo Grounds in the pink of condition." By this time Joe had found his voice. He smiled broadly. "That's mighty good of you, Mac," he said. "I suppose you want us then to go right through to New York." "That's the idea," replied the manager. "Robbie will see to your transportation this afternoon." But just here, Robson, who had been watching the boys' faces, broke into a laugh. "For the love of Mike, wake up Mac!" he adjured his friend. "Don't you know that Joe lives only a couple of hundred miles from here right over the border? And don't you remember those two pretty girls that were with us on the World Tour? And didn't we hear Joe telling Jim a few days ago that his sweetheart was visiting his folks? And here you are sending the lads straight through to New York with never a stop on the way. Mac, old man, I'm ashamed of you." McRae grinned as he looked at the faces of the young men--faces that had grown suddenly red. "Robbie hit the nail on the head, did he?" he said, with a chuckle. "Well, I'm Irishman enough to have a soft spot in my heart for the lads and their colleens. Fix it up, boys, to suit yourselves. As long as you report on time, that's all I ask. Get along with you now, as Robbie and I have got to fix up our routes." Joe and Jim were only too glad to "get along," and after thanking McRae hurried to their room, where they indulged in a wild war dance. "Glory, hallelujah!" shouted Joe. "A whole week or more to ourselves, and home only two hundred miles away!" "Your home is," replied Jim. "Mine's more than a thousand miles away." "You old sardine!" cried Joe, throwing a book at his head. "Isn't my home yours? Do you think I'd dare show my face there without bringing you along? Clara would never forgive me. Neither would Mabel. Neither would Momsey nor Dad. Get a wiggle on now, old man, and hunt up a time-table." Jim, with his face jubilant at the thought of soon seeing Joe's pretty sister, hustled about for the time-table; and with heads close together the young men were soon poring over the schedules. At last Joe straightened up with a vexed exclamation. "Of all the roundabout ways!" he ejaculated. "We'll have to change three or four different times with all sorts of bad connections, and can't reach Riverside until to-morrow afternoon." "Wait a minute," said Jim, running his pencil along a column. "Here's a line that will get us to Martinsville early to-morrow morning, just before daylight. How far is Martinsville from Riverside?" "About fifty miles more or less," replied Joe. "But crickey, Jim, that gives me an idea! What's the matter with going to Martinsville and hiring an auto there? I know Hank Bixby who keeps a garage there and has autos for hire. He used to live in Riverside, and played with me on the old school nine before his folks moved away. I'll send him a wire telling him what time we'll get there and asking him to have a first-class car ready for us." "You know the road all right, do you?" asked Jim. "Remember it will be dark when we get there." "I know it like a book," replied Joe. "I've been over it many a time. I could travel it in the dark. It's as level as a table until you get to Hebron. Just beyond that there's a steep hill that will give the car something to do. But Hank will give me a machine that can climb it, and, besides, it will be just about daylight by the time we get there. It's a cinch that we won't have any trouble. I'll bet a hat--what's the matter, Jim?" For Jim had risen and moved quickly toward the door, which had been standing partly open. He put out his head and looked down the corridor. Not satisfied with that, he went down the hall to the head of the stairs. Then he slowly retraced his steps. Joe, who had followed his chum to the door, looked at him with open-mouthed wonder. "What's the matter with you?" he queried. "Have you gone daffy?" "Not exactly," replied Jim. "I thought I saw somebody I knew go past the door." "Likely enough," said Joe, with a touch of sarcasm. "It wouldn't be at all surprising. The hotel is full of our fellows." "It wasn't one of our boys," returned Jim slowly. "Well, who was it then?" asked Joe, a little impatiently. "Come out of your trance, old man." "I think it was a fellow we know only too well," Jim replied. "I think it was Braxton." "Braxton!" exclaimed Joe with sudden interest. "The fellow that was with us on the World Tour?" "The same one," affirmed Jim. "The fellow you licked within an inch of his life in the old Irish castle." "Are you sure?" asked Joe. "It doesn't seem at all likely that we'd run across that rascal in this little training-camp town. What on earth would he be doing down here?" "That's just what I want to know," replied Jim soberly. "As you say, it's all against the chances that we should run across him here by accident. If he's here, he's come with some purpose. And that purpose means nothing good for you. He's exactly the sort of man that won't forget that thrashing." "I guess he won't," replied Joe grimly. "My knuckles ache now when I think of it. But if he's looking for another licking, he sure can have it." "He isn't looking for another," Jim returned. "He's looking to get even for the first one you gave him. You know he swore at the time that he'd pay you up for it." "He's welcome to try," declared Joe indifferently. "But really, Jim, I think you're mistaken. It seems too improbable. There are plenty of men in the world who look like Braxton." "Of course, I wouldn't swear it was he," admitted Jim. "I only saw him side-face, and he slipped past the door like a ghost." "Well, we'll keep our eyes open about the hotel and around the town," rejoined Joe. "But now let's think of pleasanter things. Our train goes at six, and we've got lots to do in getting our duds packed. Then, too, I've got to wire to Hank and must get the tickets for as far as the cars will carry us." The afternoon proved a busy one, but by train time they had completed their packing, said good-by to the rest of the team, who frankly envied them their luck, and were snugly ensconced in the day coach, as the little road had no sleeping cars, and even if they had the frequent changes they had to make would have made a sleeper not worth while. As it was, they slept in snatches, had luck in their connections, and about an hour before dawn stepped off the train at the little station of Martinsville. Both Baseball Joe and Jim Barclay had expected to find the town asleep, but were surprised to find a large number of the inhabitants, chiefly the younger men, at the station. Still another group stood in the lighted doorway of Hank Bixby's garage, which was directly across the street. "What's the big idea?" Jim asked Joe, as he looked in surprise at the crowd that drew close about them. "Blest if I know," replied Joe. "Maybe there's been a fire or something." But they were soon enlightened, as Hank came bustling across the street, his face aglow with welcome and self-importance. "Howdy, Mr. Matson!" he exclaimed, as he wrung Joe's hand. "Mr. Matson!" laughed Joe, returning the handshake. "Where do you get that stuff? What's the matter with Joe?" "Well, Joe, then," beamed Hank. "You see, Joe, you've got to be such a big fellow now, known all over the United States, that I felt a bit shy about calling you by your first name. I got your wire and mentioned it to a fellow or two, and by heck it was all over town in no time that the greatest pitcher in the country was going to be here. This crowd's been waiting here all night to say howdy to you." The people were all crowding around him by now, waiting their turn to shake hands, and Joe, although embarrassed, as he always was when he found himself the center of attention, did his best to respond to the expressions of good will and admiration that were showered upon him. Jim also came in for his share of the crowd's interest as a promising and rapidly rising pitcher of the baseball champions of the world. It was with a sigh of relief that they settled themselves at last in the speedy car which Hank had provided for them and which he proudly assured them would "just burn up the road" between Martinsville and Riverside. Joe took the wheel and the car started off, amid a waving of hands and a roar of farewell from the crowd. "Great day for Martinsville," said Jim mischievously, as he settled down by the side of his chum and the car purred along over the level road. "How does it feel to be a hero, Joe?" "Quit your kidding," replied Joe, with a grin. "If they'd wrung this old wing of mine much more, McRae would have been minus one of his pitchers." "One of the penalties of greatness," chaffed Jim. "And now for home!" exulted Joe, as he put on added speed and the car leaped forward. "And Clara," murmured Jim under his breath, as he thought of Joe's charming sister. Joe did not hear him, for his thoughts were engrossed with Mabel, the girl who had promised to marry him and who he fondly hoped might be at this moment dreaming of him, as without her knowledge he was speeding toward her. She had been visiting at his father's home as the guest of his sister Clara. Since their trip together around the world the two girls had become almost inseparable, and Mr. and Mrs. Matson already regarded Mabel as a second daughter. The day for the marriage of Joe and Mabel had not yet been set, but Joe was determined that it should take place soon, and he hoped that now he would be able to get Mabel to set a definite date for that happy event. Jim, too, had his dreams, and they all centered about Clara. He had fallen desperately in love with her at their first meeting, and he had made up his mind that on this visit he would ask the all-important question, on the answer to which his happiness depended. The car dashed along at rapid speed, and as they came near Hebron Joe roused himself from his reverie. The darkness was disappearing, and in the faint light of the spring morning they could see a steep hill a little way ahead. At the side of the road ran a little river, of whose murmur they had been conscious for some time, although in the darkness they could scarcely see it. "Here's where we'll see whether Hank was bragging overmuch about this car," remarked Joe, as he tightened his grasp on the wheel and put his foot on the accelerator. "I'll give her a good start and see how she can climb." The car gathered speed as it neared the bottom of the hill. Joe peered forward, and then from his lips came a startled shout. Directly in front of them, completely blocking the road, was a mass of heavy timbers. To strike them at that speed meant maiming or death! At one side of the road was a steep cliff. On the other side was the river. Joe's brain worked like lightning. There was but one chance. He swung the wheel around, the car crashed through a fence at the side of the road, suddenly stopped short, and Joe and Jim were sent headlong into the river! CHAPTER II A SURPRISE The water was icy and deep, and at this point the current was swift. The force with which the luckless occupants of the car had been propelled sent them far beneath the surface and some distance out into the stream. A moment later their heads appeared above the water, and they struck out for the shore. Both were strong swimmers, and in a few strokes they reached the bank. Fortunately they had escaped striking any part of the car in their wild hurtling through space, and apart from the chill and wetting were unharmed. From the mud at the river's edge, they dragged their dripping feet to the solid ground of the road. Then they stood still and looked at each other. The shock and suddenness of it all still affected them, but as they continued to look at the comical figure that each presented, with hair plastered over their faces and clothes clinging to their bodies, their sense of the ludicrous got the better of them and they burst into laughter. "Talk about scarecrows!" gurgled Jim, as he dragged a wet handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face in a vain attempt to dry it. "None of them have anything on us," admitted Joe, as he threw off his coat and wrung one dripping trousers leg after the other. "If only the team could get a snapshot of us now, they'd kid us for the rest of our natural lives," remarked Jim. "You said it," agreed Joe. "But now," he added more soberly, "just let's take a look at what it was that so nearly killed us or crippled us for life." They made their way to the mass of timber in the road. At first Jim thought that it might have fallen off some wagon, unknown to the driver. But a closer examination showed that this was an error. The timbers were piled in a way that could have been done only by human hands, and what made this certain was the fact that rocks had been placed on either side to prevent the logs from slipping. It was a formidable barrier, and if the car had dashed into it at the rate it was going, the occupants would almost certainly have been killed. "Whoever put those timbers there meant harm," said Joe solemnly, when the examination had been completed. "It looks that way," agreed Jim. "Whoever did it was a scoundrel who ought to be in jail." "It might have been the work of a crazy man," suggested Joe. "As crazy as a fox," rejoined Jim, looking squarely into his chum's eyes. "What do you mean?" asked Joe, in some perplexity. "I mean," said Jim, carefully weighing every word, "that the man who put that mass of timber there was just as sane as you or I. I mean that he intended that some one should be seriously hurt. I'll go even further. That man meant to injure Joe Matson, whom he hated with a deadly hatred." "You mean that Braxton did it?" cried Joe. "I mean that Braxton did it," replied Jim quietly. They stared at each other with strange emotions stirring in their hearts. And while they stand there, as if turned to stone, it may be well, for the benefit of those who have not read the earlier volumes of this series, to trace the fortunes of Baseball Joe up to the time that this story opens. Joe Matson was born in a little inland village of the Middle West, and grew up in a pleasant home amid wholesome surroundings. His first experience in the great national game, where he was destined to become famous as the greatest pitcher of his time, was gained on the simple diamond of his home town, and his natural aptitude was such that he soon became known as a rising player all over the county. What obstacles he met and surmounted at that time are related in the first volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars." Some time later, when playing on his school nine, he had considerable trouble with a bully who tried to down him, but found out, as so many trouble makers did later on in life, that Joe Matson was not easily downed. He put into his playing all that experience, combined with his native ability, could teach him, and he served an apprenticeship that stood him in good stead when later he went to Yale. The trials and triumphs of his school experience are told in the second volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe on the School Nine." With the natural buoyancy of youth, Joe had hoped when he entered Yale that he would have a chance to show his mettle in the box in some of the great annual games that Yale played with Harvard and Princeton. There were many rivals, however, for the honor, including those who had already won their spurs in actual contests. But Joe's light was not made to shine under a bushel, and one day when the cohorts of Princeton came down in their orange and black prepared to "tie the can" to the Bulldog's tail, Joe got his chance and sent a very bedraggled Tiger back to his lair in Princeton. How Joe won gloriously is told in the third volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe at Yale." Though he enjoyed his college days at Yale, stood high in his studies, and was popular with his mates, he felt that he was not cut out for one of the learned professions. His mother had hoped that he would be a clergyman and had been urgent in having him adopt that profession. But Joe, though he respected the noble aims of that calling, was not drawn to it. It was the open air life that he craved and for which he was fitted, and the scholastic calm of a study had little attraction for him. He felt that he had it in him to win supremacy in athletic fields. His mother, of course, was greatly disappointed when she learned how he felt, but she was too wise to insist on her plan when she realized that it was contrary to his special gifts. She knew very little about baseball, but she had the impression that it was no place for an educated man. The fact, however, that so many college men were entering the ranks of professional baseball was made the most of by Joe, and she finally yielded to his wishes. His chance was not long in coming, for he was soon picked up by one of the scouts who are always looking for "diamonds in the rough," and was offered a contract with the Pittston team of the Central League. The League was a minor one, but Joe had already learned that a man who proved that he had the makings of a star in him would soon have an opportunity with one of the majors. How speedily his ability was proved and recognized is narrated in the fourth volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe in the Central League." From the bushes to the National League was a big jump, but Joe made it when he was drafted into the ranks of the St. Louis Cardinals. The team was in the second division when Joe came into action, and was altogether out of the running for the championship. But Joe's twirling was just what it needed to put new heart and life into it, and before the season ended it had climbed into the first division and if the race had been a little longer might have made a big stroke for the pennant. The story of the team's climb, with all its exciting episodes, is told in the fifth volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe in the Big League." McRae, the crafty and resourceful manager of the New York Giants, had had his eye on Joe all the season, and when the race was ended he made an offer for him that the St. Louis management could not refuse. Now, indeed, Joe felt that the ambition of his life was in a fair way to be realized. McRae had intended to bring him along slowly, so that he could be thoroughly seasoned, but circumstances put on him the heft of the pitching, and how fully he justified his manager's confidence is narrated in the sixth volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe on the Giants." After the winning of the National League Championship by the Giants, came the World Series with the Boston Red Sox, who had won the title that year in the American League. The Sox were a hard team to beat, and the Giants had their work cut out for them. In addition to the strain of the games in which he was slated to pitch, Joe had to contend with the foul tactics of a gang of gamblers who had wagered heavily on the Sox and did all they could to put Joe out of action. But his indomitable will and quick wit triumphed over all obstacles, and his magnificent pitching in the last game of the series won the World's Championship for the Giants. The story of that stirring fight is told in the seventh volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe in the World Series." During these experiences, Joe had not escaped the toils of Cupid. Mabel Varley, a charming young girl, had been rescued by Joe at the moment that a runaway horse was about to carry her over a cliff. The romantic acquaintanceship thus begun soon grew into a deep affection, and Joe knew that Mabel held the happiness of his life in her hands. Jim Barclay, also, a promising young Princeton man and second string pitcher for the Giants, who was Joe's special chum, had grown very fond of Clara, Joe's pretty sister, and hoped that some day she would promise to be his wife. The World Series had scarcely ended before Joe and Jim were invited by McRae to make a trip around the world with the Giant and All-American teams. They were eager for the chance, and their delight was increased when it developed that there were to be a number of wives of the players in the party so that Mabel and Clara could go along. The teams played in Japan, in China, and in many of the cities of Europe, and the experience would have been a thoroughly happy one for Joe, had it not been for the machinations of men who were trying to form a rival league and had by the meanest trickery secured Joe's signature to what afterward turned out to be a contract. How Joe finally unmasked the plotters and had the satisfaction of giving the ringleader a tremendous thrashing is narrated in the preceding volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe Around the World." And now to return to Joe and Jim, as they stood in their dripping clothes on the country road in the growing light of the spring morning. For some seconds after Jim's startling statement, Joe stood as though rooted to the spot. Then he pulled himself together. "Come now, Jim, isn't that pretty far-fetched?" he said, with a forced laugh, in which, however, there was little mirth. "You haven't a shred of proof of anything of the kind." "No," admitted Jim, "there isn't anything--yet--that would convince a judge or a jury. I'll agree that it wouldn't go far in a court of law. But just put two and two together. Yesterday afternoon we were talking about this trip. You distinctly mentioned the hill near Hebron. It was just after you spoke that I saw Braxton pass the door." "Thought you saw," corrected Joe. "All right, then," said Jim patiently, "let it go at that--thought I saw Braxton passing the door. Now just suppose for a minute that I was right and see what comes of it. The man who hates you worse, probably, than any man on earth--the man to whom you gave a terrible thrashing--knew that you would be driving a car just before daylight--knew that you would have to climb a hill--knew that as you got near it you'd probably put on speed to carry the car up--knew that an obstacle put near the bottom of the hill would almost certainly wreck the car and hurt the driver. Knowing all this, might not such a man as we know Braxton to be see his chance and take it?" There was silence for a moment. Then: "It certainly sounds strong the way you put it," Joe said thoughtfully. "But how on earth could Braxton get here in time to do all this? Think of the distance." "It isn't so great a distance," rejoined Jim. "That is, if a man came straight across country in a speedy car for instance. It seemed long to us because of the roundabout way we had to go by train. Then too that was early in the afternoon, and Braxton could have had four hours' start of us. He's a rich man and probably has a fast car. He could have made it all right and got here hours ago." "Yes, but even then," argued Joe, "he couldn't have done it all alone. It's as much as you and I can do together to handle these timbers." "That's true," conceded Jim. "But he may have had one or more confederates with him. Money you know can do almost anything. I shouldn't wonder if that fellow Fleming helped him. He owed you a debt too, you remember, and the pair were as thick as thieves on the world tour." "Well, it may be just as you say," replied Joe. "But I hate to think that any man hates me so badly as to try to injure me in such a cowardly way as that. At any rate, it won't do any harm for us to keep our eyes open in the future. But we've got plenty of time to think of that. Now let's get busy and hustle these timbers over to the side of the road so that nobody else can run into them. Then we'll take a look at the car." They set to work with a will, and in a few minutes had removed the obstacles from the road. "Now for the machine," said Joe, as he led the way to the river bank. "I've got an idea that what we owe Hank will put a dent in our bank rolls." To their delight they found, however, that, apart from superficial injuries, the car seemed to be intact. The wind shield had been shattered and the mud guards were badly bent. But the axles seemed to be sound, the wheels were in place, and as far as they could judge there had been no injury to the engine. To all appearances the expenditure of a hundred dollars would put the car in good shape again. But the wheels were so firmly imbedded in the mud of the shore that despite all their efforts they could not budge the car. They strained and pushed and lifted, but to no avail. Joe climbed into the driver's seat and set the engine going, but the car was stubborn and refused to back. "Swell chance of our getting home in time for breakfast," grumbled Joe, as he stopped to rest for a moment. "Lucky if we get there in time for supper," muttered Jim. "We'll have to go somewhere and borrow a shovel so that we can dig the wheels out of the mud." But just at this moment they heard the rumbling of a cart, and running to the road they saw it coming, drawn by two stout horses, while the driver sat handling the reins in leisurely fashion. They waved their hands and the cart came to a halt, the driver scanning curiously the two young men who had appeared so unexpectedly from the side of the road. He was a bluff, jovial person, and his eyes twinkled with amusement as he noted the wet garments that were clinging to their limbs. "Been taking a bath with all your clothes on?" he asked, as he got down from his seat. "Something like that," replied Joe, with a laugh, "but the bath came as a sort of surprise party. The road was blocked, and it was either the morgue or the river for us, so we chose the river." "Road blocked?" repeated the newcomer, looking about with a puzzled expression. "I don't get you. Looks clear enough to me." "It wouldn't if you'd been here half an hour ago," replied Joe, and then, as the man listened with interest that soon changed to indignation, he recounted briefly the events of the morning. "Whoever did that ought to be jailed," he burst out, when the boys had concluded their story. "And he can't be very far away, either. This road was clear when I passed over it last night. Jump in and I'll drive you into town and we can send out an alarm." "Not much use of that I'm afraid," replied Joe. "The man or men may be fifty miles away by this time. But if you'll give us a hand to get this auto out of the mud, you'll do us a big favor." "Sure I'll help you," said the friend in need, whose name they learned was Thompson. "I've got a spade right here in the cart. We'll dig around the wheels a little. Then I'll hitch a trace chain to the machine and my horses will yank it out in a jiffy." A few minutes of work sufficed to clear the wheels. Then boards were placed behind them, the chain was attached to the rear axle, and the horses drew the car back into the road. It presented rather a forlorn appearance, but the boys cared little for that. What they were far more concerned about was their own bedraggled condition. "We match the car all right," remarked Jim disgustedly, as he looked at his own clothes and those of his companion. "It will never do to let Mabel and Clara see us like this," responded Joe lugubriously. "Don't let that worry you," laughed their new friend. "Just drive into town and stop at Eph Allen's tailor shop. It's pretty early, but Eph sleeps in the back of his shop and he'll let you in and fix you up in no time." This was evidently the best thing to be done, and the young men, after repeated thanks to their newly made friend and with fullest directions as to how to find the tailor shop in question, jumped into the auto and started on the way back to Hebron. "Old bus seems to work as well as ever," commented Joe, as the car moved on without any visible evidence of injury. "That's one bit of good luck," replied Jim. "And it's certainly coming to us to make up in part for the bad." They thanked their stars that it was too early yet for many people to be stirring in the town, and were relieved when they found themselves in front of Allen's shop. Eph must have been a pretty sound sleeper, for it took a good deal of knocking to wake him up, and when at last he thrust his tousled head through the door to ask what was wanted, he was not in the best of temper. But as soon as he learned the circumstances that had occasioned the early call, he became at once all interest and attention, and hustled about to put their clothes in presentable shape. It was a fairly good job that he at length turned out after he had ironed and pressed their suits, though they had by no means the Beau Brummel effect with which the boys had planned to impress the girls. By this time the sun had fully risen and Joe looked at his watch. "Perhaps we'll be in time to catch them at breakfast yet," he remarked. "It's only about twenty miles from here to Riverside. Maybe they won't be surprised when we break in on them. They don't think we're within several hundred miles of them." "Perhaps we ought to have telegraphed that we were coming," said Jim. "It might have been just as well, I suppose," admitted Joe. "But that would have taken away the fun of the surprise. I want to see the look on their faces." "Of course we won't say anything about what happened to us this morning," suggested Jim, as the machine bowled along over a road that with every minute that passed was growing more familiar. "Not on your life," replied Joe earnestly. "None of them would ever have another easy minute. They'd be seeing our mangled remains every night in their dreams. All we'll tell them is that we had a little spill and got wet. But not a word about the blocked road or what we suspect regarding Braxton." Before long they were passing the straggling houses that marked the outskirts of Riverside. Joe pulled his cap down over his eyes so that he would not be recognized and stopped by any of the people of the town, where he was regarded as something of an idol. All he wanted to do was to get to his family and Mabel, or, as perhaps he would have put it, get to Mabel and his family. His ruse was successful, for there was no sign of recognition from the few he passed on the streets, and in a few minutes he brought the car to a stop in front of the Matson home. The young men jumped out, and with Joe leading the way ran lightly up the steps. He tried the front door and found that it yielded to his touch. With his finger on his lips as a warning to Jim, he tiptoed softly through the hall to the door of the dining room. The odor of coffee and bacon came to them and from the click of plates and cups, as well as the murmur of several voices, they knew that the family was still at the breakfast table. Joe waited no longer but threw open the door. "Hello, folks!" he cried. CHAPTER III REGGIE TURNS UP If Joe had counted upon producing a surprise, his success surpassed his wildest expectations. At first there was a second of paralyzed silence. Then there was a wild hubbub of delighted cries, as four figures started up from the table and launched themselves upon the stalwart figure that stood framed in the doorway. "Joe!" "Mabel!" "Clara!" "Momsey!" "Dad!" "Jim!" The names were repeated in quick succession and were punctuated with hugs and kisses. In a moment Joe had his right arm around Mabel, his left about his mother, while Clara had thrown her arms about his neck and his father was attempting to get hold of one of his hands. There was no doubt of the warmth of that welcome. [Illustration: THERE WAS NO DOUBT OF THE WARMTH OF THAT WELCOME.] Nor was Jim left out in the cold. Joe naturally had the center of the stage, but after the first rapturous greeting had passed, they all made Jim feel how delighted they were that he had come along with Joe. In Clara's eyes especially there was a look that Jim hoped he read aright. Her flushed and sparkling face was alive with happiness that might not be due altogether to the return of her brother, dearly as she loved him. For a few minutes questions and answers followed close on each other's heels, and it was Mrs. Matson at last who suggested that probably the boys were hungry. They agreed with her emphatically that they were. The girls flew about, and in a short time fresh coffee and hot biscuits and bacon and eggs were set before them in tempting profusion. Then while they ate like famished wolves, the others, who had been just finishing breakfast when they burst in upon them, sat about the table and talked and laughed and beamed to their hearts' content. Perhaps in all the broad land there was no happier group than was gathered about that table in the little town of Riverside. "You ought to have telegraphed that you were coming, Joe," said Mrs. Matson. "Then we could have had a good breakfast ready for you." "What do you call this?" laughed Joe, as he helped himself to another biscuit, watching at the same time the bewitching way in which Mabel was pouring him another cup of coffee. "There couldn't be anything better than this this side of kingdom come." "You're right there, old man," observed Jim, his own appetite keeping pace with that of his chum. "Seems to me, Joe, that your clothes look a little seedy this morning," Clara remarked, with a sister's frankness, during a moment's pause in the conversation. "The last time you came home you looked like a fashion plate. But now your shirt front is wrinkled, your collar is wilted, and the colors in your necktie have run together. Looks as though you'd got wet through and hadn't dried out yet." "Perhaps they've been in the river," laughed Mabel gaily, little thinking how near she came to hitting the nail on the head. Mrs. Matson's motherly heart was quick to take alarm. "What's that?" she asked. "Nothing really has happened to you, has it, Joe?" she inquired, looking anxiously at her son, who after one glare at the sister who had precipitated the topic, was trying to assume an air of nonchalance. But this direct inquiry from his mother left him no recourse except to tell her a part of the truth, though not necessarily the whole truth. "We did have a little spill this morning," he returned indifferently. "I turned the car a little too much to the right and we went through a fence and into a little stream at the side of the road. Jim and I got wet, but after we got over being mad we had a good laugh over it. Neither one of us was a bit hurt, and it's only our clothes that got the worst of it." "Oh, but you might have been killed!" exclaimed Mrs. Matson, clasping her hands together nervously. "You must be more careful, Joe. It would break my heart if anything happened to you." "Don't worry a bit, Momsey," replied Joe, placing his hand affectionately over hers. "Only the good die young, you know, and that makes me safe." They all pressed him for the details of the accident, and he and Jim both made light of it, making a joke out of their plight and their visit to the tailor, so that apprehension vanished, and after a while the matter was dropped. Joe was eager for a chance to get alone with Mabel, and Jim was quite as keen for a tête-à-tête with Clara. The girls were quite as eager, but as there was no servant in the simple little household the girls flew around to clear the table, while Joe had a chance for a quiet talk with his mother, and Jim beguiled his impatience by going out on the porch with Mr. Matson for a smoke before the latter had to go downtown to business. "How have you been feeling, Momsey?" Joe asked when they had settled down in a cosy corner of the living room. "It seems to me that you're a little thinner than you were." "I'm not feeling any too well," replied Mrs. Matson. "I have trouble with my breathing whenever I go up or down stairs. But I'll be all right pretty soon," she added, with an attempt at brightness. "I'm afraid you've been working too hard, Momsey," replied Joe, patting her hand. "Why don't you let me get you a maid to help out with the work? The money doesn't matter, and you know how glad I'd be to bear the expense." "I don't want any regular servant, Joe," replied Mrs. Matson. "I haven't been used to one, and she'd be more bother than help. We have a wash woman. There isn't much to be done in this little house, and Clara is the dearest girl. If I did what she wanted, I'd just fold my hands and sit around in the living room. And Mabel, too, has spoiled me since she's been here. She's already like a second daughter to me." "She'll be really your daughter before long, if I have anything to say about it," replied Joe. "I'm going to put it right up to her to marry me while I'm here this time." Mrs. Matson was both delighted and flustered at the boldness of this announcement. "You take my breath away, talking like that," she replied. "But I'm afraid Mabel won't let herself be carried off her feet in that way. A girl wants to get her trousseau ready. And then, too, she'll want to be married in her father's house. You're a dear boy, Joe, but you've got a lot to learn about women." "Mabel will agree all right," replied Joe confidently, though his masculine assurance had been slightly dashed by his mother's prediction. The opportunity to make sure about that important matter came a few minutes later, when Mabel came into the room looking more lovely, Joe thought, than he had ever seen her before. Mrs. Matson lingered only a moment longer, and then made an excuse to leave the room. The door had hardly closed behind her before Mabel was in Joe's arms. It was a long time before they were able to talk coherently, and when at last Mabel told Joe that he was too greedy and laughingly bade him be sensible, she was more rosy and beautiful than ever, and Joe was deeper in love than before, if that could be possible. Joe was not long in putting his mother's prediction to the test. "Do you remember what Jim said when we said good-by to McRae after the World Tour was over?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. The flush in Mabel's cheeks deepened. "Jim talks so much nonsense," she countered. "Think a minute." Joe was jogging her memory. "Wasn't it something about bells?" "How should I remember?" asked Mabel, though she did remember perfectly. "Well, I remember," said Joe. "He said I'd soon be hearing wedding bells. Now do you remember?" "Y-yes," admitted Mabel at last, hiding her face on Joe's shoulder, which was very close to her. "I want to hear those wedding bells, very soon, dearest," said Joe tenderly. "Next week--this week--to-morrow----" Mabel sat up with a little scream. "Next week--this week--to-morrow!" she repeated. "Why, Joe dear, we can't!" "Why can't we?" asked Joe with masculine directness. "Why--why--we just can't," replied Mabel. "I haven't got my wedding clothes ready. And I'll have to be married in my own home. What would my family think? What would my friends think? It would look like a runaway affair. People would talk. Oh, Joe dear, I'd love to, but I just can't. Don't you see I can't?" Joe did not see at all, and he renewed his importunities with all his powers of persuasion. But Mabel, though she softened her refusal with lover-like endearments, was set in her convictions, and Joe at last was forced to confess in his heart with a groan that his mother was right, and that he had a lot to learn about women. He suggested in desperation that they go on at once to her home in Goldsboro and be married there, but although that would have taken away one of her arguments, the others still continued in full force, and she added another for good measure. "You see, Joe, dear, your mother isn't well enough just now to travel so far, and it would break her heart if she weren't present at our marriage. By fall she may be better." "By fall!" echoed Joe in dismay. "Have I got to wait that long?" "I think it would be better, dear," said Mabel gently. "You see if we got married any time after the baseball season had commenced, you would find it hard to get away from your club. In any case, our honeymoon trip would have to be very short. Then, too, if I traveled about the circuit with you, you'd have me on your mind, and it might affect your playing. But I promise you that we shall get married in the fall, just as soon as the baseball season is over." And as she sealed this promise in the way that Joe liked best, he was forced to be content. The days passed by, as though on wings, with Joe grudging every minute as it passed that brought him nearer to the day when he would have to rejoin his team. The hours were precious and he spent every one of them that he could with Mabel. Jim, too, was finding his vacation delightful. He was getting on famously with Clara, and the latter's heart was learning to beat very fast when she heard the step and saw the face of the handsome young athlete. The prospects were very good that two weddings would be celebrated in the fall, and that Baseball Joe would gain not only a wife but a brother-in-law. During that week the moon was at its full, and almost every night saw the two couples out for a stroll. They would start out from the house together and walk down the village street, with only a few yards separating them. However, they usually lost sight of each other before they had gone far. Joe was happy, supremely happy. Mabel had never been so dear, so affectionate. He knew that he possessed her heart utterly. Yet there was a faint something, a mysterious impression to which he could scarcely give a name, that at times marred his happiness and caused him to feel depressed. He chased the feeling away, and yet it returned. There were moments when Mabel grew quiet and seemed as though brooding over something. Her face would become sad, and only brighten with a gayety that seemed a little forced, when she saw that he was studying her and seeking to learn what troubled her. At times she would cling to him as though she feared he was to be taken from her. Once or twice he questioned her, but she laughed his fears away and declared that there was nothing the matter. Despite her denials, he remained vaguely uneasy. The day before his brief vacation came to an end there was a ring at the bell of the Matson home. Mabel, who happened to be in the hall at the time, opened the door. There was an exclamation of surprise and delight as the newcomer threw his arms about her. "Reggie!" "Mabel!" There was a fond embrace, and then Mabel came into the living room where the family were assembled, while close behind her came Reggie Varley, her brother, the same old Reggie, monocle, cane, lisp, English clothes, English accent, fancy waistcoat, fitted in topcoat, spats and all--a vision of sartorial splendor! CHAPTER IV THE ANONYMOUS LETTER All rose to their feet in hearty welcome. It was not the first time Reggie had visited the Matson home, and all were fond of him. Joe and Jim especially gave him a hilarious greeting. "Hello, Reggie, old man," cried Joe, as he shook hands. "I'm tickled to death to see you. What good wind blew you down this way? I didn't think you were within a thousand miles of here." "Well, old top," explained Reggie, as he gracefully drew off his gloves and divested himself of his topcoat, "it was so beastly quiet in Goldsboro, don't y'know, that I got fed up with it and when the guv'nor suggested that there was a bit of business I could attend to in Chicago I just blew the bally town and ran out there. Then bein' so near, I thought I'd run down and see Sis and the rest of you. It's simply rippin' to see y'all again, don't y'know." He sat down in a chair, carefully adjusting his trousers so as not to mar the creases in the legs, and beamed blandly upon the friendly faces that surrounded him. Joe and Reggie had first met under rather unpleasant circumstances, that bore no promise of a close friendship later on. Reggie had left his bag in a seat of a railroad station while he went to buy his ticket. Upon his return he missed his bag, which had been left in a seat adjoining the one in which Joe had in the meantime seated himself, and had practically accused Joe of taking it. As may be readily imagined, Joe was not the one to take lightly such an accusation, and Reggie had to apologize. It was only after Joe had met Mabel that he again encountered Reggie and learned that he was the girl's brother. But apart from his relationship to Mabel, Joe had found further reason for liking Reggie, as time wore on and he became better acquainted with him. Reggie had never been restrained much by his father, who was rich and indulgent. He had an inordinate love of fine clothes and an affectation of English customs and manner of speech. But these, after all, were foibles, and at heart Reggie was "true blue." He was a staunch friend, generous, kindly and honorable. He idolized his charming sister, who in return was devotedly attached to him. Another thing that strengthened the friendship between Joe and Reggie was that they were both ardent lovers of the great national game. Reggie was a "dyed-in-the-wool fan," and though his general information was none too great he had the records of individual players and the history of the game at his tongue's end, and could rattle on for an hour on a stretch when he once got started on his favorite theme. He was a great admirer of Joe as a player, and intensely proud that he was going to be his brother-in-law. Whenever the Giants played and Joe was slated to pitch, the latter could be perfectly certain that Reggie, even if he chanced to be at the time in San Francisco, was "rooting" for him to win. Jim also had met Reggie frequently and liked him thoroughly. The other members of the Matson family liked him, both for Mabel's sake and his own. So it was a very friendly circle into which Reggie had come so unexpectedly. "But I didn't expect to see you two chaps here," said Reggie, as he looked from Joe to Jim. "I thought you were down in the training camp, or else on your way to New York with the rest of the Giants." "It was just a bit of luck that we are here," replied Joe. "McRae thought that we were trained fine enough, and might go stale if we worked out in practice any longer. He wants us to be at the top of our form when the bell rings at the Polo Grounds." "Bally good sense, I call it, too," replied Reggie, looking admiringly at their athletic forms. "Just now you look fit to fight for a man's life, don't y'know." "Never felt better," admitted Joe. "Nor happier either," he added, as he glanced at Mabel, who dropped her eyes before his ardent look. "You came just in time to see the boys," put in Mrs. Matson. "They're starting to-morrow for New York." "Bah Jove, I'd like to go with them," said Reggie. "I'd give a lot to see that opening game on the Polo Grounds. But this beastly business in Chicago will make it necessary for me to go back there in a few days. In the meantime I thought that perhaps you might put me up here for a little while, don't y'know?" He looked toward Mr. Matson as he spoke, and both he and Mrs. Matson hastened to assure the young man that they would be only too glad to do so. All had a lot to talk about, and the evening passed quickly, until at last Mrs. Matson excused herself on the plea that she wanted to see about Reggie's room. Mr. Matson soon followed, and the young people were left to themselves. "Well, what do you think the chances are of the Giants copping the flag again, old top?" asked Reggie, as he pulled down his cuffs and put up his hand to make sure that his immaculate tie was all right. "The Giants look mighty sweet to me," answered Joe. "They've had a good training season and shown up well in practice. They've won every game they've played with the minor leaguers so far, and haven't had to exert themselves. Of course that doesn't mean very much in itself, as the bushers ought to be easy meat for us. But we've got practically the same team with which we won the pennant last year, and I can't see why we shouldn't repeat. Jim here has been coming along like a house afire, and he'll make the fans sit up and take notice when they see him in action." "Oh, I'm only an also ran," said Jim modestly. "Indeed you're not," Clara started to say indignantly, but checked herself in time. Not so quickly, however, that Jim failed to catch her meaning and note the flush that rose to her cheek. "Funny thing happened when I was in Chicago," mused Reggie. "I heard a chap say in one of the hotels that there was heavy betting against the Giants winning this year. Some one, he didn't know who, was putting up cash in great wads against them, and doing it with such confidence that it almost seemed as though he thought he was betting on a sure thing. Taking ridiculous odds too. Queer, wasn't it?" "A fool and his money are soon parted," remarked Joe. "That fellow will be a little wiser and a good deal poorer when the season ends, or I miss my guess. Who's going to beat us out? Nothing short of a train wreck can stop us." "Now you're talking!" cried Jim. "Another thing that's going to help us," said Joe, "was that trip we had around the world. We had some mighty hot playing on that tour against the All-Americans, and it kept the boys in fine fettle." "Speaking about that trip, old chap," put in Reggie, "reminds me of another thing that happened in Chicago. I was going down State Street one afternoon, and almost ran into that Braxton that you handed such a trimming to over in Ireland." "Braxton!" cried Joe. "Braxton!" echoed Jim. "Sure thing," replied Reggie, mildly puzzled at the agitation that the name aroused in the two chums. "I'm not spoofing you. Braxton it was, as large as life. The bounder recognized me and started to speak, but I gave him the glassy eye and he thought better of it and passed on. Funny what a little world it is, don't y'know." "It surely is a little world," replied Jim, as a significant glance passed between him and Joe. "I glanced back," Reggie went on, "and saw him getting into a car drawn up at the curb. As classy a machine as I've seen, too, for a long time. Built for speed, y'know. If he hadn't driven off too quickly, I'd have made a note of the make. My own is getting rather old, and I've been thinking about replacing it." The conversation turned into other channels and finally began to drag a little. The others made no sign of being ready to retire, and at last Reggie woke to the fact that he would have to make the first move. He looked at his watch, remarked that he was rather tired after his journey, and thought that he would "pound the pillow." Joe showed him to his room, chatted with him a few minutes, and then returned to the living room where he found Mabel alone, as Clara and Jim had drifted into the dining room. It was the last night the boys would have at home, and the two young couples had a lot to talk about. To Jim especially the time was very precious, for he had made up his mind to ask a very momentous question, and there is little doubt but that Clara knew it was coming and had already made up her mind how it should be answered. It was an exceedingly agitated Jim that asked Mr. Matson for a private interview the next morning, and it was an exceedingly happy Jim that emerged from the room a few minutes later and announced to the family already seated at the breakfast table that Clara had promised to be his wife. There was a stampede from the chairs, to the imminent danger of the coffee being upset, and Clara was hugged and kissed by Mabel and hugged and kissed and cried over by her mother, while Jim's hand was almost wrung off by Joe and Reggie in the general jubilation. For Jim was a splendid fellow, a Princeton graduate, a rising man in his chosen calling, and an all round good fellow. And there was no sweeter or prettier girl than Clara in all Riverside, or, as Jim stood ready to maintain, in the whole world. Needless to say that for the rest of that morning Reggie and Joe had no other masculine society than each could furnish to the other, for Jim had shamelessly abandoned them. Soon Reggie, too, had to chum with himself, as Joe and Mabel had found a sequestered corner and seemed to be dead to the rest of the world. Just before noon, however, when Mabel had gone in to help Mrs. Matson to prepare lunch, Joe had a chance to talk with Reggie alone. "Mabel's looking rippin', don't you think?" remarked Reggie, as he caught a glimpse of his sister passing the door of the room in which they sat. "Most beautiful girl that lives," returned Joe, with enthusiasm. "I guess she's stopped worrying about----" began Reggie, and then checked himself as though he had said more than he intended to. "Worrying about what?" asked Joe, with the quick apprehension of a lover. "Oh, about--about things in general," replied Reggie, in some confusion and evading Joe's searching eyes. "Look here, Reggie," said Joe with decision. "If anything's worrying Mabel, I've got a right to know what it is. I've noticed lately that she seemed to have something on her mind. Come now, out with it." Reggie still tried to put him off, but Joe would have none of it. "I've got to know, Reggie," he declared. "You've simply got to tell me." Reggie pondered a moment. "Well, old top," he said at last, "I suppose you have a right to know, and perhaps it's best that you should know. The fact is that Mabel got a letter a little while ago telling her that it would be a sorry day for her if she ever married Joe Matson. Threatened all sorts of terrible things against you, don't y'know." "What!" cried Joe, wild with rage and leaping to his feet. "The scoundrel! The coward! Who signed that letter? What's his name? If I ever lay my hands on him, may heaven have mercy on him, for I won't!" "That's the worst of it," replied Reggie. "There wasn't any name signed to it. The bounder who wrote it took good care of that." "But the handwriting!" cried Joe. "Perhaps I can recognize it. Where is the letter? Give it to me." "I haven't got it with me," Reggie explained. "It's at my home in Goldsboro. The poor girl had to confide in somebody, so she sent it to me. And even if you had it, it wouldn't tell you anything. It was in typewriting." "But the postmark!" ejaculated Joe. "Perhaps that would give a clue. Where did it come from?" "There again we're stumped," responded Reggie. "It was postmarked Chicago. But that doesn't do us any good, for there are two million people in Chicago." "Oh!" cried Joe, as he walked the floor and clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms. "The beastliness of it! The cowardice of it! An anonymous letter! That such a villain should dare to torture the dearest girl in the world! But somewhere, somehow, I'll hunt him out and thrash him soundly." "Don't take the beastly thing so much to heart," returned Reggie. "Of course it's just a bluff by some bally bounder. Nobody ought to do anything with such a letter but tear it up and think no more about it. Some coward has done it that has a grudge against you, but he'd probably never have the nerve to carry out his threats." "It isn't that I care about," answered Joe. "I've always been able to take care of myself. I'd like nothing better than to have the rascal come out in the open and try to make his bluff good. But it's Mabel I'm thinking about. You know a woman doesn't dismiss those things as a man would. She worries her heart out about it. So that's what has been weighing on her mind, poor, dear girl. Oh, if I only had my hands on the fellow that wrote that letter!" And here he yielded again to a justified rage that was terrible to behold. It would have been a bad day for the rascally writer of that anonymous letter if he had suddenly stood revealed in the presence of Joe Matson! CHAPTER V "PLAY BALL!" Just then Mabel came in with her hands full of flowers that she meant to arrange for the table. She stopped short in consternation as she saw the thundercloud on Joe's brow. For a moment she thought that he and Reggie had been quarreling. "Oh, Joe, what is it?" she asked in alarm. Joe looked at her lovingly and his brow cleared. "Nothing, honey," he said, as he came up to her and slipped his arm around her. "It's only that I've just found out from Reggie what it is that's been worrying you." Mabel shot a reproachful glance at Reggie, who looked a little embarrassed. "Joe got it out of me, Sis," he explained. "Said he had a right to know and all that sort of thing, don't y'know. And 'pon honor, Sis, I don't know but what he's right about it." "Of course I'm right about it," affirmed Joe. "There can't be anything now that concerns Mabel that doesn't concern me. Don't you agree with me, dearest?" "I suppose so," returned Mabel, as Joe drew her closer. "But, oh, Joe, I didn't want to distress you about it. I was afraid that it would weigh on your mind and affect your work this season, and I knew how your heart was set on making a record. It was just for your sake, dearest, that I kept it to myself. Of course I would have told you sooner or later." "Well, now Mabel, listen to me," said Joe, as he placed a chair and sat down beside her. "I don't know what fellow has done this. But whoever he is, he is a coward as well as a rascal, and will never dare to carry out his threats against me. And even if he should, you know that I am perfectly able to take care of myself. You know that others have tried to injure me, but I always came out on top. Fleming tried it; Braxton tried it, and you know what happened to them. Now what I want you to promise me is to banish this beastly thing entirely from your memory. Treat it with the contempt it deserves. Will you promise me this?" "I will promise, Joe," answered Mabel. "I'll try to forget that it ever happened." "That's the girl," commended Joe. "And to set your mind at rest I'll promise on my part to take especially good care of myself. That's a bargain." But while Joe had secured the promise of Mabel to forget the letter, he had made no such promise himself, and he vowed that if he could ever get any trace of the writer of that letter he would give him the punishment he so richly deserved. The train Baseball Joe and Jim Barclay would take was to leave late that afternoon. Somehow general knowledge of that fact had got abroad, and the boys were dismayed, on reaching the station, to find that half the population of the little town had gathered there to say good-by and wish them luck. To many of the townspeople, Joe was a bigger man than the President of the United States. He had put Riverside "on the map," and through the columns of the papers they followed his triumphs and felt that in a sense they were their own. Of course Joe appreciated this affectionate interest, but just at the moment all he wanted was to be alone with Mabel. He had already bidden his mother a loving farewell at the house, as she was not well enough to go to the station. Jim also had eyes and thoughts only for Clara. But there was no help for it, and they had to exchange greetings and good wishes with the kindly friends who clustered around them. At the last minute, however, the young folks had a chance to say a few words to each other, and what they did not have time to say was eloquent in their eyes. The train moved off, and the boys leaned far out of the windows and waved to the girls as long as they were in sight. Then they settled back in their seats, and for a long time were engrossed in their thoughts. Usually they were full of chaff and banter, but to-day it was some time before they roused themselves from reverie and paid attention to the realities around them. It was after they had come back from the dining car after supper that Joe told Jim about his interview with Reggie and the anonymous letter. Jim's wrath was almost as great as that which had shaken Joe himself. "And the worst of it is," said Joe, "that there doesn't seem the slightest chance of getting hold of the cowardly fellow that did it. You might as well look for a needle in a haystack." "Yes," agreed Jim, "that's the exasperating feature of it. It may be the work of gamblers who have bet against the Giants and want to worry you so that you won't pitch your best ball. Some of those fellows will do anything for money. Or it may have been done by some enemy who chose that way of striking in the dark." "If it's an enemy," mused Joe, "that narrows it down. There's old Bugs Hartley, but I don't think he has intelligence enough to write a letter. Then there's Fleming, with whom I'm just about as popular as poison ivy. Add to that Braxton and a few old-time enemies, and you've about completed the list." "I wouldn't put it past Braxton," remarked Jim thoughtfully. "That fellow's a rattlesnake. He wouldn't stop at anything to get even with you." "I hate to think he'd stoop as low as to try to strike me through a woman," replied Joe. "But, by Jove!" he went on, as a thought struck him, "do you remember what Reggie said about meeting Braxton in Chicago? You know while we were on the trip he mentioned Chicago as his home town. And that letter had the Chicago postmark." "Oh, well, you couldn't hang a yellow dog on that," Jim replied. "But what struck me was what Reggie said about the speedy car that Braxton had. It must have been a mighty speedy car that got the fellow who laid that trap on the road from the training town to Hebron. Of course those things are only straws, of no value separately, though straws show which way the wind blows. One thing is certain. We've got to keep one man in our mind and guard against him. And that man's name is Braxton." They reached New York without incident the day before the opening game, and found the city baseball mad. The front pages of the newspapers had big headlines discussing the opening of the season. The sporting pages overflowed with speculation and prophecy as to the way the different teams would shape up for the pennant race. In the street cars, in the subways, in the restaurants, in the lobbies of the theatres, wherever men congregated, baseball was the subject of discussion. The long winter had made the populace hungry for their favorite game. On the following day, the migration toward the Polo Grounds began long before noon. Every train was packed with eager, good-natured humanity on its way to the game. By noon the bleachers were packed, and an hour before the game was scheduled to begin, every inch of the grandstands were packed to overflowing. The Bostons were to be the Giants' opponents in the opening game. The team had finished poorly the year before, but many winter trades had strengthened the weak spots, and the spring training of the nine had been full of promise. A close game was looked for, with the chances favoring the Giants. McRae was anxious to win the opening game, and had selected Joe to "bring home the bacon." Hughson's arm was not yet in shape, and the prospects were that Joe would have to bear the heft of the pitcher's burden if the Giants were to carry off the flag. Both teams were greeted with hearty cheers as they came out on the field. The Bostons as the visiting team, had the first chance at practice, and they uncovered a lot of speed in their preliminary work. Then the Giants took their turn in shooting the ball across the diamond and batting long flies to the outfielders. The bell rang and the field was cleared, while a hush of expectation fell on the crowds. The blue-uniformed umpire stepped to the plate. "Ladies and gentlemen," he bawled, "the batteries for to-day's game are Albaugh and Menken for Boston, and Matson and Mylert for New York. Play ball!" CHAPTER VI GETTING THE JUMP Neale, the heavy hitting center fielder of the Bostons, who led off in the batting order, came to the plate, swinging three bats. He discarded two of them and took up his position, after having tapped his heel for luck. Joe looked him over for a moment. Then he wound up and whipped one over the plate. It was a high fast one, and Neale swung at it, his bat missing the ball by fully three inches. "Strike one!" called the umpire, and the crowd roared in approval. It was an auspicious beginning. The next one was wide, and Neale refused to "bite." Again Joe tempted him with a bad one, and again Neale was too wary. The next ball was a swift incurve that broke so suddenly that it buffaloed Neale completely. The lunge he made at it swung him round so that he almost lost his balance, and he looked rather sheepish as Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giants, grinned at him. "Had that in my mitt before you swung at it," taunted Mylert. "Gee, but you're slow." Neale glared at him, but made no reply and tightened his grip on the bat. This time Joe floated up a slow teaser that looked as big as a balloon as it sailed lazily for the plate. Neale, who was all set for a fast one, nearly broke his back reaching for it. "You're out," declared the umpire, while shouts and laughter came from the crowded stands, as Neale, flinging down his bat disgustedly, went back to the dugout. Kopf, the next man up, dribbled a slow one to the box that Joe had no trouble in getting to first on time. Mitchell lifted a towering fly that Iredell gobbled up without moving in his tracks. "Classy work, old man!" cried out Robbie, his face glowing with satisfaction, as Joe drew off his glove and came in to the bench. "The old wing seems to be working as well as ever." The Giants did a little better in the first inning, though not well enough to chalk up a run. Curry started well by lining to center for a single, the ball just escaping Warner's fingers, as he leaped into the air for it. Iredell tried to sacrifice, but the ball went too quickly to the pitcher, who turned and caught Curry at second. Iredell tried to get down on the first ball pitched, but Menken showed that his throwing arm was right and nipped him by three feet. Burkett lifted one between right and center that had all the earmarks of a home run, but Mitchell, by a great run, got to it with one hand and froze on to it. It was a remarkable catch, and the sportsmanlike New York crowd applauded it as heartily as though it had been made by one of their favorites. "Highway robbery," growled Burkett, who had almost reached second before the ball was caught, and was cherishing hopes of having knocked out the first home run of the season. It seemed clear that the Bostons were not to be trifled with, at least as far as their fielding was concerned, and the crowd settled down in expectation of a close struggle. The second inning for the Bostons was short. Douglas sent up a pop fly to Willis at third. Barber fouled to Mylert. Warner tapped a little one in front of the plate that Mylert heaved to first. Each had offered at the first ball pitched, so that only three balls had been thrown for the entire inning. The hard hitting that the Giants had done in the first session had resulted in nothing, but it had shown them that Albaugh could be hit, and they faced him with confidence when they next went to the bat. But Albaugh had braced in his short breathing spell, and he set the Giants down in short order. The best that Wheeler could do was to lift a high fly behind second that nestled comfortably in Douglas' hands. Willis got to first base on an error by Warner, but Denton hit into a double play, Ellis to Douglas to Kopf, and the inning was over. In the third inning, the Bostons swung their bats in vain. Joe struck out Ellis, Menken and Albaugh, one after the other. His fast ball shot over the plate as though propelled by a gun. It came so swiftly that the Boston batsmen either winced and drew back, or struck at it after the ball had passed. His outcurve had a tremendous break, and Mylert had all he could do to get it. It was a superb example of pitching, and Joe had to remove his cap in response to the thunderous applause of the stands. "Isn't that boy a wonder, Mac?" asked Robbie in exultation. "He's simply standing those fellows on their heads. They just can't touch him." "He's the goods all right," agreed the less demonstrative McRae. "But don't let's crow too loud. The game isn't over yet by a long shot, and anything can happen in baseball." Allen was the first man up in the Giants' half, and he went out on a grasser to Warner, who got him at first by yards. It was Joe's turn next. "Win your own game now, Joe," said Jim, as his chum left the bench for the plate. "None of the other boys seem to be doing much. Show them one of the clouts you made at the training camp." Joe grinned in reply and went to the plate. Albaugh looked at him and thought he sensed an easy victim. He seldom had much trouble with pitchers. The first ball was wide and Joe let it go by. The second and third also went as balls. "Good eye, Joe," sang out Robbie, who was coaching at third. "Make him put it over." Albaugh now was "in a hole." Three balls had been called on him, and he had to get the next one over the plate. He wound up carefully and sent over a swift straight one about waist high. Joe timed it perfectly and caught it near the end of his bat. The ball went on a line straight toward the right field stands. On and on it went, still almost in a line. Neale and Barber had both started for it from the crack of the bat, but it stayed so low and went so fast that it eluded them and struck just at the foot of the right field bleachers. Joe in the meantime was running like a deer around the bases, while his comrades leaped about and howled, and the crowds in the stands were on their feet and shouting like madmen. He had rounded second and was well on toward third before Neale retrieved the ball. He relayed it to Douglas like a shot. By this time Joe had turned third and was dashing toward the plate. It was a race between him and the ball, but he beat the sphere by an eyelash, sliding into the rubber in a cloud of dust. For a few moments pandemonium reigned, as Joe, flushed and smiling, rose from the ground and dusted himself off while his mates mauled and pounded him and the multitude roared approval. "Jumping jiminy!" cried Jim, "that was a lallapaloozer! It was a longer hit than you made off of me this spring, and that's going some. And on a line too. I thought it was never going to drop." "It was a dandy, Joe," commended McRae, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's only a pity that there weren't men on bases at the time for you to bring in ahead of you. But we've broken the ice now, and perhaps the rest of the boys will get busy." Albaugh was rather shaken by the blow, and gave Mylert his base on balls. Curry too was passed to first, advancing Mylert to second. The stage seemed set for more Giant runs, but Iredell hit a liner to Ellis who took it at his shoe tops and made a smart double play by getting it to second before Mylert could scramble back. Still the Giants were a run to the good, and as the fourth and fifth innings went by without a score that run began to look as big as a meeting house. Albaugh had stiffened up and was pitching superbly, while his mates were giving him splendid support. He mowed down the heavy batters of the Giants one after another, and McRae began to fidget about uneasily on the bench. One run was a slender margin, and he was intensely eager to win this first game, not only because of the enormous crowd that had turned out to see their favorites win, but because of the moral effect on his players of "getting the jump" on at least four of the other teams by winning the first game of the season. When Joe came to the bat for the second time, there was a short consultation between Albaugh and his catcher, in which the astute manager of the Braves, Sutton, joined. Then Albaugh deliberately pitched four wild balls, and Joe trotted down to first. There was a chorus of jeers and catcalls from the crowds. "Got you rattled by that homer, did he?" "You're a sport--I don't think!" "Don't blame you for being afraid to let him hit it!" "He'll lose the ball next time!" "Crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after you!" But although it was not exactly sportsmanlike, it was within the rules of the game, and when Mylert went out on a fly a moment later, making the third out and leaving Joe stranded at first, Albaugh took off his glove and waved it mockingly at his tormentors. In the sixth inning the Bostons took their turn at scoring. Kopf sent an easy grounder to Iredell, who ordinarily would have eaten it up. This time, however, he fumbled it for a moment, and then in his haste to make up for the mishap threw wild to first. Burkett made a great jump for it, but it went high over his head to the right field fence, and before Burkett could regain it Kopf was on third. Mitchell tried to bring him home, but his efforts resulted in a weak grounder along the third base line. It looked as though the ball would roll over the foul line, and Willis waited too long. It proved to be fair, and by this time Mitchell was legging it for second. Willis threw low and the ball hit the bag, bounding out into center field. Wheeler ran in and got it, making a superb throw to the plate. But it was too late, and both Kopf and Mitchell had scored, putting Boston in the lead by two runs to one. Joe put on steam and struck out the next three batters. But the mischief had been done. Two miserable errors had given them as many unearned runs. Now all they had to do was to keep the Giants scoreless and the game would be won. Poor Iredell and Willis were disconsolate as they came in to the bench and their discomfiture was not lessened by the tongue lashing that McRae gave them. Joe, too, might naturally have been angered at the wretched support accorded to him in a game where he was showing such airtight pitching, but he was too fair and generous to find fault with comrades for a blunder that all athletes make more or less often. "Never mind, boys," he said to them in an undertone, as he sat beside them on the bench. "Just get busy with your bats and we'll pull the game out of the fire yet." Although the Giants made a desperate rally and in each of the next two innings got men on second and third, the score was unchanged and the game still "in the fire" when the eighth inning ended. Joe in the meantime had pitched with such effect that in the two innings not a man reached first. The ninth inning came, and the Giants took the field for the last time. "Now Joe," said McRae, as the former picked up his glove to walk out to the box, "hold them down just for one more inning, and we'll have a chance either to tie or win, if our boobs can wake up enough to do a little batting. The head of their batting order is coming up, but the way you've been pitching up to now they all look alike to you." "I'll pitch my head off if necessary," Joe assured him. The twirling that Joe did in that last inning was phenomenal. His control of the ball was almost uncanny. It writhed and twisted about the bats like a snake. Neale, the slugger of the Braves, struck out on the first three balls pitched. Kopf lifted a foul that came down straight over the plate, where Mylert gathered it in. Mitchell drove the ball straight over Joe's head, but the latter leaped high in the air and speared it with his gloved hand, while the stands rocked with applause. McRae gathered the Giants about him as they came in from the field. "Now you fellows listen to me," he commanded. "You've got to cop this game. No excuses. You've got to. Show these bean-eaters where they get off. Make them look like thirty cents. Knock the cover off the ball. Go in and win!" CHAPTER VII STEALING HOME Willis was first to the bat, and he strode to the plate with blood in his eye. He was still smarting from the sharp words of the manager and was anxious for a chance to redeem himself. A hit would help to wipe out the memory of his error. The first ball was an outshoot that just cut the corner of the plate. Willis struck at it and missed. The next one was a straight ball about knee high. Willis gave it a resounding clout, and it soared out toward the flagpole in left field. Willis was off with the crack of the bat, footing it down to first, while a roar went up from the stands. It looked like a sure home run, and it was clear that the Boston left fielder could not get under it. The runner was well on his way to second before the ball touched the ground. "Foul ball!" called the umpire. There was a groan from the Giant rooters, and Robbie rushed from the dugout to protest. The umpire coldly waved him off. "I said foul and that settles it," he declared, at the same time waving to Willis to come back to the plate. It was a very disgruntled Willis that complied, and he took up his bat mumbling something about "blind" and "robber." "What's that?" asked the umpire sharply. "Nothing," growled Willis, as he squared himself to meet the next ball. It was a bad one, and he let it go by. The next suited him, and he sent a sizzling grounder between second and third, on which he might have made a double, had he been quicker on his feet. But he was of the "ice wagon" type and had to be content with a single. Still it was a hit, and it put all the Giants on their toes in an instant. Their coachers at first and third began a chattering designed to rattle the pitcher. McRae hustled Denton out of the dugout with directions to sacrifice. The latter did his best, but Albaugh pounced on the ball and shot it to second, putting Willis out. Douglas whipped the ball to first in an endeavor to complete a double play, but Denton beat the ball by a step. With one man out and the tail end of the Giant batting order coming up the outlook was decidedly gloomy. Hope revived, however, when Allen laced a single to left. It was a clean hit, but Mitchell ran in on it and fielded so smartly that Denton was held at second. With two men on bases, Joe came to the bat, while the great throng gave him an ovation. "Win your own game, Matson," was shouted at him from thousands of throats. "Give the ball a ride!" "Another homer, Joe!" "Give the ball a passport and send it out of the country!" These and other encouraging cries greeted Joe as he waited for the ball. Albaugh looked at him with some apprehension. His respect for him as a batter had grown considerably since the beginning of the game. Joe refused to offer at the first ball, which was high and wide. Menken caught it and instead of returning it to the pitcher shot it down to second. Denton had taken too long a lead off the base and was trapped. His first impulse was to slide back to the bag, but he saw that he was too late for that and set out for third. The whole Boston infield joined in running him down, and despite his doubling and twisting, he was run down and put out near third. During the fracas, Allen reached second, but this was poor consolation, for now two men were out. Albaugh grinned as he picked up the ball and stepped on the mound. Baseball Joe resolved to knock that grin off his face. The ball came toward the plate like a bullet. Joe timed it perfectly, and poled a tremendous hit out toward center. "A homer! A homer!" yelled the crowd, wild with excitement. By the time Allen had galloped over the plate, Joe had rounded second, running like a frightened jackrabbit. But in the meantime, Mitchell, by a herculean effort, had managed to knock down the ball, after it had struck the ground and was speeding toward the fence. He straightened up and threw it in a line to third. It came plump into the waiting hands of the guardian of the bag. But Joe had already pulled up there, panting a little, but with his heart full of exultation. "Jumping Jehoshaphat, how that boy can hit!" cried McRae, while Joe's comrades jigged about and threw their caps into the air. "As pretty a three-bagger as I ever saw," declared Robson. "That ties the score anyway. Now if Mylert can only bring him in, the game's ours." Albaugh, though sore and enraged, still maintained perfect control of the ball. Twice in succession he sent it whizzing over the plate, and twice Mylert missed it by inches. Perhaps he was too anxious, but it was evident that his batting eye was off. Albaugh sensed this, and felt so sure of his victim that he paid little attention to third. Suddenly, as Albaugh began to wind up for his pitch, Joe darted down the line for the plate. A warning cry from Menken and a roar from the crowd told Albaugh what was happening. He stopped his windup and threw to Menken, who was covering the rubber and yelling to him to throw. He threw high in his excitement. Menken caught the ball and bent down, just as Joe slid over the plate in a cloud of dust. Menken dabbed frantically at him, and they rolled on the ground together. "Safe!" cried the umpire. The game was won and the Giants had "got the jump." The crowd went mad. By thousands they rushed down from the stands and swarmed down over the field. Joe saw them coming and made a dash for the clubhouse. But before he had reached it, the crowd had closed in about him, and it was only by the assistance of his mates, who cleared a way for him, that he could get away from their wild enthusiasm and slip into its welcome shelter. In a few minutes more the whole team had gathered there, laughing and shouting and going over the details of the game, while they took the showers and changed into their street clothes. There too came Robbie and McRae, as full of glee and happiness as the rest. "You old rascal!" chortled Robbie, as he slapped Joe on the back. "What are you trying to do? Be the whole team--gyp the other fellows out of their jobs? Such pitching, such batting--and then to cap it all by stealing home! Joe, old boy, I've seen lots of ball games, but your work to-day takes the cake." McRae, though less demonstrative, was not a whit less delighted. "Great work, Matson," he said. "Keep that up and there isn't a man in either league will be able to touch you." Jim too was fairly stuttering with his pride in his chum's achievements. "Picked the game right out of the fire," he exulted. "Tied it first and won it afterward. Joe old fellow, you're in a class by yourself. And that steal home! They'll talk about it all the season." "Well," replied Baseball Joe, with a grin, "I got rather homesick on third, and that home plate looked mighty good to me." Then Hughson came along with his congratulations, and these perhaps were the greatest reward that Joe could have asked for his day's work. For Hughson had been Joe's baseball idol for the last ten years. For at least that period of time, Hughson had been confessedly the greatest pitcher that baseball had ever seen. During that decade he had been the mainstay of the Giant team. When Hughson was slated to pitch, his mates were ready to chalk that game up in advance as won. And on the other hand, the opposing team was almost ready to concede the game before it was played. He had speed, curves and everything. At the most critical stage of a game he never lost his head. There might be three men on bases and none out, but that never disturbed Hughson. He would bring his wonderful "fadeaway" into action and the batters would go down like ninepins. He had brawn--plenty of it--but in addition he had brain, and when it came to strategy and quick thinking there was no one to be compared with him. But it was not merely his remarkable skill that had made him the hero of the baseball world. He was a gentleman through and through. He had had a college training and could meet and talk with educated men on equal terms. He was upright in his principles, clean in his living, quiet, plain, and unassuming. He was hail fellow well met with the other members of his team, and in fact with baseball players everywhere. Everybody liked him, and those who knew him best had a warm affection for him. Nor was there the slightest touch of jealousy about him. If any one else could take his laurels by showing that he was a better pitcher, Hughson welcomed the opportunity to give him every chance to do so. He was wholly wrapped up in the success of his team, and was only too glad to see any one helping to gain that success. His treatment of Joe since the latter had joined the team had been cordial in the extreme. He coached him, encouraged him, and did everything in his power to make him the star pitcher he saw he was destined to become. Hughson had been hurt in a collision just before the final games of the previous year, and had not been able to take part in the World Series. His arm had become better, but he was still in no condition to pitch. So that it had been merely as a spectator that he had witnessed the triumph of the Giants in this opening game of the season. Joe's eyes lighted up as he saw Hughson coming toward him with extended hand. CHAPTER VIII A BASEBALL IDOL "Put her there, Matson!" cried Hughson, his face beaming with pleasure. "I never saw better pitching than you showed us to-day." Joe's face flushed. He shook Hughson's hand heartily. "Oh, it's nothing compared with lots of games you've pitched, Hughson," he said. "I'm only in the infant class yet." "A mighty husky infant," laughed Hughson. "At least that's what the Bostons think. It was a hard game for them to lose, just when they thought they had it tucked away in their bat bag." "I feel rather sorry for Albaugh," said Joe. "He pitched a peach of a game and deserved to win." "He sure did," conceded Hughson. "And nine times out of ten that kind of pitching would have won. But to-day he had the hard luck to be pitted against a better man. They got only one clean hit off of you. The other was a scratch. A little more and you'd have pitched a no-hit game. And that's going some for the first game of the season, I'll tell the world. "Another thing that tickled me," he went on, "was to see him pass you to first rather than give you a chance to hit the ball. That's a compliment to all the boxmen of the country. As a rule we're easy meat. The other pitchers are glad to see us come up to the plate. It has got to be a proverb that pitchers can't hit. But you gave the lie to that proverb to-day. Those two hits of yours were ticketed for the fence. And that steal home was the classiest thing I've seen for a blue moon. That's the kind of thinking that wins ball games. Do the thing the other fellow doesn't expect you to do." "It was a case of touch and go," replied Joe. "I knew that I had touched the plate before Menken put the ball on me, but I wasn't sure the umpire would see it the same way. But he did, and that's all that matters. By the way, Hughson, how is that arm of yours coming along?" "Not as well as I should like," responded Hughson, while a touch of gloom came into his face. "There are days when it feels all right, and other days when I can't lift it without pain. I've been down to see Reese again about it, and he can't see anything radically wrong with it. Says I'll have to be patient and give it time. But it's mighty hard to have to sit on the bench when I'm fairly aching to get in the box again." "I know just how you must feel," returned Joe sympathetically. "The boys are all rooting for you to get back into harness again. It doesn't seem the same old team with you out of the running." "I'll be back with bells on before long," answered Hughson with a smile, as he moved on to have a chat with Robbie. "Isn't he a prince?" Joe remarked admiringly to Jim, as they watched the back of the tall figure. "He sure is an honor to the game," returned Jim. "Here's hoping that he'll soon be on deck again." The next day the New York papers were full of the story of the game. There was a general feeling of jubilation over the auspicious start by the Giants, a feeling that was the more pronounced, because of the feeling that had previously prevailed that Hughson's continued disability would be a serious handicap to the chances of again winning the pennant. One great subject dwelt upon in all the accounts was the marvelous pitching that Joe had shown. The sporting reporters "spread themselves" on the way he had held the Bostons in the hollow of his hand. To allow only two hits in the opening game, and one of them a scratch, was a feat that they dwelt upon at length. But scarcely less space was devoted to his batting. Although it was recalled that in the previous year he had had a creditable average at the bat, considering that he was a pitcher, his power as a twirler had kept his other qualities in the shade. Comment was made on the perfect way he had timed the ball and of the fact that his homer had gone nearly to the end of the grounds almost on a straight line, a fact that attested the tremendous power behind the hit. One of the papers headed its article: "Is There to Be a New Batting King?" and went on to say among other things: "It is an extraordinary thing to pitch a two-hit game at the beginning of the season. But it is still more extraordinary that, despite the strain on the muscles and nerves of the pitcher who achieves that distinction, he should also have a perfect batting average for the day. That is what occurred yesterday. In four times at the bat he was passed twice and the other times poled out a triple and a home run. And this was done against heady and effective pitching, for Albaugh has seldom showed better form than in yesterday's game. "One might have thought that with this record Matson would have called it a day and let it go at that. But he was still not satisfied. In the ninth, with two men out and two strikes called on Mylert, he put the game on ice by stealing home from third--as unexpected and dazzling a play as we shall probably be fortunate enough to see this year. It was the climax of a wonderful game. "McRae never made a shrewder deal than when he secured this phenomenal pitcher from St. Louis. We said this last year, when Matson's great pitching disposed of Chicago's chances for the pennant. We said it again when in the World Series he bore the heft of the pitcher's burden and made his team champions of the world. But a true thing will bear repeating twice or even thrice, and so we say it now with added emphasis." All of the comment was in the same laudatory strain, although in reference to his batting, one paper cautioned its readers that not too much importance was to be attached to that. It was probably one of Matson's good days, and one swallow did not make a summer. But whether he kept up his remarkable batting or not, the New York public would ask nothing more of him than to keep up his magnificent work in the box. Joe would not have been human if he had not enjoyed the praise that was showered upon him in the columns that he and Jim read with interest the next morning. It was pleasant to know that his work was appreciated. But he was far too sensible to be unduly elated or to get a "swelled head" in consequence. He knew how quickly a popular idol could be dethroned, and he did not want the public to set up an ideal that he could not live up to. It was for that reason that he read with especial approval the article that warned against expecting him to be a batting phenomenon because of his performance of yesterday. "That fellow's got it right," he remarked to Jim, as he pointed to the paragraph in question. "I just had luck yesterday in straightening out Albaugh's slants. Another time and I might be as helpless as a baby." "Luck, nothing!" replied Jim, who had no patience with Joe's depreciation of himself. "There was nothing fluky about those hits. You timed them perfectly and soaked the ball right on the nose. And look at the way you've been lining them out in training this spring. Wake up, man. You're not only the king of pitchers, but you've got it in you to become the king of sluggers." "Oh, quit your kidding," protested Joe. "I'm not kidding," Jim affirmed earnestly. "It's the solemn truth. You'll win many a game this year not only by your pitching but by your batting too. Just put a pin in that." At this moment a bellboy tapped at the door, and being told to come in, handed Joe two telegrams. He tore them open in haste. The first was from Reggie and read: "Keep it up, old top. Simply ripping, don't you know." Joe laughed and passed it on to Jim. "Sounds just like the old boy, doesn't it?" he commented. The second one was from Mabel: "So proud of you, Joe. Not surprised though. Best love. Am writing." Jim did not see this one, but it went promptly into that one of Joe's pockets that was nearest his heart, the same one that carried the little glove of Mabel's that had been his inspiration in all his victorious baseball campaigns. After a hearty breakfast, the chums went out for a stroll. Neither was slated to pitch for that day, and they had no immediate weight of responsibility on their minds. Markwith, the left-handed twirler of the Giants, would do the box work that day unless McRae altered his plans. "Hope Red puts it over the Braves to-day the way you did yesterday," remarked Jim, as they sauntered along. "I hope so," echoed Joe. "The old boy seems to be in good shape, and they've usually had trouble in hitting him. They'll be out for blood though, and if they put in Belden against him it ought to be a pretty battle. Markwith beat him the last time he was pitted against him, but only by a hair." It was a glorious spring morning, and as they had plenty of time they prolonged their walk far up on the west side of the city. As they were approaching a corner, they saw a rather shabbily dressed man slouching toward them. Jim gave him a casual glance, and then clutched Joe by the arm. "Look who's coming, Joe!" he exclaimed. "It's Bugs Hartley!" CHAPTER IX AN OLD ENEMY Baseball Joe started as he looked at the man more closely. "Bugs Hartley!" he ejaculated. "I thought we'd seen the last of that fellow. I imagined that by this time he'd be in jail or in a lunatic asylum." "He'll get there some time likely enough," replied Jim. "But just now he's here. That's Bugs as sure as shooting." It was evident that the man had recognized them also, for he stopped suddenly, as though debating whether to advance or retreat. He decided on the former course, and with an air of bravado came toward them. Joe and Jim would have passed him without speaking, but he planted himself squarely in their path, a malignant look glowing in his bleary eyes. "So here you are again," he snarled, addressing himself to Joe. "Sure thing," answered Joe coolly. "You see me, don't you?" "I see you all right," replied Hartley, as his eye took in Joe's well-dressed form. "All dolled up too. The man who took the bread and butter out of my mouth. Oh, I see you all right, worse luck." Bugs Hartley had been a well known character in baseball for some years. He had gained his nickname from his erratic habits. He had never been any too strong mentally, and his addiction to liquor had still further contributed to throw him off his balance. But he had been a remarkable pitcher, with a throwing arm that made up for some of his mental deficiencies, and had played in several major league clubs. For some years he had been a member of the Giants, and was still a member when Joe joined the team. His vicious habits and utter failure to obey the rules of discipline had made him a thorn in his manager's side, but McRae had tolerated him because of his unusual skill in the box. Joe had felt sorry for the man, and had done all he could to help him along. Once he had found him wandering intoxicated in the streets on the eve of an important game, and had got him off quietly to bed so as to hide the matter from McRae. But there was no gratitude in Hartley's disposition, and besides he was consumed with envy at seeing Joe's rapid progress in his profession, while he himself, owing to his dissipation, was going backward. On one occasion, he had tried to queer Joe by doping his coffee just before the latter was scheduled to pitch in a game with Philadelphia. His hatred was increased when, after being knocked out of the box during a game, Joe had taken his place and won out. McRae at last lost patience with him and gave him his walking papers. Hartley's twisted brain attributed this to Joe, though as a matter of fact Joe had asked McRae to give Bugs another chance. Hartley's reputation was so bad as a man and it was so generally understood that he was through as a pitcher that no other club cared to engage him. This increased his bitterness against the supposed author of his misfortunes. On one occasion he had tried to injure Joe in a dark street by hurling a jagged bolt of iron at his head, and the only thing that saved Baseball Joe was that at the moment he had stooped to adjust his shoelace. At that time Joe might have handed him over to the police, but instead he let him go with a warning. Now he had again met this dangerous semi-lunatic in the streets of New York. "Now look here, Bugs," said Joe quietly and decidedly. "I'm just about tired of that kind of talk. I've done everything I could for you, and in return you've doped me and otherwise tried to hurt me. You've been your own worst enemy. I'm sorry if you're hard up, and if you need money I'll give it to you. But I want you to keep away from me, and if there's any more funny business you won't get off as easily as you did last time." "I don't want your money," snapped Bugs. "I'm after you, and I'll get you yet." "I don't think you'd better try it. It won't get you anywhere, except perhaps in jail." "There's ways of doing it," growled Hartley. "Ways that you ain't dreamin' of." A sudden thought struck Joe. "Do you mean anonymous letters?" he asked, looking keenly into Hartley's eyes. "Anon-non--what do you mean?" the man asked sullenly. He was an illiterate man and had probably never heard the word before. "Letters without any name signed to them," persisted Joe. "Aw! what are you giving me?" snapped Hartley. "I don't know what you're talking about." His mystification was so genuine that Joe knew that his shot, fired at random, had missed the mark. He could eliminate Hartley at once as a possible author of the anonymous letter Mabel had received. "Never mind," said Joe. "Now one last word, Bugs. Twice you've tried to do me up and twice you've failed. Don't let it happen a third time. It will be three strikes and out for you if you do." He made a move to pass on. Hartley seemed for a moment as though he would bar the way, but the steely look in Joe's eyes made him think better of it. With a muttered imprecation he stepped aside, and the two friends moved on. "A bad egg," remarked Jim, as they walked along. "I don't know whether he's just bad or is mad," replied Joe regretfully. "A combination of both I suppose. He's got the fixed idea that I've done him a wrong of some kind and his poor brain hasn't room for anything else. It's too bad to see a man that was once a great pitcher go to the dogs the way he has. I suppose he picks up a few dollars now and then by pitching for semi-professional teams. But most of that I suppose is dissipated." "Well, you want to keep on your guard against him, Joe," warned Jim, in some anxiety. "A crazy man makes a dangerous enemy." "Oh, I don't think there's any need of worrying about Bugs," rejoined Joe carelessly. "The chances are ten to one we'll never run across him again." The encounter had rather spoiled their morning, and they hailed a taxicab to take them back to their hotel. There they had lunch and then rode up to the Polo Grounds for the game. As Joe had predicted, the Bostons that afternoon were out for blood and they evened up the score. Markwith pitched a good game except for one bad inning when he lost control, and hits, sandwiched in with passes and a wild pitch, let in three runs. He braced up after that, but it was too late, and the Giants had to take the little end of the score. In the next two weeks the Giants met the rest of the Eastern teams, and, taking it as a whole, the result was satisfactory. They had no trouble in taking the Phillies into camp, for that once great team had been shot to pieces. The majority of the Boston games also went to the Giants' credit. They met a snag, however, in Brooklyn, and the team from over the bridge took four games out of six from their Manhattan rivals. But then the Brooklyns always had been a hoodoo for the Giants, and in this season, as in many others, they lived up to the tradition. Still the Giants wound up their first Eastern series with a percentage of 610, which was respectable if not brilliant. But now their real test was coming. They were about to make their first invasion of the West, where the teams were much stronger than those of the East. Cincinnati was going strong under the great leader who had once piloted the Phillies to a championship. Chicago was quite as formidable as in the year before, when the Giants had just nosed them out at the finish. St. Louis, though perhaps the least to be feared, was developing sluggers that would put the Giants' pitchers on their mettle. But most of all to be feared was Pittsburgh, which had been going through the rest of the Western teams like a prairie fire. "Pittsburgh's the enemy," McRae told his men, and Robbie agreed with him. "Beat those birds and you'll cop the flag!" CHAPTER X THREE IN A ROW The first jump of the team was to Cincinnati, and there they found their work cut out for them. The Reds had just lost three out of four to Pittsburgh, and they had got such a talking to from their manager, from the fans, and from the press of the city that they knew they had to do something to redeem themselves. They knew that if they could hold the Giants even, it would be something; if they could take three out of four they would be forgiven; while if they could make a clean sweep of the series they would "own the town." It was a singular thing what delight all the Western teams, and for that matter all the teams of the League, took in beating the Giants. A victory over them, of course, did not count any more in the final score than a victory over one of the tailenders; but there was a fiendish satisfaction in taking the scalps of the team from the "Big Town." So that the managers always saved their best pitchers for the games with the Giants, while they took a chance with their second string pitchers against the other teams. This of course was a compliment; but it was a compliment that the Giants did not especially appreciate, for it made their task harder than that of any other team in the League. So when the Giants learned that Dutch Rutter was to try his prowess against them in the opening game, they were not surprised. Rutter was a left-hander who had made a phenomenal record the preceding year, and he had been especially rested up and groomed with the Giant series in view. Meran, the manager, had figured that if he could win the first game with Rutter he could come back with him in the fourth, and thus have at least a chance of getting an even break on the series. But McRae, anticipating such a move, had so arranged his own selection of pitchers that Joe was in line for the first game, and he was not afraid to pit his "ace" against the star boxman of the Cincinnatis. His confidence was justified, for Baseball Joe won out after a gruelling struggle. In Rutter he had found an opponent worthy of his steel. For six innings neither team broke into the run column. Rutter had superb control for a left-hander, and he showed a most dazzling assortment of curves and slants. But Joe came back at him with the same brand of pitching that he had shown in the opening game, and the Cincinnati batsmen were turned back from the plate bewildered and disgruntled. In vain their manager raved and stormed. "Why don't you hit him?" he asked of his star slugger, as the latter came back to the bench, after having been called out on strikes. "Hit him!" Duncan came back at him. "What chance have I got of hitting him, when I can't even hit the ball he pitches?" Still the Giants had a scare thrown into them when in the ninth inning, by a succession of fumbles and wild throws, the Cincinnatis had three men on bases and none out. As they themselves had only one run, scored in the seventh inning by a three base hit by Joe, aided by a clean single by Mylert, the chances looked exceedingly good that the Cincinnatis might tie the score or win the game. A clean single would have brought in one run and probably two. But Baseball Joe was always at his best when most depended on him. While the coachers tried to rattle him and the crowds frantically adjured Thompson, who was at the bat, to bring the men on bases in to the plate, Joe was as cool as a cucumber. He threw a swift high one to Thompson which the latter missed by three inches. Mylert threw the ball back to Joe, who stopped it with his foot and stooped as though to adjust his shoe lace. He fumbled an instant with the lace, and then suddenly picking up the ball hurled it to second like a shot. Emden, who was taking a long lead off the base, tried to scramble back, but Denton had the ball on him like a flash. Mellen who was on third made a bolt for the plate, but Denton shot the ball to Mylert, and Mellen was run down between third and home. While this was going on, Gallagher had taken second, and profiting by the running down of Mellen, kept on half way to third. He did not dare go all the way to third, because Mellen still had a chance to get back to that base. But the instant Mellen was touched out, Joe, who had taken part in running him down, shot the ball to Willis at third and Gallagher was caught between the second and third bags. Three men were out, the game was over, and the Giants had begun their Western invasion with a 1 to 0 victory. [Illustration: SUDDENLY PICKING UP THE BALL HE HURLED IT TO SECOND.] Joe's quick thinking had cleared the bags in a twinkling. It had all come so suddenly that the crowd was dumbfounded. Meran, the Cincinnati manager, sat on the bench with his mouth open like a man in a daze. His men were equally "flabbergasted." Thompson still stood at the plate with his bat in hand. It seemed to him that a bunco game had been played on him, and he was still trying to fathom it. Then at last the crowd woke up. They hated to see the home team lose, but they could not restrain their meed of admiration and applause. The stands fairly rocked with cheering. They had seen a play that they could talk about all their lives, one that happens perhaps once in a generation, one that they would probably never see again. McRae and Robbie for a moment acted like men in a trance. Over Robbie's rubicund face chased all the colors of the chameleon. It almost seemed as though he might have a stroke of apoplexy. Then at last he turned to McRae and smote him mightily on the knees. "Did you see it, John?" he roared. "Did you see it?" "I saw it," answered McRae. "But for the love of Pete, Robbie, keep that pile driver off my knees. Yes, I saw it, and I don't mind saying that I never saw anything like it in my thirty years of baseball. I have to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming." "A miracle man, that's what he is!" ejaculated Robbie. "That wing of his is wonderful, but it's the head on him that tops any other in the league. He wasn't behind the door when brains were given out." Meran, the Cincinnati manager, who was a good sport, after he had recovered from his astonishment, came over to the Giants' bench and shook hands with McRae and Robson. "It was a hard game to lose, John," he said to the Giants' manager. "I thought we had it sewed up in the ninth. But there's no use bucking against that pitcher of yours. I'm only glad that you can't pitch him in all your games." Joe, flushed and smiling, was overwhelmed with congratulations, but he made light of his feat, as was his custom. "It was simple enough," he protested. "I had the luck to catch Emden off second and the boys did all the rest." "Simple enough," mimicked Jim. "Oh, yes, it was simple enough. That's the reason it happens every day of the week." It was a good beginning, but the old proverb that "a good beginning makes a bad ending" was illustrated in this Western tour. For some reason most of the Giant pitchers could not "get going." Jim pulled out a victory in the Cincinnati series, but Markwith lost his game, and Hughson, who tried to pitch one of the games, found that he was not yet in shape. That series ended two and two. In Chicago the Giants had to be content with only one victory out of the series. They hoped to make up for this in St. Louis. But they found that the fame of "Murderers' Row" had not been exaggerated, and there was a perfect rain of hits from the Cardinals' bats that took two games out of three, the fourth that had been scheduled being held up by rain. When the team swung around to Pittsburgh, there were some added wrinkles between McRae's brows. "If we can only break even with Cincinnati and get the little end of it in Chicago and St. Louis, what will Pittsburgh do to us?" he asked Robbie, with a groan. "What Pittsburgh will do to us, John," replied Robbie soberly, "is a sin and a shame!" CHAPTER XI RIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER The Smoky City was all agog over the games. It had won championships before, but that was in the days of Fred Clarke and Honus Wagner and other fence breakers. It had been a good many years since it had seen a pennant floating over Forbes Field, and old-timers were wont to shake their heads sadly and say they never would see it again. But this year the "dope" pointed in the right direction. The management of the team had strengthened the weak point in the infield by a winter trade that had brought to them "Rabbit" Baskerville, the crackerjack shortstop of the Braves. The benefit of the change had been manifested in the spring practice when the Rabbit had put new pep and ginger in the team. And in the regular games so far they had had little difficulty in winning a large majority from their rivals. How they would hold out against the Giants was the problem that yet remained to be solved. But unless the Giants showed a decided reversal from the form in which they had been playing recently, it would not be so very hard to take them also into camp. The Giants themselves felt none too much confidence, as they prepared for this important series. One bit of luck came to them, however, in the return at this juncture of Larry Barrett to the team. He had been down with an attack of intermittent fever that had kept him out of part of the spring practice and had prevented him thus far from playing in any of the regular games. But on the team's arrival in Pittsburgh, they found Barrett waiting for them, looking a little lighter than usual, but declaring himself in excellent condition and fit to play the game of his life. The previous year he had guarded the keystone bag, and by general consent was regarded as the best second baseman in the League. His batting too was a powerful asset to the team, as season after season he ranked among the .300 hitters. Apart from his superb playing at bat and in the field, he also helped to keep the boys in good spirits. His wit and love of fun had gained him the nickname of "Laughing Larry," and no team of which Larry was a member could stay long in the doleful dumps. His coming made necessary a change in the team. Allen, who had not made a success in playing the "sun field," was benched, and Denton, whose batting could not be spared, was shifted to right field in his place, while Larry resumed his old position at second. On the morning of the day of the first game, McRae called his players together for a few words of counsel. At least he called it counsel. The players were apt to refer to it as roasting. "I've been thinking," he said, "that I've got the greatest collection of false alarms of any manager in either of the big leagues." This was not an especially encouraging beginning, but each of the men tried to look as though the manager could not by any possibility be referring to him. Some of them hoped that he would not descend from generalities to particulars. The manager's keen eyes ranged around the circle as though looking for contradiction. There was a silence as of the tomb. "You fellows haven't been playing baseball," he went on. "You've been playing hooky. Look at the way you've let the other teams walk over you. The Chicagos took three out of four from you. The Cardinals grabbed two out of three, and it's only the mercy of heaven that rain kept them from copping another. Look at the way you've been batting. Every team in the League except the Phillies has a better average. You've got enough beef about you to knock the ball out of the lot, and you've been doing fungo hitting, knocking up pop flies. What in the name of seven spittin' cats do you mean by it? Every time you collect your salaries you ought to be arrested for getting money on false pretenses." He paused for a moment, and some of the more hopeful players thought that perhaps he was through. But he was only getting his breath. He faced them scornfully. "Giants!" he exclaimed with sarcasm. "Giants you call yourselves. Get wise to yourselves. If you're Giants, I'm a Chinaman. It's dwarfs you are, pygmies. Now I want you boobs to get one thing into your heads. Get it straight. You've got to win this series from Pittsburgh. Do you get me? You've got to! If you don't, I'll disband the whole team and start getting another one from the old ladies' home." Much more he said to the same effect, with the result that when the men, with heightened color and nerves rasped by his caustic tongue lashing, left the clubhouse, they were in red-hot fighting mood. Pygmies were they? Well, on the ball field they'd prove to McRae that he didn't know what he was talking about. An immense crowd was present that filled Forbes Field to capacity when the bell rang for the beginning of the game. Joe had pitched only two days before, and McRae decided to send Markwith into the box. In the first inning, Dawley, the Pittsburgh pitcher, found it hard to locate the plate, and Curry was passed to first. On the hit and run play, Iredell popped to the pitcher, and Curry had all he could do to get back to first. Burkett lined a clean hit over the second baseman's head, but by sharp fielding Curry was kept from going beyond the middle bag. On the next ball pitched, Curry tried to steal third but was thrown out. Burkett in the meantime had got to second, but he was left there when Wheeler sent a long fly to center that Ralston captured after a hard run. The Pittsburghs were not long in proving that they had their batting clothes on. Ralston landed on the first ball that Markwith sent up for a home run. The crowd chortled with glee, and the Giants and the few supporters they had in the stands were correspondingly glum. The blow seemed to shake Markwith's nerve, and the next batter was passed. Bemis sent a sizzling grounder to Iredell and it bounced off his glove, the batter reaching first and Baskerville taking second on the play. Astley dribbled a slow one to Markwith, who turned to throw to third, but finding that Baskerville was sure of making the bag, turned and threw high to Burkett at first. The tall first baseman leaped high in the air and knocked it down, but not in time to get his man. With the bases full Brown slapped a two bagger to center that cleared the bases, three men galloping over the plate in succession. It was evidently not Markwith's day, and McRae beckoned him to come in to the bench while the crowd jeered the visitors and cheered their own favorites. Poor Markwith looked disconsolate enough, and after a moment's conference with McRae, which he was not anxious to prolong, he meandered over the field to the showers. "Bring on the next victim!" taunted some of the spectators. "All pitchers look alike to us to-day. Next dead one to the front." McRae held a brief consultation with Robbie, and then nodded to Jim. "Go to it, Jim," encouraged Joe. "I'm rooting for you, old man. Pull some of the feathers out of those birds. It's a tough job bucking against a four run lead, but you're the boy to do it." "I'll do my best," answered Jim, as he put on his glove and went into the box. It was the cue for the crowd to try to rattle him. The coachers began chattering like a lot of magpies, and the man on second began to dance about the bag and shout to Garrity, the next batsman, to bring him in. Jim sent one over the plate that cut it in half, but the batsman had orders to wait him out, under the supposition that he would be wild. So he let the second one go by also. "Strike two!" called the umpire. Garrity braced. This was getting serious. This time Jim resorted to a fadeaway that Garrity swung at with all his might. But the ball eluded him and dropped into Mylert's mitt. "You're out!" snapped the umpire, waving him away from the plate. CHAPTER XII JIM'S WINNING WAYS "Good boy, Jim!" cried Joe, as his chum came in to the bench. "You put the Indian sign on that fellow all right. Just hold them down and trust to the boys to bat in some runs to even up the score." But if the boys had any such intentions they certainly took their time about it. Larry, to be sure, poled out a long hit to right that had all the signs of a homer, but Astley backed up and fairly picked it off the wall. Denton cracked out a single between first and second. Jim hit sharply to third, and O'Connor by a superb stop got the ball to first in time, Denton in the meantime reaching second. Mylert swung savagely at the ball, but it went up straight in the air and Dawley gathered it in. In their half of the second, the Pittsburghs increased their lead to five. O'Connor struck out on the first three balls pitched, but Jenkins caught the ball on the nose for a single to center. Curry thought he had a chance to make a catch, and ran in for it, instead of waiting for it on a bound. By this mistake of judgment the ball got past him, and before it could be retrieved Jenkins by fast running had crossed the plate. Dawley was easy on a bounder to Willis, and Ralston, in trying to duck away from a high incurve, struck the ball with his bat and sent it rolling to Burkett for an out. "Not much nourishment for us in that inning," muttered McRae, as he watched the man chalking up another run for Pittsburgh on the big scoreboard at the side of the field. "No," agreed Robbie. "But you'll notice that the run wasn't earned. If that hit had been played right, Jenkins would have been held for a single." "Give them a row of goose eggs, Dawley," was the advice shouted to the Pittsburgh pitcher, as he stepped into the box. Dawley grinned with supreme confidence. And for the third and fourth inning his confidence seemed justified. The ball came zipping over the plate with all sorts of twists and contortions, and the Giants seemed helpless before him. They either struck out or put up feeble flies and fouls that were easily gathered up. Only one hit went outside the diamond and that plumped square into the hands of the waiting center fielder. But in the meantime, the Pittsburghs were getting a little uneasy about the kind of pitching that Jim was sending across. His fast ball went so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow it. He had perfect control, and the "hop" on the ball just before it got to the plate was working to perfection. The way he worked the corners of the plate was a revelation. And in the fourth inning, when he struck out the side on nine pitched balls, a ripple of applause was forced from the spectators, despite their desire to see the home team win. "You're going like a house afire, old man," exclaimed Joe, as the Giants came in for their turn. "That's what he is," agreed Robbie, who had overheard the remark. "But it won't do any good unless our boys wake up and do something with their bats. That five run lead is bad medicine." It did not look any better to the Giants than it did to Robbie, and in the fifth inning they began to come to life. Dawley, for the first time, seemed to be a little shaky in his control. He passed Iredell and then tried to fool Burkett on a slow ball. But the latter timed it exactly and poled it out between left and center for a beautiful three-bagger. Iredell scored easily and a roar went up from the men in the Giants' dugout as he crossed the plate. "Here's where we start a rally, boys!" cried Robbie. "Every man on his toes now. Here's where we send this pitcher to the showers." Wheeler went to the plate with directions to sacrifice, which he did neatly by sending a slow roller to first, on which Burkett scored. Willis clipped out a liner to right, which was really only good for a single, but in trying to stretch it to a two baser he fell a victim at second. Then Larry came to the bat. "Show them that your layoff hasn't hurt your batting eye, Larry," sang out McRae. The first ball was wide, and Larry held his bat motionless. On the second offering he fouled off. The third was about waist high, and Larry swung at it. The ball soared off to right field and landed in the bleachers. It was a clean home run and Larry trotted easily around the bases, a broad grin on his good-natured Irish face. "We're finding him!" shouted McRae. "We've got him going! Now, Denton, put another one in the same place." Denton did his best, but it was not good enough. Dawley had tightened up and was sending the ball over the plate as though thrown from a catapult. Two strikes were called on Denton, and then he put up a fly just back of second which Baskerville caught in good style. The inning was over, but the Giants felt better. There was a big difference between five to none and five to three. Besides, they had learned that Dawley could be hit. "Keep them down, Jim, and we'll put you in the lead next inning," prophesied Larry, as he passed him on his way out to second. Jim proceeded at once to keep them down. He had never been in better form. The three runs that his mates had scored had put new heart in him and he made the Pittsburghs "eat out of his hand." They simply could not get going against him. His sharp breaking curve had their best batters completely at sea. They were swinging in bewilderment at balls that they could not reach. For the next three innings not a man reached first base and in the eighth inning he mowed them down on strikes as fast as they came to the plate. "Oh, if we'd only started the game with him!" groaned McRae, as the eighth inning ended with the score unchanged. For in the meantime Larry's prophecy had not been fulfilled that the Giant batsmen would gain the lead. They had been hitting more freely than in the early part of the game, but had been batting in hard luck. Every ball they hit seemed to go straight to some fielder, and the Pittsburghs were giving their pitcher magnificent support. There was one gleam of hope in the eighth, when with two men out, a Giant was roosting on second and another on third. But hope went glimmering when Burkett's hoist to center was easily gathered in by Ralston. "We can win yet," crowed Robbie, with a confidence he was far from feeling, as the Giants entered on their last inning. "There's many a game been won in the ninth. Go in now and knock him out of the box." Wheeler started in with a single that just escaped the outstretched hands of Baskerville. McRae himself ran down to first to coach him. Willis followed with another single on which Wheeler went all the way to third. It looked as though the long-hoped for rally had at last commenced. But a groan went up from the Giant dugout when Willis, on the next ball pitched, started for second and was nailed by three feet. Still Larry was next at bat, and his comrades, remembering his last home run, urged him to repeat. Larry was only too eager to do so, and on the second ball pitched laced it to right field for what looked to be a homer but went foul by a few feet only. The next was a missed strike. Two balls followed in quick succession and then, with the count three to two, slapped out a rattling two-bagger to center. Wheeler scored and the tally was five to four in Pittsburgh's favor. Then to Joe's surprise McRae beckoned him from the dugout. "What's the big idea?" Joe asked, as he came up to his manager. "I'm going to put you in as a pinch hitter," answered McRae. "I'd rather take a chance on you than Denton. Get in there now and knock the cover off the ball." There was a gasp of surprise from the stands. In their experience it was usually a pitcher who was taken out to make room for a pinch hitter. It was almost unheard of that the procedure should be reversed. To them it seemed a sign that McRae was at the end of his rope, and there were catcalls and shouts of derision as Joe came to the plate. And these redoubled in volume as he missed the first ball that Dawley sent over. "What did I tell you, boys?" "Nit, on that!" "Matson is all right as a pitcher, but as a batter, nothing doing." "Give him two more like that, Dawley!" "Take your time, Joe!" "Make him give you the kind you want!" "Here is where Pittsburgh chews the Giants up!" "Maybe you can do it somewhere else, but you can't do it here!" "One, two, three, Dawley, remember." So the calls ran on as Joe waited for the pitcher to deliver the sphere again. The Pittsburgh rooters thought they had Joe's "goat" and they were prepared to make the most of it. They began a chorus of yells and groans that grew louder and louder. They stopped suddenly as Joe caught the next ball about a foot from the end of his bat. There was a mighty crack and the ball soared up and up into the sky over right field. The fielders started to run for it and then stopped short in their tracks, throwing up their hands in despair. The ball cleared the bleachers, cleared the wall, and went through the window of a house on the other side of the street. Joe had started running like a deer at the crack of the bat, but as he rounded first McRae shouted at him to take his time, and he completed the rest of his journey at a jog trot, Larry of course having preceded him. There was a wild jubilee at the plate. Robbie threw dignity to the winds and danced a jig, and Joe was sore from the thumping of his mates. "The longest hit that's ever been made on Forbes Field!" cried Larry exultingly. "Old Honus Wagner in his best days never made such a clout," joined in Jim. "Joe, old boy, you've saved the game." "It isn't over yet," cautioned Joe smilingly; "but if you keep up the same brand of pitching you've been showing us, they won't have a Chinaman's chance." The next two batters were easy outs and the Giants' half was over. The Pittsburghs came in for their last chance, determined to do or die. It was exasperating for them to have the game snatched from them when they were just about to put it on their side of the ledger. But Jim put out the first one on a puny fly and sent the last two back to the bench by the strike-out route--and the game was over. In their first clash with the redoubtable Pittsburghs, the Giants had won by six to five! CHAPTER XIII A BREAK IN THE LUCK It was a highly elated crowd of Giants that chattered away excitedly in the clubhouse after the finish of the game. Jim and Joe came in for the major share of the honors, the first because of his superb pitching and the latter for the glorious home run that had clinched the victory. "Some pitching, Barclay," said Hughson, clapping Jim on the shoulder. "Do you realize that only thirty-two batters faced you and that eleven of them went out on strikes? That's what I call twirling." "It'll take some of the chestiness out of these Pirates," laughed Larry. "They thought we were going to be as easy meat for them as the rest of the teams. And, begorra, it looked as though we would from the way the game started." "You did your share all right, Larry," replied Jim. "That home run of yours was a beauty. And that two-bagger was no slouch." "But that clout of Joe's was the real cheese," said Denton generously. "Gee, Joe, I was a little sore when McRae put you in to take my turn at bat. But when I saw that old apple clear the fence I knew that the old man had the right dope. I haven't made a hit like that since I've been in the game." "Who has?" queried Curry. "I'll bet it comes pretty close to being a record. If that house hadn't been in the way the ball would be going yet." "Don't forget, Joe, that you'll have to pay for that broken window," laughed Wheeler. "I guess McRae would pay for a hundred broken windows and never say a word," chuckled Iredell. He would have been still more sure of this had he been able to see McRae's face at that moment and overheard what he was saying to Robson. "You've had a real bit of luck to-day, John," the latter had remarked, his broad face radiant with satisfaction. "You've discovered that you have another first string pitcher. That work of young Barclay was simply marvelous." "You said it, Robbie," agreed McRae. "It was a rough deal to give a young pitcher the job of beating the Pittsburghs after they had a four run lead. But he stood the gaff and came through all right. From this time on he'll take his regular turn in the box. But it isn't that that pleases me most in this day's work." "What is it then?" asked Robbie. "It's the batting of Matson," replied McRae thoughtfully. "I've been in the game thirty years, and I've seen all the fence-breakers--Wagner, Delehanty, Brouthers, Lajoie, and all the rest of them. And I tell you now, Robbie, that he's the king of all of them. The way he stands at the plate, the way he holds his bat, the way he times his blow, the way he meets the ball--those are the things that mark out the natural batter. It's got to be born in a man. You can't teach it to him. All the weight of those great shoulders go into his stroke, and he makes a homer where another man would make a single or a double. Now mark what I'm telling you, Robbie, but keep it under your hat, for I don't want the kid to be getting a swelled head. In Baseball Joe Matson we've got not only the greatest pitcher in the game, but the hardest hitter in either league. And that goes." "Oh, come now, John," protested Robbie, "aren't you going a little too strong? The greatest pitcher, yes. I admit that. There's no one in sight now that can touch him, now that Hughson's laid up. And between you and me, John, I don't believe that even Hughson in his best days had anything on Matson. But when you speak of batting, how about Kid Rose of the Yankees?" "He's all to the good," admitted McRae. "He's got a wonderful record; the best record in fact of any man that has ever broken into the game. He topped the record for home runs last season, and by the way he's starting in this year he'll do it again. Up to now we haven't had anyone in the National League that could approach him. But I'm willing to bet right now that he never made so long a hit as Matson made this afternoon. Of course Rose has had more experience in batting than Matson, and for the last two or three years he's hardly done any pitching. But if I should take Matson out of the box right now and play him in the outfield every day, I'll bet that by the end of the season he'd be running neck and neck with Kid Rose and perhaps a wee bit ahead of him." "Well, maybe, John," agreed Robbie, though a little doubtfully. "But what's the use of talking about it? You know that we can't spare him from the box. He's our pitching ace." "I know that well enough," replied McRae. "But all the same I'm going to see that he has many a chance to win games for us by his batting as well as by his pitching. On the days he isn't pitching, I'll use him as a pinch hitter, as I did to-day. Then, too, when he is pitching, I'm going to make a change in the batting order. Instead of having him down at the end I'm going to put him fourth--in the cleanup position. If that old wallop of his doesn't bring in many a run I'll miss my guess." The very next day McRae had a chance to justify his theories. Hughson had told the manager that he thought he was in shape to pitch, and McRae, who had great faith in his judgment, told him to go in. The "Old Master," as he was affectionately called, used his head rather than his arm and by mixing up his slow ball with his fast one and resorting on occasion to his famous fadeaway, got by in a close game. In the sixth, Joe was called on as a pinch hitter, and came across with another homer, which, although not as long as that of the previous day, enabled him to reach the plate without sliding and bring in two runs ahead of him. Two homers in two consecutive days were not common enough to pass without notice, and the Pittsburgh sporting writers began to feature Joe in their headlines. There was a marked increase in the attendance on the third day when Joe was slated to pitch. On that day he "made monkeys" of the Pittsburgh batters, and on the two turns at bat when he was permitted to hit made a single and a three-bagger. In two other appearances at bat, the Pittsburgh pitcher deliberately passed him, at which even the Pittsburgh crowd expressed their displeasure by jeers. On the final day, Markwith was given a chance to redeem himself, and pitched an airtight game. But Hooper of the Pittsburghs was also at his best, and with the game tied in the ninth Joe again cracked out a homer to the right field bleachers, his third home run in four days! Markwith prevented further scoring by the enemy, and the game went into the Giants' winning column. "Four straight from the league leaders," McRae chuckled happily. "The break in the luck has come at last." CHAPTER XIV A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE "Well, we wound up the trip in a blaze of glory, anyway," remarked Jim to Baseball Joe, as they sat in the Pullman coach that was carrying them and the rest of the team back to New York. "Yes, and we just saved our bacon by doing it," replied Joe. "Those last four games gave us eight out of fifteen for the trip. Not so awfully bad for a team on a trip, and yet not good enough to win the championship. But even at that I guess McRae won't supplant us with a team from the old ladies' home," he added, with a laugh. "We've got a long series of games on the home grounds now," put in Larry, the optimist. "We'll show these other fellows how the game ought to be played. Just watch us climb." "Here's hoping you're right," chimed in Burkett. "A slice of the World Series money this year would look mighty good to me." "That's looking pretty far ahead," said Curry. "Still, if Joe keeps up the batting he's been showing us in Pittsburgh, I'll bet we cop the flag." "That may be just a flash in the pan," cautioned Joe. "I may have had just a few good days when everything broke just right for me. I'm a pitcher, not a batter." "Not a batter, eh?" remarked Larry, in feigned surprise. "How surprised Dawley and Hooper and the other Pittsburgh pitchers will be to hear that. They seemed to think you could pickle the pill all right." The players found the baseball circles of New York in a ferment of interest and excitement over the team. There had been considerable despondency over the poor showing of the Giants in the first three series they had played on the trip. But the four rattling victories they had gained over Pittsburgh had redeemed them in the minds of their followers, and hopes for the pennant had revived. But the one thing that obscured everything else was the tremendous batting that Joe had done in that last series. The sporting columns of the newspapers had headlines like: "The New Batting Star;" "A Rival to Kid Rose;" "Is There to Be a New Home-Run King?" and "The Colossus of Swat." Joe found his footsteps dogged by reporters eager to get interviews telling how he did it. Moving picture operators begged the privilege of taking him in all positions--as he gripped his bat--the way he stood at the plate--as he drew back for his swing. Illustrated weekly papers had full page pictures of him. Magazines offered him large sums for articles signed with his name. He found himself in the calcium light, holding the center of the stage, the focus of sporting interest and attention. Joe was, of course, pleased at the distinction he had won, and yet at the same time he was somewhat uneasy and bewildered. He was not especially irked at the attention he was attracting. That had already become an old story as to his pitching. He was hardened to reporters, to being pointed out in the streets, to having a table at which he happened to be dining in a restaurant or hotel become the magnet for all eyes while whispers went about as to who he was. That was one of the penalties of fame, and he had become used to it. But hitherto his reputation had been that of a great pitcher, and in his own heart he knew he could sustain it. The pitching box was his throne, and he knew he could make good. But he was somewhat nervous about the acclamations which greeted his batting feats. He was not at all sure that he could keep it up. He had never thought of himself as any more than an ordinary batter. He knew that as a pitcher he was not expected to do much batting, and so he had devoted most of his training to perfecting himself in the pitching art. Now he found himself suddenly placed on a pedestal as a Batting King. Suppose it were, as he himself had suggested, merely a flash in the pan. It would be rather humiliating after all this excitement to have the public find out that their new batting idol was only an idol of clay after all. He confided some of his apprehension to Jim, but his chum only laughed at him. "Don't worry a bit over that, old man," Jim reassured him. "I only wish I were as sure of getting a million dollars as I am that you've got the batting stuff in you. You've got the eye, you've got the shoulders, you've got the knack of putting all your weight into your blow. You're a natural born batter, and you've just waked up to it." "But this is only the beginning of the season," argued Joe. "The pitchers haven't yet got into their stride. By midsummer they'll be burning them over, and then more than likely I'll come a cropper." "Not a bit of it," Jim affirmed confidently. "You won't face better pitching anywhere than we stacked up against in Pittsburgh, and you made all those birds look like thirty cents. They had chills and fever every time you came to the bat." The matter was not long left in doubt. In the games that followed Joe speedily proved that the Pittsburgh outburst was not a fluke. Home runs rained from his bat in the games with the Brooklyns, the Bostons and the Phillies. And when the Western teams came on for their invasion of the East, they had to take the same medicine. All pitchers looked alike to him. Of course he had his off days when all he could get was a single, and sometimes not that. Once in a long while he went out on strikes, and the pitcher who was lucky or skilful enough to perform that feat hugged it to his breast as a triumph that would help him the next season in demanding a rise in salary. But these occasions were few and far between. The newspapers added a daily slab to their sporting page devoted to Joe's mounting home run record, giving the dates, the parks and the pitchers off whom they were made. And there was hardly a pitcher in the league whose scalp Joe had not added to his rapidly growing collection. In the business offices of the city, in restaurants, at all kinds of gathering places, the daily question changed. Formerly it had been: "Will the Giants win to-day?" Now it became: "Will Baseball Joe knock out another homer?" And the fever showed itself in the attendance at the Polo Grounds. Day by day the crowds grew denser. Soon they were having as many spectators at a single game as they had formerly looked for at a double-header. The money rolled into the ticket offices in a steady stream, and the owners and manager of the club wore the "smile that won't come off." The same effect was noted in all the cities of the circuit. The crowds turned out not so much to see the Giants play as to see if Baseball Joe would knock another home run. Joe Matson had become the greatest drawing card of the circuit. If this kept up, it would mean the most prosperous season the League had ever known. For the Giants' owners alone, it meant an added half million dollars for the season. Already, with not more than a third of the games played, they had taken in enough to pay all expenses for the year, and were "on velvet" for the rest of the season. Nothing in all this turned Joe's head. He was still the same modest, hardworking player he had always been. First and all the time he worked for the success of his team. Already the Giants' owners had voluntarily added ten thousand dollars to his salary, and he was at present the most highly paid player in his League. He knew that next year even this would be doubled, if he kept up his phenomenal work. But he was still the same modest youth, and was still the same hail fellow well met, the pal and idol of all his comrades. What delighted Baseball Joe far more than any of his triumphs was the information contained in a letter he wore close to his heart that Mabel was coming on to New York with her brother Reggie for a brief stay on her way to her home in Goldsboro. They had been in almost daily correspondence, and their affection had deepened with every day that passed. Jim also had been equally assiduous and equally happy, and both players were counting the days that must elapse before the wedding march would be played at the end of the season. Luck was with Joe when, in company with Jim, he drove to the station to meet Mabel and Reggie. The rain was falling in torrents. Ordinarily that would have been depressing. But to-day it meant that there would be no game and that he could count on having Mabel to himself with nothing to distract his attention. Jim was glad on his friend's account, but nevertheless was unusually quiet for him. "Come out of your trance, old boy," cried Joe, slapping him jovially on the knee. Jim affected to smile. "Oh, I know what you're thinking about," charged Joe. "You're jealous because I'm going to see Mabel and you're not going to see Clara. But cheer up, old man. The next time we strike Chicago we'll both run down to Riverside for a visit. Then you'll have the laugh on me, for you'll have Clara all to yourself while Mabel will be in Goldsboro." Jim tried to find what comfort he could from the prospect, but the Chicago trip seemed a long way off. They reached the station ahead of time and walked up and down impatiently. The rain and wet tracks had detained the train a little, but at length its giant bulk drew into the station. They scanned the long line of Pullmans anxiously. Then Joe rushed forward with an exclamation of delight as he saw Reggie descend holding out his hand to assist Mabel--Mabel, radiant, starry-eyed, a vision of loveliness. Jim had followed a little more slowly to give Joe time for the first greeting. But his steps quickened and his eyes lighted up with rapture as behind Mabel Joe's sister Clara came down the steps, sweet as a rose, and with a look in her eyes as she caught sight of Jim that made that young man's heart lose a beat. CHAPTER XV AN EVENING RIDE There was a hubbub of delighted and incoherent exclamations as the young people greeted each other with all their heart in their eyes. Of course in the crowded station the greetings could not be just what the boys--and the girls, too--desired, but those would come later. Reggie too came in for warm handshakes. "My word!" he exclaimed, as he smiled affably upon them all, "you folks seem glad to see one another. I'll just slip over and look after the luggage." They spared him without any regret at all. Indeed, it is doubtful if they even heard him. Joe was saying things to Mabel in an undertone, and Jim was doing the same thing to Clara. What they said was their own affair, but it seemed eminently satisfactory to all concerned. When at last they had come somewhat to their senses, Joe poked Jim in the ribs. "Some surprise, old man!" he remarked mischievously. "Surprise!" repeated Jim. "It's Paradise. It's heaven. Don't tell me I'm going to wake up and find it all a dream. And you knew this all the time, you old rascal, and didn't let me in on it." "Just a little scheme that Mabel and I cooked up," laughed Joe happily. "I thought Sis might like to come on and take a look at her only brother." "Brother," mimicked Mabel saucily. "Don't flatter yourself. You won't be looked at much while Jim's around." Clara flushed and laughed in protest. Joe, however, did not seem disturbed at the prospect. As long as Mabel looked at him the way she was looking now, he had nothing more to ask. A taxicab whirled them up to the pretty suite that Joe had reserved for the girls in a hotel. There were two rooms in the suite, and it was surprising how quickly Joe and Mabel took possession of one of them, while Jim and Clara found the other one much preferable. They had so much to say to each other that required no audience. Reggie, who had an adjoining room, took himself off on the plea of an engagement that would keep him till luncheon time, and the happy young people had a long delightful morning to themselves. "Oh, I'm so proud of you, Joe," Mabel assured him, among many other things. "You're making such a wonderful record. You don't know how I read and treasure all the things the papers are saying about you. They give you more space than they give the President of the United States." "You mustn't make too much of it, honey," Joe replied. "I'm in luck just now; but if I should have a slump the same people that cheer me now when I make a homer would be jeering at me when I came to the bat. There's nothing more fickle than the public. One day you're a king and the next you're a dub." "You'll always be a king," cried Mabel. "Always my king, anyway," she added blushingly. In the meantime Clara and Jim were saying things equally precious to themselves and each other, but of no importance at all to the general public. Jim was surprised and pleased at the intimate acquaintance she had with all the phases of his rapid rise in his profession. She knew quite as well as the rest of the world that Jim already stood in the very front rank of pitchers, second only perhaps to Joe himself, and she had no hesitation in telling him what she thought of him. Sometimes it is not a pleasant thing for a man to know what a woman thinks of him, but in Jim's case it was decidedly different, if his shining face went for anything. The young people took in a matinee in the afternoon and a musical show, followed by dinner, in the evening, and all were agreed in declaring it a perfect day. Jim was slated to pitch the next day and with Clara watching from a box he turned in a perfect game, winning by a score of 1 to 0, the run being contributed by Joe, who turned loose a screaming homer in the sixth. Naturally both young men felt elated. It was a beautiful summer evening, and they had arranged for an automobile ride out on Long Island. Joe had hired a speedy car, but dispensed with the services of a chauffeur. He himself was an accomplished driver and knew all the roads. A chauffeur would have been only a restraint on their freedom of conversation. They bowled along over the perfect roads, happy beyond words and at peace with all the world. Mabel was seated in front with Joe, while Jim and Clara occupied the tonneau. All were in the gayest of spirits. Much of the time they talked, but speech and silences were equally sweet. They had dinner at an excellent inn, about forty miles out of the city. There was a good string band and the young couples had several dances. The evening wore away before they knew it, and it was rather late when they turned their faces cityward. The car was purring along merrily on a rather lonely stretch of road in the vicinity of Merrick, when a big car came swiftly up behind them. The driver tooted his horn and Joe drew a little to one side to give the car plenty of room to pass. The car rushed by and lengthened the distance until it was about a hundred yards ahead. "Seems to be in a hurry," remarked Jim. "A bunch of joy riders, I suppose," answered Joe. "Hello, what does that mean?" For the car had suddenly stopped and the driver had swung it across the road, blocking it. "Something gone wrong with the steering gear," commented Joe. "Looks like a breakdown. Perhaps we can help them." He slowed up as he drew near the car. The next instant four men jumped out of the car and ran toward them. They had their caps drawn down over their eyes, and each of them carried a leveled revolver. "Hands up!" commanded their leader, as he covered Joe with his weapon. CHAPTER XVI THE ATTACK ON THE ROAD In an instant Baseball Joe brought the car to a stop. But in that instant his brain worked like lightning. Neither he nor Jim was armed. He must temporize. Resistance at the moment might be fatal. Shooting would result probably in the death of one or more of the party. Before he had taken his hand from the wheel, he had formed a plan. The women had screamed and Jim had jumped to his feet. "Sit down, Jim," said Joe. "Don't you see they have the drop on us. I suppose it's money you want?" he went on coolly, addressing the leader of the gang. "No," was the unexpected answer. "We're not after money this time. We want a man named Matson." "I didn't know I was so popular," replied Joe jokingly, though the mention of his name in so ominous a way had sent a start through him. "My name is Matson, Joe Matson. What do you want of me?" "Are you giving it to us straight?" asked the leader. "Are you Matson? How many men are there with you anyway?" he went on, peering into the tonneau. "There are two of us," replied Joe. "Then get down in the road, both of you," commanded the bandit. "I want to have a look at both of you so that there won't be any mistake. My orders are for the man named Matson. No monkey work now!" Joe and Jim, inwardly boiling but outwardly cool, got down into the road. As they climbed down, Joe's hand nudged Jim ever so slightly. Jim knew what that meant. It meant to make no move until Joe gave the sign. "Up with your hands!" ordered the leader curtly. "Bill, frisk them and see if they have guns." The bandit called Bill ran his hands along their bodies and reported that they were entirely unarmed. "Now strike a match and let's have a look at their faces," was the next order. Bill obeyed, and as the light flared up, not only the leader but the rest of the band looked over the young men keenly. "You're Matson, all right," said the leader to Joe, and the rest acquiesced. "I've seen your picture in the papers many a time, and I've seen you at the Polo Grounds too. All right. You get back in the car," he said to Jim, poking him in the side with his pistol, "and drive off." "What do you want with me?" asked Joe steadily. "Oh, we're not going to kill you," replied the leader, with an evil grin. "But," he muttered under his breath so low that only Joe could hear him, "by the time we're through with you, that pitching arm of yours will be out of business. Them's our orders." "Who gave you those orders?" asked Joe. "Never you mind who gave them," snarled the bandit. "I've got them, and I'm going----" He never finished the sentence. Like lightning Joe's foot shot up and kicked the weapon from the leader's hand. The next instant his fist caught another of the scoundrels a terrific crack on the jaw. The man went down as though he had been hit with an axe. At the same moment Jim's hard right fist smashed into another straight between the eyes. There was the snap of a breaking bone and the man toppled over. The fourth rascal, who had been paralyzed with astonishment, forgot to shoot and started to run, but Jim was on him like a tiger and bore him to the ground, his hands tightening on his throat until the rascal lay limp and motionless. In the meantime, the leader, nursing his hurt wrist, had hobbled to the car, whose engine all this time had remained running. Joe made a dash for the car, but the chauffeur put on all speed and darted away into the darkness. The first task of Joe and Jim was to gather up the weapons of the assailants. The three still lay dazed or unconscious. Under other circumstances, the boys would have waited until the trio had regained their senses. But their first duty now was to the girls, who were half hysterical with fright. Joe took Mabel in his arms, after assuring her again and again in answer to her frantic questions that he was unhurt, and Jim comforted Clara until she had recovered her composure. They laid the bandits at the side of the road, so that they could not be run over, and then Joe took the wheel and drove on. To the first policeman they saw, Joe reported that he had seen some men who seemed to be hurt, alongside the road, and suggested that they be looked after. But he said nothing about the attempted holdup. Then he sped on, and soon they were in the precincts of the city. The girls in their alarm had failed to gather the true significance of the affair. To them it was like a confused dream. Their general impression was that a holdup had been attempted for the purposes of robbery. Still Mabel did remember that they had asked specifically for Matson. "Why was it that they asked for you especially, Joe?" she asked, snuggling closely to the arm that had so stoutly done its work that night. "Why was it?" "How do I know, honey?" answered Joe. "Perhaps," he said jokingly, "they had heard of my increase in salary and thought I was rolling in money. Sometimes you know they kidnap a man, make him sign a check and then hold him prisoner until they cash it. No knowing what such rascals may do." "Whatever it was, they've lost all interest in the matter now," said Jim, with a laugh, as he thought of the discomfited bandits by the roadside and the fleeing leader in the automobile. Both Joe and Jim made light of it to the girls and laughed away their fears until they had seen them safely to their hotel. But later on two very sober and wrathful young men sat in their own room discussing the holdup. Joe had told Jim what the bandit leader had said about putting his pitching arm out of business, and his friend was white with anger. "The scoundrels!" he ejaculated. "That meant that they would have twisted your arm until they had snapped the tendons or pulled it from its socket and crippled you for life. If I'd known that when I had my hands on that rascal's throat, I'd have choked the life out of him." "You did enough," returned Joe. "As it is they got a pretty good dose. I know I cracked the leader's wrist, and I heard a bone snap when you smashed that other fellow. Gee, Jim, you hit like a pile driver." "No harder than you did," replied Jim. "That fellow you clipped in the jaw was dead to the world before he hit the ground." "After all, those fellows were merely tools," mused Joe thoughtfully. "Did you hear the leader say that he had his orders? Who gave him those orders? If only the girls hadn't been there, I'd have trussed the rascals up, waited until they had got their senses back, and then put them through the third degree until I'd found out the name of their employer. But I wouldn't for the world have the girls know what those scoundrels were up to. They'd never have a happy moment. They'd worry themselves to death. We've got to keep this thing absolutely to ourselves." "All the same, I can guess who the fellow was that employed them," said Jim. "I think I can come pretty near it, too," affirmed Joe. "In the first place, it was a man who had money. Those fellows wouldn't have taken the job unless they had been well paid. Then, too, it was somebody who hated me like poison. There are two men who fulfil both of those conditions, and their names are----" "Fleming and Braxton," Jim finished for him. "Exactly," agreed Joe. "And knowing what I do of the two, I have a hunch that it was Braxton." CHAPTER XVII FALLING BEHIND "Braxton's the more likely one of the two to use violence--or have it used," said Jim. "Not but what either one of them would be mean enough to do it. But Braxton has got more nerve than Fleming. Then, too, I happen to know that Fleming has run pretty well through his money, while Braxton is a millionaire. He was pretty hard hit by the failure of the All-Star League to go through last year, but he's got plenty left. He could give those rascals a thousand, or five thousand if necessary, and never feel it." "Speaking of money," said Joe, "reminds me of something else that may be connected with this case. Do you remember what Reggie told us when he was in Riverside about that fellow in Chicago that was betting great wads of money that the Giants wouldn't cop the flag? Betting it, Reggie said, as though he had something up his sleeve, as though he were betting on a sure thing. Now what could be a surer thing in a race as close as this than to cripple the Giant team by robbing it of one of its pitchers? He'd be getting a double satisfaction then--making a pile of money to make up for his losses last season and getting even with me for the thrashing I gave him. That is, of course, if the man is really Braxton." "By Jove, I believe you're right!" exclaimed Jim. "Of course that might seem a little far-fetched, if it weren't for the other things that point to the same man. But when you remember that Braxton hails from Chicago, that the anonymous letter had a Chicago postmark, when you recall that somebody tried to injure us in that road blockade the day after I thought I saw Braxton in the training town, and that he was the only one besides ourselves who knew the road we were going to take--when you take all these things together, it seems a dead open-and-shut proposition that Braxton was the man that plotted all this scoundrelism." "Some day soon I hope we'll know the truth," said Joe. "And when that day comes----" He did not finish the sentence, but his clenched fist and flashing eyes were eloquent. The next morning the chums went around early, to learn how the girls were feeling after their trying experience. They found them still a little nervous and overwrought, but the society of the boys and the knowledge that they had come through without injury soon brightened them up, and before long they were their natural selves again. The way the boys had carried themselves in the fight with their assailants made them more than ever heroes in the eyes of those they loved best, and if it had not been for the deeper knowledge they had of the affair, Joe and Jim would have been rather glad it happened. Reggie, of course, had been told of the holdup and was almost stuttering in his wrath and indignation. But he, like the girls, figured that it had been an attack simply for the purpose of robbery, and the boys were not sure enough of Reggie's discretion to tell him the real facts. They feared that some slip of the tongue on his part might reveal the matter, and they knew that a constant fear would from then on shadow the lives of Mabel and Clara. In about ten days the next Western trip of the Giants was to begin, and then Clara would return home, while Mabel would go on with Reggie to Goldsboro. But those precious ten days were enjoyed to the full by the young folks. Every hour that the boys could spare from the games was spent in the society of the girls, and every day that a game was played Mabel and Clara occupied a box in the grandstand at the Polo Grounds. The knowledge of the bright eyes that were following their every move put the boys on their mettle, and they played up to the top of their form. Jim's progress as a boxman was evident with each succeeding game, and Joe covered himself with laurels as both pitcher and batsman. But more than once, after Joe had let down an opposing team with but a few hits, he had an involuntary shudder as he looked at the mighty arm that had scored the victory and thought of it as hanging withered and helpless at his side. And only by the narrowest of margins had he escaped that fate. The hour of parting came at last, and it was a great wrench to all of them. There were promises on both sides of daily letters, that would serve to bridge the gulf of separation. The fight for the pennant was waxing hotter and hotter. The Giants and the Pittsburghs were running neck and neck. First one and then the other was at the head in victories won. At times one would forge ahead for a week or two, but the other refused obstinately to be shaken off and would again assume the leadership. Everything promised a ding-dong, hammer-and-tongs finish. Some of the other teams were still in striking distance, but the first two were really the "class" of the League. The great pitching staff of the Brooklyns had gone to pieces, and it looked as though they were definitely out of the running. The Bostons, after a poor start, had braced and were rapidly improving their average, but they seemed too far behind to be really dangerous. The unfortunate Phillies were in for the "cellar championship" and did not have a ghost of a chance. Of the Western teams, outside of Pittsburgh, no fear was felt, though the consistent slugging of the Cardinals gave the leaders some uneasy moments. Still, batting alone could not win games, and the Cardinals' pitching staff, though it had some brilliant performers, was surpassed in ability by several teams in the League. In the American League also a spirited contest was going on. The White Sox, who had usually been a dangerous factor, were out of the running because they had had to build up practically a new team. But the Clevelands were as strong as they had been the year before, and were making a great bid for the flag. Detroit had started out brilliantly, and with its hard hitting outfield was winning many a game by sheer slugging. Washington loomed up as a dangerous contender, and only a little while before had won fifteen straight games. But the chief antagonist of the Clevelands was the New York Yankee team. For many years they had struggled to win the championship, but though they had come so close at one time that a single wild pitch beat them out of it, they had never been able to gain the coveted emblem. "It seems at times as though a 'jinx' were pursuing the Yankees," remarked Jim. "But this year they have got together a rattling good crowd in all departments of the game. Most of all that counts in their hopes, I imagine, is the acquisition of Kid Rose." Kid Rose was a phenomenal batter of whom every baseball fan in the United States was talking. He had been a pitcher on the Red Sox and had done fine work in the box. It was only after he had been playing some time in that position that he himself, as well as others, began to realize the tremendous strength that resided in his batting arm and shoulders. He was a left handed batter, so that most of his hits went into right field, or rather into the right field bleachers, where they counted as home runs. In one season he accumulated twenty-nine home runs, which was a record for the major leagues. The Yankee owners made a deal with the Red Sox by which the "Kid" was brought to the New York club at a price larger than had ever been paid for a player. It was a good investment, however, for the newcomer was excelling his home run record of the year before and drew so many people to the parks where he played that a constant golden stream flowed into the strong boxes of the club. He made as many home runs as all the other players of his team together. Now, owing to his work, the Yankees were fighting it out with the Clevelands for the lead, and the papers were already beginning to talk of the possibility of both championships coming to New York. If this should be the case, the World Series games would probably draw the greatest crowds that had ever witnessed such a contest, and the prize money for the players would undoubtedly be larger than ever before in the history of the game. Joe and his comrades needed no such spur as this to make them play their best. A strong loyalty to the club marked every player of the team. Still it was not at all an unpleasing thought that the result of winning would add a good many thousand dollars to the salary of every member. The Giants started out in high hopes on this second Western invasion. "Sixteen games to be played on this trip, boys," McRae had said to them, as they boarded the train at the Pennsylvania Station. "And out of that sixteen I want at least twelve. Nix on the breaking even stuff. That won't go with me at all. I want to get so far ahead on this trip that we'll be on easy street for the rest of the race." "Why not cop the whole sixteen, Mac?" asked Larry, with a broad grin. "So much the better," answered McRae. "But I'm no hog. Give me an average of three out of four in each series and I'll ask for nothing better." The team started out as though they were going to give their manager what he wanted. Their first stop this time was Pittsburgh, and here they won the first two games right off the reel. The third, however, was lost by a close margin. In the fourth the Giants' bats got going and they sent three Pirate pitchers to the showers, winning by the one-sided score of eleven to two. So that it was in high spirits that they left the Smoky City for Cincinnati. Here they met with a rude shock. The Reds were in the midst of one of their winning streaks and were on a hitting rampage. They had the "breaks," too, and cleaned up by taking every game. It was a complete reversal, and the Giants were stunned. CHAPTER XVIII IN THE THROES OF A SLUMP Robson's round face had lost its usual smile. McRae's was like a thundercloud, and the players evaded him as much as they could. Even Larry was "Laughing Larry" no longer. It was a disgruntled crowd of baseball players that shook the dust of Cincinnati from their feet and started for Chicago. "Better luck next time," Joe comforted his mates. "After all it's the uncertainty of the game that makes baseball. How many people would have been at the park if they thought their pets didn't have a chance to win?" "That's all very well," grumbled Curry, "but we ought at least to have had our share of the breaks. We hit the ball hard enough, but every time it went straight to the fielders. They didn't hit any better, but the ball went just out of the reach of our fellows. Talk about fool luck! If those Cincinnati players fell in the water they'd come up with a fish dinner." "That's just the reason we're due for a change," argued Jim. "We'll get it all back from the Cubs." But here again there was disappointment. Joe pitched the first game and won in a close fight, although the Cubs tied it up in the ninth and Joe had to win his own game in the eleventh by a homer. But the next two went to Chicago, and in the fourth game, which Jim pitched, the best he could do was to make it a tie, called in the twelfth on account of darkness. This time it was not luck that gave to the Giants only one game out of three. They had as many of the breaks of the game as their opponents. They simply slumped. One of those mysterious things that come to almost every team once at least in a season had them in its clutches. Perhaps it was overanxiety, perhaps it was a superstitious feeling that a "jinx" was after them, but, whatever it was, it spread through the team like an epidemic. Their fingers were "all thumbs." Their bats had "holes" in them. The most reliable fielders slipped up on easy chances. They booted the ball, or if they got it they threw either too high or too low to first. Double plays became less frequent. Two of the best batters in the team, Larry and Burkett, fell off woefully in their hitting. In vain McRae raged and stormed. In vain Robbie begged and pleaded and cajoled. In vain Jim and Joe, who still resisted the infection, sought to stem the tide of disaster. The members of the team with a few exceptions continued to act as if they were in a trance. McRae did everything in his power to bring about a change. He laid off Willis and Iredell, and put two promising rookies, Barry and Ward, in their places. This added a little speed on the bases to the team, but did not materially add to the batting or fielding, for the rookies were nervous and made many misplays, while they were lamentably short on the "inside stuff" that takes long experience to acquire. He shook up the batting order. But the hits were still few and far between. St. Louis gave the Giants a sound trouncing in the first game, but in the second the Giants came to life and reversed the score. Joe was in the box in this contest, and as he came in to the bench in the fourth inning, he noted, sitting in the grandstand, a figure that seemed familiar to him. The man seemed to have seen Baseball Joe at the same time, but he hid himself behind the form of a big man sitting in front of him, so that Joe could not be sure of his identification. "What were you looking at so steadily, Joe?" inquired Jim, as his friend sat down on the bench beside him. "Did you by any chance catch sight of the jinx that's been following us?" he continued jokingly. "Maybe I did, at that," replied Joe. "I could have sworn that I got a glimpse of Bugs Hartley in the grandstand." "Bugs Hartley?" echoed Jim in surprise. "How could that old rascal have got as far as St. Louis?" "Beat his way, perhaps," answered Joe. "Of course I'm not dead sure but that I might have been mistaken. And I won't have much time to look for him while I'm in the box. But suppose in the meantime you go down to the coaching line near first. While you're pretending to coach, you can take an occasional look at the grandstand and see if you can pick out Bugs. He's somewhere about the third row near the center. Just where the wire netting is broken." Jim did as suggested, and studied the grandstand with care. He had only a chance to make an affirmative nod of the head as Joe, the inning ended, went out again to the box, but when he returned after pitching the side out on strikes, Jim told Joe that he was right. "It's Bugs all right," he said. "I had a good chance to see that ugly mug of his, and there can't be any mistake. But what in thunder can he be doing in St. Louis?" "Oh, panhandling and drinking himself to death, I suppose," answered Joe carelessly, his mind intent upon the game. "But how did he get here?" persisted Jim. "I don't like it, old man. It takes money to travel, and I don't think Bugs could hustle up railroad fare to save his life. And if somebody gave him the money to get here, why was it done? I tell you again, Joe, I don't like it." "Well, perhaps it's just as well we caught sight of him," admitted Joe. "It will help us to keep our eyes open." In the seventh inning for the Giants, with the score tied at 3 to 3, Larry started a rally for the Giants by lining out a screaming single to right. Denton followed with a hit to short that was too hot for the shortstop to handle. He knocked the ball down, however, and got it to first. Denton had thought the play would be made on Larry, who was already on his way to third. Denton, therefore, had rounded first and started for second, but saw the ball coming and scrambled back to first. There was a grand mixup, but the umpire declared Denton safe. It was a close play, and the St. Louis team was up in arms in a moment. Some of them, including their manager, rushed to the spot to argue with the umpire. The crowd also was enraged at the decision and began to hoot and howl. One or two pop bottles were thrown at the umpire, but fell short. Joe, who was next at bat, had taken his stand at the plate, awaiting the outcome of the argument. Suddenly a bottle, aimed with great skill and tremendous force, came through the broken wire netting, whizzed close by his head, the top of it grazing his ear in passing. If it had hit his head, it would have injured him greatly beyond a doubt. Joe turned toward the stand and saw a man hastily making his way out toward the entrance. He could only see his back, but he knew at once to whom that back belonged. "Stop him! Stop him!" he shouted, as he threw aside his bat and rushed toward the stand. But Jim had already vaulted over the barrier and was rushing through the aisle. CHAPTER XIX A CLOSE CALL The people in the grandstand had not fully grasped the significance of the cowardly attack, as the attention of most of them was centered upon the dispute at first base. But the shout of Baseball Joe and the rush of Jim through the aisle of the stand had brought them to their feet, and some of them started in pursuit or tried to stop the flying figure of the fugitive. But this very desire of so many to apprehend him helped in his escape. Men crowded in the aisle, and Jim, who could otherwise have captured him, found himself in the midst of a throng that effectually hindered his progress. He pushed his way through desperately, using his arms and hands to clear a passage, but by the time he arrived at the outer edge, the man had disappeared. Either he had mixed with the enormous crowd or had found his way through one of the numerous exits. In any event, he was not to be seen, and at last Jim, flaming-eyed and dripping with sweat from his exertions, had to come back empty-handed. In the meantime, the umpire had asserted his authority at first base, and given the St. Louis players one minute by his watch to resume play. With much muttering and grumbling they obeyed. The decision stood, and Larry was on third, while Denton danced around on first and "kidded" the Cardinal first baseman on the umpire's decision. Joe again took up his position at the plate, the fairer-minded among the spectators giving him a cheer as he did so, to express their indignation at the dastardly attack that had been made on him. He was somewhat shaken by the close call he had had, and the first two balls were strikes. Then he took a grip on himself, and when the next one came over he smashed a beauty to right. It went for two bases, while Larry scored easily, and Denton by great running and a headlong slide also reached the plate. The next man up sacrificed Joe to third, but there he remained, as the next two batters, despite McRae's adjurations, were not able to bring him in. The Giants, however, had now broken the tie and had a two-run lead, and although that ended their scoring, it was sufficient, as Joe put on extra steam and mowed down the Cardinals almost as fast as they came to the bat. One hit was made off him for the remainder of the game, but as the batter got no farther than first there was no damage done. Joe and Jim did not care to discuss the matter before their mates, and the attack was put down to some rowdy who was sore at the umpire's decision and took that method of showing it. But the two friends knew that it was much more than that. "Well, what do you think now of my hunch?" demanded Jim, when the chums were alone together. "Was I right when I said I was uneasy about that fellow being in the grandstand?" "You certainly were, Jim," answered Joe. "It must have been Bugs who threw that bottle. I know at any rate that it was he whom I saw hustling out of the stands. And when I looked at where he had been sitting the seat was empty." "It was Bugs all right," affirmed Jim with decision. "I saw his face once, when he glanced behind him while he was running. Then, too, only a pitcher could have hurled the bottle with the swiftness and precision that he did. It went nearly as far as the pitcher's box before it struck the ground. Gee! my heart was in my mouth for a second when I saw it go whizzing past your ear. If it had hit you fair and square, it would have been good night." "It did barely touch me," replied Joe, pointing to a scratch on his ear. "The old rascal hasn't forgotten how to throw. How that fellow must hate me! And yet I was the best friend that he had on the team." "He hates you all right," replied Jim. "But it wasn't only his own personal feeling that prompted him to do that thing to-day. That isn't Bugs' way. He'd dope your coffee on the sly. Or he'd throw a stone at your head in a dark street, as he did that time when we'd started on our tour around the world. But to do a thing in the open, as he did to-day, means that he had a mighty big incentive to lay you out. That incentive was probably money. Somebody has put up the cash to send him to St. Louis, and that same somebody has probably promised him a big wad of dough if he could do you up. The chance came to-day, when the fans began to throw bottles at the umpire. He figured that that was the time to get in his work. If he'd been caught, he could have said that he was only one of a good many who did the same thing, and that he had no idea the bottle was going to hit anybody." "Then you think that Bugs this time was acting as the tool of Braxton, or whoever it is that's trying to put me out of business," remarked Joe. "Think so!" cried Jim. "I'm sure of it. So many things, all pointing to deliberate purpose, don't happen by accident. The same fellow who hired those auto bandits to cripple you hired Bugs for the same purpose. Lots of people have heard of the hatred that Bugs has for you. I suppose he's panning you all the time in the joints where he hangs out. This fellow that's after your hide has heard of Bugs and put him on the job. If he can't get you in one way, he's going to try to get you in another. He figures that some time or other one of his schemes will go through. Gee!" he exclaimed, jumping up and pacing the floor, "what would I give just to come face to face with him and have him in a room alone with me for five minutes. Just five minutes! I'd change his face so that his own brother wouldn't know him." "I hope that job's reserved for me," replied Joe, as his fist clenched. "He'd get a receipt in full for all I owe him." "In the meantime, what shall we do about Bugs?" asked Jim anxiously. "He ought to be put in jail. It isn't right that a man who's tried to cripple another should be at large." "No," agreed Joe, "it isn't. But I don't see just what we can do about it. The chances are ten to one against his being found. Even if he were, nobody could be found probably who saw him actually throw the bottle. We didn't ourselves, though we feel absolutely certain that he did. He could explain his leaving by saying that he was taken ill and had to leave. Then, too, if he were arrested, we'd have to stay here and prosecute him, and we can't stay away from the team. Besides the whole thing would get in the papers, and Mabel and Clara and all the folks would have heart failure about it. No, I guess we'll have to keep quiet about it." "I suppose we will," admitted Jim reluctantly. "But some day this scoundrel who's hounding you will be caught in the open. And I'm still hoping for that five minutes!" CHAPTER XX SPEEDING UP St. Louis was in good form on the following day, and a perfect deluge of hits came from their bats. The Giants, too, had a good hitting day, and the fans who like to see free batting had their desire satisfied to the full. And their pleasure was all the greater because the home team had the best of the duel, and came out on top by a score of 17 to 12. Jim was in the box on the next day, and by superb pitching had the St. Louis sluggers hitting like a kindergarten team. They simply could not solve him. His team mates had scarcely anything to do, and only by the narrowest of margins did he miss turning the Cardinals back without a hit. One hit narrowly escaped the fingers of the second baseman, as he leaped in the air for it. But it did escape him, and counted for the only hit made by the St. Louis in the game. It was a magnificent exhibition and wound up a disastrous trip in a blaze of glory. Still it could not be denied that the trip had put a big dent in the Giants' aspirations for the pennant. Instead of the twelve games out of sixteen that McRae had asked for, they had only turned in six victories. It was the most miserable record that the Giants had made for years. "And we call ourselves a good road team!" snorted Curry in disgust, as they settled down in the Pullman for the long ride back from St. Louis to New York. "A bunch of school girls could have done better work." "Luck was against us," ventured Larry. "It sure was against us." "Luck, nothing!" exclaimed Curry. "We simply fell down, and fell down hard. The whole League is laughing at us. Look at the way the other Eastern teams held up their end. The Brooklyns copped ten games, the Bostons got eleven, and the Phillies pulled down seven. We ought to sneak back into New York on a freight train instead of riding in Pullmans." "I guess there won't be any band at the station to meet us," remarked Joe. "But after all, any team is liable to have a slump and play like a lot of dubs. Let's hope we've got all the bad playing out of our systems. From now on we're going to climb." "That's the way to talk," chimed in Jim. "Of course we can't deny that we've stubbed our toes on this trip. But we know in our heart that we've got the best team in the League. We've got the Indian sign on all of them. The fans that are roasting us now will be shouting their heads off when we get started on our winning streak. Remember, boys, it's a long worm that has no turning." There was a general laugh at this, and the spirits of the party lightened a little. But not all of the gloom was lifted. The prediction that their reception in New York would be rather frosty was true. Such high hopes had been built on the result of this trip that the reaction was correspondingly depressing. And what made the Giants feel the change of attitude the more keenly was the fact that while they had been doing so poorly, the Yankees at home had been going "like a house afire." They had taken the lead definitely away from the Clevelands, and it did not seem as though there was any team in their League that could stop them. New York was quite sure that it was going to have one championship team. But it was quite as certain that it was not going to have two. That hope had gone glimmering. Both teams were occupying the Polo Grounds for the season, while the new park of the Yankees was being completed. The schedule therefore had been arranged so that while one of the teams was playing at home the other was playing somewhere out of town. Thus on the very day the Giants reached home the Yankees were starting out on their trip to other cities. They went away in the glory of victory. The Giants came home in the gloom of defeat. The change of sentiment was visible in the first home game that the Giants played. On the preceding day, at their last game, the Yankees had played before a crowd of twenty-five thousand. The first game of the Giants drew scarcely more than three thousand. Many of these were the holders of free season passes, others, like the reporters, had to be there, while the rest were made up of the chronic fans who followed the Giants through thick and thin. There was no enthusiasm, and even the fact that the Giants won did not dispel the funereal atmosphere. And then the Giants began to climb! At first the process did not attract much attention. The public was so thoroughly disheartened by the downfall of their favorites in the West, that they took it for granted that they were out of the running for the pennant. Of course it was assumed that they would finish in the first division--it was very seldom that a New York team could not be depended on to do that--and that by some kind of miracle it might be possible to finish second. But there was very little consolation in that. New York wanted a winner or nothing. If the Giants could not fly the championship flag at the Polo Grounds, nobody cared very much whether they came in second or eighth or anywhere between. The first team to visit the Polo Grounds was the Bostons. They had greatly improved their game since the beginning of the season, and were even thought to have a look-in for the flag. They chuckled to themselves at the thought that they would catch the Giants in the slump that had begun out West and press them still deeper in the direction of the cellar. At first they thought they might even make a clean sweep. They lost the first game, but only by reason of a muff of an easy fly that let in two unearned runs in the sixth. That of course disposed of the clean sweep idea, but still, three out of four would do. But when they lost the second game also, their jubilation began to subside. Now the best they could hope for was an even break. But again they lost, and the climax was put to their discomfiture when the Giants simply walked away with the fourth game by a score of 10 to 0. But even with this series of four in a row captured by the Giants, the public refused to enthuse. It might have been only a flash in the pan. It is true that the sporting writers were beginning to sit up and take notice. Most of their time hitherto had been spent in advising McRae through the columns of their paper how he might strengthen his team for next year. The present season of course was past praying for. Yet there was a distinct chirking up on the part of the scribes, although they carefully refrained from making any favorable predictions that afterward they might be sorry for. They would wait awhile and see. Besides, the Brooklyns were coming next, and they had usually found it easy to defeat the Giants. If the Giants could hold the men from over the big bridge to an even break, it might mean a great deal. The Brooklyns came, saw and--were conquered. Four times in succession they went down before superb pitching and heavy batting. Four times they called on their heavy sluggers and their best boxmen, but the Giants rode over them roughshod. The sporting writers sat up and rubbed their eyes. Was this the same team that had come home forlorn and bedraggled after their last trip? Had the Giants really come to life? Was the pennant still a possibility? By this time the public had begun to wake up. The stands at the Polo Grounds no longer looked like a desert. The crowds began to pack the subway cars on their way up to the grounds. Everywhere the question was beginning to be asked: "What do you think of the Giants? Have they still got a chance?" It was the Phillies' turn next, and they had also to bend the knee. The Giants took them into camp as easily as they had the Braves and the Dodgers. And to rub it in, two of the games were shutouts. Twelve games in a row, and the Giants tearing through the other teams like so many runaway horses! CHAPTER XXI THE WINNING STREAK The Giants were in for a winning streak, and New York City promptly went baseball mad! Now there was no question of filling the grounds. It was rather a question of getting there early enough to secure seats. The Polo Grounds could accommodate thirty-five thousand, and again and again that number was reached and exceeded. The great amphitheatre was a sea of eager faces. Fans stood in hundreds in the rear of the upper grandstands. The lower stand too was filled to overflowing, and the bleachers were packed. It was astonishing how many business men closed their rolltop desks with a bang on those summer afternoons. Young and old alike were wild to be at the games and see the Giants add one more to their rapidly mounting list of victories. Thirteen--fourteen--fifteen--sixteen! Were the Giants ever going to be stopped? If so, who was going to stop them? The Western teams were coming now and the St. Louis team had left their scalps in the Giant's wigwam. Chicago was next in line. Could they stop the Giants in their mad rush for the flag? They could not, although they tried desperately, and Brennan, their resourceful manager, used all the cunning and guile that his long experience had taught him. The Giants tamed the Cubs with a thoroughness that left nothing to be desired from a New York point of view. And now the string of victories had mounted to twenty. Old records were got out and furbished up. It was found that once before, when Markwith and Hughson were in their prime, the New Yorks had won twenty-six games in a row. Could they repeat? Could they beat their own record that had been hung up so long for other teams to aim at? That was the question that absorbed public interest, not only in New York, but in baseball circles all over the country. The reason for this phenomenal spurt of the Giants, it was recognized, could be found in two chief factors. One was the wonderful work being done by Joe both as a pitcher and a batter. The other was the marvelous advance that had been made by Jim as a twirler. Joe had never had such complete mastery of the ball as he was showing this season. Even the pitching he had done the previous year, in the World Series between the Giants and the Sox, paled in comparison with what he was doing now. His control was something almost magical. It was such a rarity for him to give a base on balls that when it happened it was specially noted by the sporting writers. He worked the corners of the plate to perfection. He mixed up his fast ones with slow teasers that made the opposing batsmen look ridiculous as they broke their backs reaching for them. His slants and twists and hops and curves had never been so baffling. It was fast getting to the point where the other teams were half beaten as soon as they saw Joe pick up his glove and go into the box. But it was not even his pitching, great as it was, that held the worshiping attention of the crowds. It was the home run record that he was piling up in such an amazing fashion that already he was rated by many the equal of the wonderful Kid Rose. That wonderful eye of his had learned to time the ball so accurately as it came up to the plate that the bat met it at precisely the hundredth part of a second when it did the most good. Then all his mighty arm and shoulder leaned on the ball and gave it wings. Almost every other game now saw a home run chalked up to his credit. In three games of the winning streak he had made two home runs in a single game. It was common talk that he was out to tie the record of Ed Delehanty, the one-time mighty slugger of the Phillies, who in the years of long ago had hung up a record of four homers in a game. He had not done it yet, but there was still time before the season closed. More still would have gone to his credit had not the opposing pitchers become so afraid of him that they would not let him hit the ball. Again and again when he came to the bat, the catcher would stand away off to the side and the pitcher would deliberately send over four balls, so wide that Joe could not possibly reach them without stepping out of the box. This was a mighty disappointment to the crowds, half of whom had come with no other object in view than to see Joe smash out a homer. They would jeer and taunt the pitcher for his cowardice in fearing to match his slants against Joe's bat, but the practice continued nevertheless. Even this, however, was not a total loss to the Giants. It put Joe on first anyway, and counted at least for as much as a single would have done. And Joe was so fleet of foot on the bases that McRae once said jokingly that he would have to have detectives on the field to keep him from stealing so many bags. Many a base on balls thus given to Joe out of fear for his mighty bat was eventually turned into a run that helped to win the game. One morning when Joe, with the rest of the Giant team, was going out on the field for practice, his eye caught sight of a long white streak of kalsomine that ran up the right field wall to the top, behind the bleachers. "What's the idea?" he asked, turning to Robbie, who was close beside him. "Don't you really know, you old fence-breaker?" asked Robbie, a smile breaking over his jovial face. "Blest if I do," answered Joe. "Well, I'll tell you," answered Robbie. "The fact is that you've got into such a habit of knocking the ball into the right field stands--mighty good habit, too, if you ask me--that the umpires have asked us to paint this line so that they can see whether the hit is fair or foul. The ordinary hit they can tell easy enough. But yours are so far out that they have to have especial help in judging them. It's the first time it's had to be done for any hitter in the history of the game. Some compliment, what?" But Joe's work, wonderful as it was, would not alone have started and maintained the Giants' winning streak. No one man, however great, can carry a whole team on his shoulders. The next most important element was the pitching that Jim was showing. It was only second in quality to that turned in by Joe himself. Jim was a natural ball player, and his close association and friendship with Joe had taught him all the fine points of the game. He had learned the weaknesses of opposing batters. He knew those who would bite at an outcurve and those to whom a fast high one was poison; those who would offer at the first ball and those who would try to wait him out; those who would crowd the plate and those who would flinch when he wound the ball around their necks. He had a splendid head on his shoulders and a world of power in his biceps; and those two things go far to make a winning combination. Another element of strength was the return of Hughson to the team and his ability to take his regular turn in the box. His arm still hurt him, and it was beginning to be evident that he would never again be the Hughson of old. But his skill and knowledge of the game and the batters was so great that it more than atoned for the weakness of his pitching arm. His control was as wonderful as ever, and he nursed his arm as much as possible. He did not attempt to do much striking out, as that would have been too severe a strain. More and more he let the batsmen hit the ball, and depended upon the eight men behind him to back him up. Often he would go through an inning this way and the three put outs would be made by the infield on grounders and the outfielders on flies. But once let a man get on first and the "Old Master" would tighten up and prevent scoring. By thus favoring his arm, he was able to turn in his share of the victories. Markwith also had a new lease of life, and was winging them over as in the days when he had been without question the best port side flinger in the League. In fact the pitching staff was at the height of its form and had never been going better. And the rest of the team, without exception, was playing great ball. There was not a cripple on the list. Willis and Iredell had been restored to their positions at third and short respectively, and were playing the best ball of their careers. With Larry at second and Burkett at first, they formed a stonewall infield that seldom let anything get away from them. They made hair-raising stops and dazzling double plays, gobbling up grounders on either side, spearing high liners that were ticketed for singles, and played like supermen. The outfielders had caught the spirit of enthusiasm that pervaded the team, and were making what seemed like impossible catches. Add to this that the team members were batting like fiends and running bases like so many ghosts, and the reason for the winning streak becomes apparent. The Giants were simply playing unbeatable ball. So the Cincinnatis found when the time came for their heads to drop into the basket. That series was sweet revenge for the Giants, who had not forgotten the beating the Reds had given them on their last swing around the circuit. Twenty-one--twenty-two--twenty-three--twenty-four. Two more games to tie their own previous record. Three more to beat it. Would they do it? Many shook their heads. On the mere law of averages, a break for the Giants was now due. The team had been under a fearful strain. Such phenomenal work could not last forever. Besides, the severest test was now at hand. The Pittsburghs were coming. The Smoky City boys had been playing great ball themselves. They had won nineteen games out of the last twenty-four, and the margin of seven games that they had had when the Giants began their streak still kept them in the lead by two games. They had boasted that they would break the Giants' streak as soon as they struck New York. The time had come to make good their boast. Would they do it? CHAPTER XXII STRIVING FOR MASTERY It was Jim's turn to go on the mound in the first game with the Pittsburghs, and in the practice work before the game he showed that he was keyed up for his work. For so comparatively young a pitcher, he might well have been a bit nervous at facing so redoubtable a team before the immense crowd that had gathered to see whether or not the Giants' winning streak was doomed to be broken. But there was no trace of it in his manner, and McRae, looking him over, concluded that there was no reason to change his selection. His confidence was justified. Jim that afternoon was at as high a point of pitching form as he had ever reached in his career. He pitched a masterly game and held the Pirate sluggers to four hits. His support was all that could be desired, and some of the stops and throws of his comrades bordered on the miraculous. The Giants came out at the big end of the score, their tally being three to the solitary run scored by their opponents. "Twenty-five!" chuckled Joe, as he slapped his friend on the back, when the Pirates had been turned back in their half of ninth. "Jim, you're a lulu! You had those fellows rolling over and playing dead." "I guess we had all the breaks," returned Jim, smiling modestly. "Nothing of the kind," disclaimed Joe. "If anything, they had whatever breaks there were. It was simply a case of dandy pitching. You had them buffaloed." "Only one more game to go before we tie our own record," said Jim. "Gee, Joe, I wish you were going to pitch to-morrow. We're just in sight of the Promised Land. That will be the most important game of all." "Oh, I don't know," replied Joe. "It will be something to tie the record, but I want to break it. Day after to-morrow will be the big day. That is, if we win to-morrow, and I think we shall. It's Markwith's turn to go in, and he's going fine. The Pittsburghs aren't any too good against left-handed pitchers, anyway." But whatever the alleged weakness of the Pirates against southpaws, they showed little respect for Markwith's offerings on the next day. They had on their batting clothes and clouted the ball lustily. Only phenomenal fielding on the part of the Giants kept the score down, and again and again Markwith was pulled out of a hole by some dazzling bit of play when a run seemed certain. Still he worried through until the first part of the eighth. At that time the score was five to four in favor of the visitors. The Giants had been batting freely, but not quite as hard as the Pirates. In the eighth, Markwith was plainly beginning to wobble in his control. He passed two men in quick succession. That was enough for McRae, and Joe, who had been warming up at the right of the grandstand, was sent into the box. The Pirates' scoring stopped then and there. Astley, who was at the bat, fanned on three successive strikes. Brown hit to the box and Joe made a lightning throw to Larry at second, who relayed it to first for a sparkling double play, putting out the side. The Giants' half of the eighth was scoreless. All the Pittsburghs had to do now was to hold them down for one more inning, and the winning streak would be broken. Joe made short work of the visitors in their last inning and the Giants came in for their final half. Willis was the first man up. He made a savage lunge at the first ball pitched, but caught it on the under side, and it went up directly over the plate. Jenkins the Pittsburgh catcher, did not have to move from his tracks to gather it in. Larry sent a fierce low liner to Baskerville at short, who made a magnificent catch, picking it off his shoe tops. Two out, and the crowd fairly groaned as the winning streak seemed at last about to be broken. All hopes were now pinned on Denton. All he could do, however, was to dribble a slow one to the box. It seemed a certain out, and nine times out of ten would have been. But the Pittsburgh pitcher, in running in on it, snatched it up so hurriedly that it fell out of his hand. He recovered it in an instant and shot it to first. But that fumble had been fatal, and Denton by a headlong slide reached first before the ball. A tremendous roar arose from the stands, and the people who had started to leave sat down suddenly and sat down hard. In the Giants' dugout, all was excitement and animation. McRae ran down to first to coach Denton. Robbie rushed over to Joe, who was next in turn and had already picked up his bat. "For the love of Pete, Joe," he begged, "paste the old apple. Show them again what you've been showing us all along. Kill the ball! Just once, Joe, just once! You can do it. One good crack, and you'll save the winning streak." "I'll do my best," was Joe's reply. Frantic adjurations of the same nature were showered on Joe as he took up his position at the plate. Then there was a great silence, as the crowd fairly held their breath. But the crafty Pittsburgh pitcher was to be reckoned with. He had no mind to see the game go glimmering just at the moment it seemed to be won. He signaled to his catcher and deliberately pitched two balls wide of the plate. It was evident that he was going to give Joe his base on balls and take a chance with Mylert, the next batter. But the best laid plans sometimes miscarry. The third ball he pitched did not go as wide of the plate as he had meant it should. Joe sized it up, saw that he could reach it, and swung for it with all his might. There was a crack like that of a rifle as the bat met the ball and sent it mounting ever higher and higher toward the right field wall. It seemed as though it were endowed with wings. On it went in a mighty curve and landed at last in the topmost row of the right field seats. There it was pocketed by a proud and happy fan, while Joe, sending in Denton ahead of him, jogged easily around the bases to the home plate. The game was won! The winning streak was saved! The Giants had tied their record, which had stood untouched for so many years! The scene in the stands and bleachers beggared description. Roar after roar went up, while the crazy spectators threw their straw hats into the air and scattered them by scores over the field. The Polo Grounds had been transformed into a madhouse, but differing from other insane asylums in that all the inmates were happy. All, that is, except the Pirates and their supporters, who thought unspeakable things as they saw the game in a twinkling torn from their grasp. Joe's only escape from his enthusiastic well-wishers lay in flight, and he made a bee line for the clubhouse. He got inside not a moment too soon. For a long time afterward a great crowd hung about the entrance, waiting for him to reappear, and it was only by slipping out of a back entrance that he eluded them. The old record had been tied. Could it be beaten? CHAPTER XXIII HOLDING THEM DOWN Baseball circles had rarely been more deeply stirred than by the issue of the game, by winning which the Giants had tied their record. It was not merely the winning, but the sensational way in which Baseball Joe's home run had turned the scales in the last minute and snatched victory from defeat that excited the fans. But now that the record was tied, would the Giants be able to hang up a new one? That was the question on every lip, the question whose discussion filled column after column of the sporting pages of the newspapers. All agreed that the Giants had been lucky to win. If it had not been for the error of the pitcher on Denton's slow dribble, they would have lost. But it was conceded that it was not luck that had secured that mighty home run that Joe had hammered out to the bleachers. That was ball playing. That was muscle. That was determination. Once again his cool head and quick eye and powerful arm had shown that the game was not over until the last man was out. It was Joe's turn to pitch, and it was upon that fact more than anything else that the vast crowd that stormed the Polo Grounds relied for annexing the twenty-seventh game. The Pittsburghs too were holding out their star pitcher, Hooper, for that critical game, and it was certain that they would put forth superhuman efforts to win. In more senses than one, the game was an important one. The last two victories of the Giants had wiped out the lead that the Pirates had had over them, and the two teams were now on even terms in games won and lost for the season, so that the Pirates had a double incentive to win. If they took the game they would not only prevent the Giants from breaking their own record for a winning streak, but would also once more stand at the head of the League. "It's up to you, Joe," McRae said, just before the bell rang for the game to begin. "How are you feeling? Are you tired at all from pitching those last two innings yesterday?" "Not a bit tired," replied Joe promptly. "That little work yesterday was just the practice I needed to get into form. I'm feeling as fine as silk." "You look it," said the manager admiringly, as his eye took in the strong, lithe figure, the bronzed face and clear eyes of his star pitcher. "Well go in now Joe and eat them up. Hooper will be in the box for them, and I'm not denying that he's some pitcher. But he never saw the day that you couldn't run rings around him. Go in and win." It was evident from the start that there would be no such free hitting that day as there had been the day before. Both boxmen were in superb form, and by the time the first inning for each side was over, the spectators had settled down to witness a pitcher's duel. Hooper was a spitball artist, and his moist slants kept the Giants guessing in the early part of the game. But while he depended chiefly on this form of delivery, he had other puzzlers in his assortment, and he mixed them up in a most deceptive manner. In the first three innings he had four strike-outs to his credit, and when the Giants did connect with the ball it went up into the air and into the hands of some waiting fielder. His control of the slippery sphere also was excellent, and he issued no passes. In the fourth inning, the Giants began to nibble at his offerings. Curry rapped one out to right for the first single of the game. Iredell was robbed of a hit by a great jumping catch of O'Connor, who speared the ball with his gloved hand. Burkett lined out a two-bagger that carried Curry easily to third, but in trying to stretch the hit, he was caught by Ralston's magnificent throw to the plate. Burkett in the meantime had made a dash for third, but thought better of it, and scrambled back to second just in time. The next man up went out from short to first and the inning ended without scoring. But the Giants had proved to themselves that Hooper could be hit, and it was with renewed confidence that they took their places in the field. Joe in the meantime was mowing his opponents down with the regularity of a machine. His mighty arm swung back and forth like a piston rod. He had never cared for the spitball, as he knew that sooner or later it destroyed a pitcher's effectiveness. But in his repertoire of curves and slants he had weapons far more deadly. His fast straight one whizzed over the plate like a bullet. He mixed these up with a slow, dipping curve that the Pirates endeavored in vain to solve. Only with the head of the Pittsburgh batting order did he at times resort to the fadeaway. That he kept in reserve for some moment when danger threatened. Twice in the first five innings he set down the side on strikes, and not a man reached first on balls. It was wonderful pitching, and again and again Joe was forced to doff his cap to the cheers of the crowd, as he came into the bench. In the sixth inning, the Giants got busy. Wheeler lashed out a whale of a three-bagger to left. Willis laid down a neat sacrifice, bringing Wheeler home for the first run of the game. Larry hit the ball on the seam for a single, but was caught a moment later in trying to purloin second. The next batter up went out on strikes and the inning ended with the Giants one run to the good. The seventh inning came and passed and not a hit had been made by the Pirates. Then it began to be realized that Joe was out for a no-hit game, and the crowd rooted for him madly. Joe himself was about the only cool man on the grounds. He measured every man that came to the plate and took his time about pitching to him. Man after man he fanned or made him hit feeble grounders to the infield. And that wonderful control of his forbade any passes. The Pirates did not dare to wait him out. It was a case of strike or be struck out, and so they struck at the ball, but usually struck only the empty air. That ball! Sometimes it was a wheedling, coaxing ball, that sauntered up to the plate as though just begging to be hit. Again it was a vanishing ball that grew smaller from the time it left Joe's hand until it became a mere pin point as it glinted over the rubber. Still again it was a savage ball that shot over the plate with a rush and a hiss that made the batter jump back. But always it was a deceptive ball, that slipped by, hopped by, loafed by, twisted by, dodged by, and the Pirate sluggers strained their backs as well as their tempers in trying to hit it. McRae and Robbie on the bench watched with fascination and delight the work of their king pitcher. "It's magic, I tell you, John, just magic!" blurted out Robbie, as another victim went out on strikes and threw down his bat in disgust. "It sure looks like it," grinned McRae. "He has those fellows jumping through the hoops all right. I'm free to say I never saw anything like it." "He's got the ball trained, I tell you," persisted Robbie, rubbing his hands in jubilation. "It's an educated ball. It does just what Joe tells it to." Almost uncontrollable excitement prevailed as the Pirates came in for their last inning. Their heaviest sluggers were coming to the bat, and now if ever was the time to do something. They figured that the strain must have told on Joe and that a crack was due. Their hope grew dimmer, however, when Ralston, after fouling off two, fanned on the third strike. But it revived again when Baskerville rolled an easy one to Larry, that the latter fumbled for a moment and then hurled to first a fraction of a second too late. There was a roar of glee from the Pirates, and they began to chatter in the hope of rattling the pitcher. Bemis, the next man up, came to the plate swinging three bats. He discarded two of them and glared at Joe. "Here's where you meet your finish," he boasted, as he brandished his bat. Joe merely smiled and put one over. Bemis drove it straight for the box. Joe leaped into the air, caught it in his ungloved hand and shot it like lightning to first, catching Baskerville before he could get back. It was as pretty a double play as had ever been made on the New York grounds! CHAPTER XXIV A CRUSHING BLOW The play had been so swift that the eye could scarcely follow the ball, and it was a few seconds before the majority of the spectators could grasp what had happened. Then a tremendous shout went up that rolled across the field in increasing volume as the crowds realized that they had seen what would probably never be seen again in a single game. They had seen the New York team break its own record for straight wins, and in addition they had witnessed that rarest of pitching exploits, a no-hit game. Not even a scratch hit had marred Joe's wonderful performance, nor had he given a single base on balls. It was a red-letter day for the Giants and for Joe, and the people who had been there would talk about that game for years. If any one should have been elated by the marvelous result of that day's work, it was Joe. He had never stood on a higher pinnacle, except perhaps when he had won the last game of the World Series the preceding year. He was more than ever a hero in the eyes of the baseball public of New York, and within five minutes after the game was over the wires had flashed the news to every city of the country. But despite his natural pride in his achievement and his pleasure in knowing that he had won this critical game for his team, it was a very subdued and worried Joe that hurried to the clubhouse after the game was over. There his mates gathered, in the seventh heaven of delight, and there was a general jubilee, in which McRae and Robson joined. "We did it, we did it!" cried Robbie, bouncing about like a rubber ball in his excitement. "We broke the record! Twenty-seven games in a row!" "Where do you get that 'we' stuff, you old porpoise," grinned McRae, poking him jovially in the ribs. "Seems to me that Joe had something to do with it. Put it there, Matson," he went on, extending his hand. "You pitched a game that will go down in baseball history and you saved our winning streak from going up in smoke." Joe put out his left hand, and McRae looked a little surprised. Then he glanced down at Joe's right hand, and a look of consternation swept over his face. "Great Scott!" he cried. "What's the matter with your hand? It's swelled to twice its usual size." [Illustration: "GREAT SCOTT!" HE CRIED. "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOUR HAND?"] "It was that drive of Bemis', I guess," replied Joe. "When I nabbed it, I seemed to feel something crack in the hand. Perhaps, though, it's only strained. It will probably be all right by to-morrow." "To-morrow!" roared McRae, as all crowded around anxiously. "There'll be no waiting till to-morrow. That hand is worth a half million dollars to the New York club, to say nothing of its worth to yourself. Where's the trainer? Where's the doctor? Jump, some of you fellows, and get them here quick!" There was a general scurrying around, and in a few minutes both of those men were examining the injured hand with the greatest solicitude. They looked grave when they had finished. "It's hard to tell just what has happened until the swelling has been reduced," pronounced the doctor, as he busied himself with splints and lotions. "I'm afraid, though, that it's more than a sprain. When it swells as much as that it generally means that a bone has been broken." There was a general groan. "That means, does it, that he will be out of the game for the rest of the season?" asked McRae, in notes of despair. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," the doctor hastened to reassure him. "It may be only a trifling fracture, and in that case he will have to be out only for a short time. But for the next few weeks anyway, he isn't likely to do any more pitching." "Who's the best specialist in New York?" demanded McRae. The doctor named a surgeon of national reputation. "'Phone him to come at once," commanded McRae. "Or, better yet, Joe, you'd better come right with me now. My car's outside and I'll get you up there in fifteen minutes. Every minute counts now." Joe hurriedly finished dressing, and McRae bundled him into his automobile. It was a speedy machine, and it was to be feared that the traffic laws were not strictly observed as it made its way downtown. But the traffic policemen all knew McRae and Joe, and there was nothing to prevent their getting to their destination in record time. A telephone call from the clubhouse had already notified the eminent surgeon that the pair were coming, and he was waiting for them. Without a moment's delay, they were ushered into his inner office, where he stripped off the bandages from the hand and made a thorough examination. "There is a small dislocation," he said when he had finished. "But I think it will yield readily to treatment. It will not be a permanent injury, and in a little while the hand will be as good as ever." Both drew a sigh of immense relief. "A little while," repeated McRae. "Just what do you mean by that, Doctor? You know we're fighting for the pennant, and we're depending on this king pitcher of ours more than on any one else to win out. Every day he's out of the race weakens our chances." "I can't tell that definitely until to-morrow morning," the doctor replied. "But offhand I should say for two or three weeks at least." "Two or three weeks!" repeated McRae in tones of mingled dismay and relief. "In those two or three weeks we may lose the flag. But thank heaven it's no worse." After making an appointment for the next morning, McRae drove Joe to his hotel. "It's bad enough, Joe," he said to him in parting. "I don't know how we're going to spare you while we're in the thick of the fight. But when I think of what it would mean to the team if you were knocked out altogether, I've got no kick coming. We're ahead of the Pittsburghs now, anyway, thanks to your splendid work, and if we can just hold our own till you get back, we'll pull out all right yet." Joe found Jim waiting for him, full of anxiety and alarm. But his face lighted up when he learned that the injury was not a permanent one. "It would have been a mighty sight better to have lost the game to-day than to have bought it at such a price," he said. "But after all, nothing matters as long as your hand is safe. That hand is your fortune." "To-day was my unlucky day," remarked Joe ruefully, as he looked at his bandaged hand. "In one sense it was," replied Jim, "but in another it wasn't. To-day you hung up a record. You saved the Giants' winning streak and you pitched a no-hit game!" CHAPTER XXV LINING THEM OUT The pain in his injured hand was intense that night, and Joe paced the floor for hours before he was able to get to sleep. By morning, however, the hand had yielded to treatment, and the swelling had greatly decreased. At the earliest hour possible Joe, accompanied by Jim, was at the surgeon's office. The doctor's face expressed his satisfaction, as, after an examination, he rendered his verdict. "It isn't as bad as I feared," he said while he deftly rebandaged the injured member. "This dislocation is slight and you'll soon be as right as ever. But you've got to take good care of it. It will be some time before you can pitch." "But how about batting?" asked Joe anxiously. "That isn't a steady strain, as I'd only have to do it three or four times in the course of the game." "I don't know," replied the doctor with a smile. "I'm not familiar enough with the game to tell where the strain comes in that case. I can imagine, however, that it would be chiefly in the arm and shoulder. It's possible that you may be able to bat before you can pitch. But I can tell more about that later on, as I see how your hand mends. For the present, you'll have to go slow." The sporting writers had no reason to complain of the dullness of news for that day's issue. The papers were ringing with the stirring events of the day before. Columns of space were devoted to the story of the game, and there was unstinted praise of Joe for his wonderful exploit. But mingled with the jubilation was a strain of apprehension. The accident that had befallen the great pitcher was a subject of the keenest anxiety. It was recognized that a great blow had been struck at the Giants' hope for the pennant. To have the greatest twirler of the team put out of the game just in the hottest part of the fight was a disaster that might prove fatal. Pittsburgh stock took a decided upward bound in consequence. The effect on the Giants themselves, as far as their morale was concerned, was almost certain to be hurtful. The tremendous strain under which they had been, while compiling their twenty-seven consecutive wins, had brought them to a point where a sudden blow like this might make them go to pieces. As a matter of fact, that is just what did happen to them that very afternoon. The whole team was depressed and had a case of nerves. They played like a lot of schoolboys, booting the ball, slipping up on easy grounders and muffing flies that ordinarily they could have caught with ease. The Pittsburghs, on the other hand, played with redoubled skill and courage. Their hopes had been revived by the misfortune that had befallen their most dangerous opponent. Joe was personally popular with all the players of the League, and they were sorry that he was hurt. But that did not prevent them from taking advantage of the chance to make hay while the sun shone. The game developed into a farce after the third inning, and from that time on it was only a question of the size of the score. When the game ended, the Giant outfielders were leg-weary from chasing hits, and the visitors were equally tired from running bases. The Pittsburghs won by a score of 17 to 3, and the Giants' winning streak came to an end. But for once the team escaped a roasting from McRae. The team had done wonderful work, and any nine that wins twenty-seven games in succession has a right to lose the twenty-eighth. Besides the break was due, and the manager hoped that with this one bad game out of their systems the team would pull itself together and start another rally. For the next week or two, the race see-sawed between the two leading teams. By this time it had become generally recognized that the pennant lay between them. The other contestants had occasional spurts, when great playing for a short period would revive the waning hopes of their admirers, but they soon fell back again in the ruck. It was quite certain that the flag would fly either over Forbes Field or over the Polo Grounds. In the meantime, Joe's hand was mending rapidly. His superb physical condition helped him greatly, and the doctor was visibly surprised and gratified by the progress of his patient. But it was hard work for Joe to be laid off just at the time that his team needed him most. Still he believed in the proverb "the more haste the less speed," and he tried to be patient, even while he was "chafing at the bit." About ten days after the accident, the doctor delighted him by telling him that he need not come to see him any more. But he still ordered him to refrain from pitching. As to batting, he said cautiously that Joe could try that out a little at a time. If he found that after easy batting practice his hand did not hurt him, he might be permitted to bat in an actual game. Joe was quick to avail himself of the permission. Very cautiously he tried batting out fungo hits. While at first the hand felt a little sore and stiff, this soon passed off. Then Joe had Jim pitch him some easy ones in practice, and found that he could line them out without ill effects. Finally he let Jim put them over at full speed, and was delighted to find that he could lift them into the right field stands and not suffer much of a twinge. At last he was himself again, as far at least as batting was concerned. His recovery came just in time to be of immense benefit to the team. The men had slumped considerably in batting, though they still held up to their usual form in fielding. But fielding alone cannot win games. Defensive work is all very well, but combined with it must be the offensive work on the part of the batsmen. The best fielding in the world cannot put runs over the plate. Joe's return put new spirit into the team at once. The batting picked up noticeably, with Joe leading the way. At first he was a little cautious about putting his whole strength into his blow, and for a few days when he was used in emergencies as a pinch hitter, he gathered a crop of singles with an occasional double and triple. But with every successive day he let out a new link, and at length he put his whole strength into his swing. Home runs became again a common feature, and the Giants started in joyously on a new upward climb. The season was to end this year in the West, and by the time the Giants started on their last swing around the circuit, they had a lead of four games over the Pirates. It was not necessarily a winning lead, but it was very comforting just the same to have those four games as a margin. Still, the Pittsburghs were hanging on gamely, ready to forge to the front on the least sign of weakening shown by their competitors. It was one of the hottest races that had ever been seen in the National League, and there was a chance that it would not be decided until the last day of the season. "The last lap," remarked Jim, as the team started on its trip. "Here's where we win or lose." "Here's where we win," corrected Joe. CHAPTER XXVI THE TIRELESS FOE The Giants opened at Chicago, and the results were none too good. The Cubs, who just then were in the midst of a spurt, clawed and bit their way to victory in two games of the four, and the Giants were lucky to break even. As it was, the two games they won were annexed by the terrific batting of Joe, who was hitting like a demon. In the four games he made three home runs, and two of them were lined out when there were men on bases. All pitchers looked alike to him, and he played no favorites. The rest he had had from pitching had made him all the more effective as a batsman. His fame as a hitter had spread through all the cities of the League, and the Chicago grounds were filled to their capacity during the Giants' visit. Most of the spectators were as eager to see him hit one of his mammoth homers as they were to see the home team win. Cheers greeted him every time he came to the bat. He was the greatest drawing card that the Giants had or ever had had. Opinion was divided as to whether he or Kid Rose of the Yankees was the greatest hitter. Each had his partisans. Rose had been longer in the limelight, and those who had made up their minds that he was the greatest hitter that ever lived were reluctant to see their idol replaced by a newcomer. Many confidently predicted that Joe would not last, that his work was only a flash in the pan. Others declared that he did not have to bat against as good pitching in the National League as was shown in the American, and that therefore Rose's work was superior. But as Joe kept on, day in and day out, lacing out tremendous hits that landed in the bleachers and at times sailed over the fence, the doubters grew silent, or joined in the wild applause as Joe jogged around the bases and crossed the plate standing up. The keenest interest was manifested in the race that the Yankees were making to land the flag in the American League. If they should come out on top, the World Series would be held between New York teams, and Rose and Joe could be seen in action against each other. That would help to settle the question as to which had a right to wear the batting crown of the world. It would be a battle of giants, and it was certain that, if such a contest took place, there would be delegations to see it from all parts of the country. McRae was no longer content to use Joe simply as a pinch hitter. He wanted to take full advantage of his marvelous hitting, and so he put him in the regular line-up and played him every day. Wheeler was relegated to the bench and Joe took his place in the field. The manager also changed his batting order, putting Joe fourth in the cleanup position. And again and again his judgment was vindicated by the way Joe cleaned up with homers, sending his comrades in ahead of him. The day the third Chicago game was played was a very hot one, and Joe and Jim were tired and warm. Jim had pitched that day and won, after a gruelling contest, and Joe had varied his ordinary routine by knocking out two home runs instead of one. Joe was seated in his hotel room, writing a letter to Mabel. Jim had stepped down to the office to get some stationery, for he had the pleasant task on hand of writing to Clara. A knock came at the door, and in answer to his call to enter, a bellboy stepped into the room, bearing a pitcher and glasses. "Here's the lemonade you ordered, boss," he said, as he put his burden on a convenient stand. "Lemonade?" repeated Joe in some surprise. "I didn't order any." "Clerk sent me up with it, sir," said the bellboy respectfully. "Said it was for Mr. Matson, room four-seventeen. This is four-seventeen, isn't it?" he asked as he glanced at the number on the door, which he had left open. "This is four-seventeen, all right, and I'm Mr. Matson," Joe answered. "But I didn't order anything. I'll tell you how it is though," he added, as a thought struck him. "My friend who is sharing the room with me has just gone down to the lobby, and he's probably told the clerk to send it up. That's all right. Leave it there." "Shall I pour you out a glass, sir?" asked the boy, suiting the action to the word. "If you like," responded Joe carelessly, taking a quarter out of his pocket as a tip. The boy thanked him and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Joe finished the paragraph he was writing, and then picked up the glass. He took a sip of it and put it down. "Pretty bitter," he said to himself. "Not enough sugar. Still it's cooling, and I sure am warm." Again he lifted the glass to his lips, but just then Jim burst into the room. "Whom do you think I saw just now?" he demanded. "Give it up," replied Joe. "But whoever it was, you seem to be all excited about it. Who was it?" "Fleming!" answered Jim, as he plumped down into a chair. "Fleming!" repeated Joe with quickened interest. "What's that fellow doing here? I thought he hung out in New York." "That's what I want to know," replied Jim. "Wherever that fellow is, there's apt to be dirty work brewing. And the frightened look that came into his eyes when he saw me, and the way he hurried past me, made me uneasy. He acted as if he'd been up to something. I don't like the idea of a pal of Braxton being in the same hotel with us." "I don't care much for it myself," answered Joe. "Still, a hotel is open to anybody, and this is one of the most popular ones in the city. It isn't especially surprising that you should happen to run across him." "Not surprising perhaps, but unpleasant just the same," responded Jim. "It leaves a bad taste in my mouth." "Well," laughed Joe, "take the bad taste out with a glass of this lemonade you sent up. It isn't very good--it has a bad taste of its own--but it will cool you off." He raised his glass to his mouth as he spoke. But in an instant Jim was on his feet and knocked the glass from his hand. It fell on the floor and splintered in many pieces. Joe looked at him in open-eyed amazement, too astonished to speak. "Don't touch the stuff!" cried Jim. "What do you mean by saying I sent it up?" "Didn't you?" asked Joe. "The bellboy said he had been told to bring it to me, and as I hadn't ordered it, I jumped to the conclusion that you had." "Not I!" replied Jim. "But I can guess who did!" "Who?" "Fleming." The two friends looked fixedly at each other. "Do you mean," asked Joe, after a moment in which surprise and indignation struggled for the mastery, "that that lemonade was doped?" "Doped or poisoned, I'll bet my life," affirmed Jim. "Let's get to the bottom of this thing. Quick, old man! Perhaps Fleming is still somewhere in the hotel." "Not a chance," replied Joe, jumping to his feet. "If he's mixed up in this, he's getting away as fast as his legs or a car can carry him. But we'll go down and see what we can learn from the clerk." They went to the head clerk, whom they knew very well. He was an ardent fan, and his face lighted up as he saw the friends approaching. "Saw you play to-day, gentlemen," he said. "Those two home runs of yours were whales, Mr. Matson. And your pitching, Mr. Barclay, was all to the mustard." "Sorry to beat your Chicago boys, but we needed that game in our business," laughed Joe. "But what I want to see you about just now is a personal matter. Did you get an order from me or from my room to send up any lemonade?" The clerk looked surprised. "No," he replied. "I didn't get any such request. Wait a moment until I see the telephone operator." He consulted the girl at the telephone, and was back in a moment. "No message of any kind came from your room to-night," he announced. "But one of your bellboys brought it up," persisted Joe. "Which one of them was it?" asked the clerk, pointing to a group of them lounging about. "None of them," responded Joe, as he ran his eye over them. CHAPTER XXVII CHAMPIONS OF THE LEAGUE "There are three more of the bellboys doing various errands about the hotel," replied the clerk. "If you gentlemen will wait around they'll be back in a few minutes." "All right, we'll wait," said Joe. Before long, all the bellboys were back, and Joe had had a good look at the entire staff. Not one resembled the boy who had come to his room. "I can't understand it," mused the clerk, to whom the boys had been careful not to impart their suspicions. "It must have been sent in by somebody from the outside. It's certain that it wasn't sent up from here." "Oh, well," said Joe carelessly, "it doesn't matter. I just wanted to find out, so that I could thank the one who did it. Sorry to have troubled you." They strolled off indifferently and returned to their room. "'Thank' is good," said Jim, as soon as they were out of earshot. "I'll thank him all right," replied Joe grimly. "In fact I'll thank him so warmly that it will stagger him." "May I be there to see!" replied Jim gruffly. "I can figure out the whole thing now. Fleming had had that lemonade doped and it was meant to put you out of business. It was easy to find out what hotel you were stopping at, as that's been in all the papers. Then it was a simple thing to glance over the register and get the number of your room. He's either got a bellboy from some other hotel or dressed up somebody in a bellboy's uniform. He's probably bribed him well, and it's been all the easier because he didn't have to let on to the boy that there was anything crooked about it. Told him perhaps that he was just playing a little joke on a friend or something like that. There's the whole story." "I guess that's about right," agreed Joe. "Gee, Jim, it's mighty lucky that you knocked that glass out of my hand. I had noticed that it tasted rather bitter, but put that down to too little sugar." "Let's send some of the stuff to a chemist and have it analyzed," suggested Jim. "No," objected Joe, "that wouldn't do any good. The thing would be apt to get into the papers, and that's the very thing we mustn't let happen for the sake of the folks at home. We know enough about the stuff to be sure that it was doctored in some way. Everything about the incident tells of crookedness. Fleming was probably the master hand, although he may have simply been the tool of Braxton. Those fellows are running up a heavy account, and some day I hope we'll get the goods on them. We'll just dump the stuff out so that nobody else will be injured. Then we'll lay low but keep our eyes open. It's all that we can do." "Gee, that was one dandy homer, Joe," said the catcher some time later. "Best ever," added the first baseman. "Oh, I don't know," answered the young ball player modestly. "I think I have done better. But it was great to carry it along to eleven innings," he added, with a smile. "That tenth had me almost going," said the shortstop. "We came close to spilling the beans," and he shook his head seriously. "Well, 'all's well that ends well,' as Socrates said to General Grant," and Joe grinned. From Chicago the Giants jumped to St. Louis, where, despite the stiffest kind of resistance, they took three games out of four. They were not quite as successful in Cincinnati, where the best they could get was an even break. The Reds saw a chance to come in third, in which case they would have a share in the World Series money, and they were showing the best ball that they had played all season. The Giants had all they could do to nose them out in the last game, which went to eleven innings and was only won by a home run by Joe in the wind-up. Seven games out of twelve for a team on the road was not bad, but it would have been worse if the Pirates, in the meantime, had not also had a rocky road to travel. The Brooklyns had helped their friends across the bridge by taking the Pittsburghs into camp to the tune of three games out of four and the Bostons had broken even. With the Phillies, however, the Pirates had made a clean sweep of the four games. So when the Giants faced their most formidable foes, they still had the lead of four games with which they had begun their Western trip. This, of course, gave the Giants the edge on their rivals. The Pittsburghs would have to win the whole four games to draw up on even terms with the leaders. In that case a deciding game would be necessary to break the tie. On the other hand all the Giants had to do was to win one game of the four and they would have the championship cinched. And that they would do at least that seemed almost a certainty. But nothing is certain in baseball, as soon became evident. Perhaps it was overconfidence or a sense of already being on easy street that caused the Giants to lose the first game. That, however, could not be said of the second, when the Giants "played their heads off," Jim said, and yet could not win against the classy pitching and stonewall defense put up by the Smoky City team. Things were beginning to look serious for the Giants, and some of their confidence was vanishing. Still more serious did they become when the third game went into the Pirates' basket. Jim pitched in that game and twirled wonderful ball, but his support was ragged, and several Pirate blows that ought to have been outs were registered ultimately as runs. They were unearned runs, but they counted in the final score as much as though they had been due to the team's hitting. The Giants were long-faced and gloomy. McRae was clearly worried. If the next game were lost, the leaders would be tied, and the Pirates would still have a chance to win. It would be a bitter pill to swallow if the Giants lost the flag just when it had seemed that all was over except the shouting. Moreover, the manager was in a quandary. All his first string pitchers had been beaten. His best one in active service at the present time, Jim, had pitched that day and it would not do to ask him to go into the box again to-morrow. In his desperation he turned to Joe. "Joe," he said, "we're up against it unless you can help us out. How is your hand feeling? Would you dare to take a chance with it?" "I think it's all right now, or nearly so," replied Joe. "I've been trying it out in practice right along, and it seems to me it's about as good as ever. I was putting them over to Mylert yesterday, and he told me he couldn't see any difference between them and those I threw before I was hurt. The only thing I'm a little skittish about is my fadeaway. That gives me a little twinge when I try it. But I guess I can leave that out and still pull through." "That's good!" ejaculated McRae, with great relief. "Go in then, old boy, and show these pesky Pirates where they get off. We simply must win this game." There was a startled murmur among the spectators who thronged Forbes Field that afternoon when they saw Joe go into the box. They had been gloating over the supposition that McRae would have to use again one of the pitchers whom the Pirates had already beaten in that series, and the way their pets were going, they looked for a sure victory. Now they saw the man who had always baffled the Pittsburghs again take up the pitcher's burden, and their faces took on a look of apprehension. The Pirate players too shared in that apprehension. They had a profound respect for Joe's ability, and had always had a sinking of the heart when they saw him draw on his glove. Still, they comforted themselves with the hope that his long layoff had hurt his effectiveness, and they braced to give him the battle of his life. Joe himself felt a thrill of exultation when he stepped on the mound. That was his throne. There he had won the laurels that crowned him as the greatest pitcher of his League. Now he was back again, back to buoy up the spirit of his team, back to justify the confidence of his manager, back to uphold his fame, back to bring the championship of the National League once more to New York. He still carried in his pocket Mabel's glove, that he had come to regard as his mascot. He touched it now. Then he wound up for the first pitch and split the plate for a strike. It was an auspicious beginning of one of the greatest games he had ever pitched in his whole career. The Pirates simply did not have a chance. All through the game they were swinging wildly at a ball that seemed to be bewitched, a ball that dodged their bats and appeared to be laughing at them. Angered and bewildered, they tried every device to avoid impending defeat. They bunted, they put in pinch hitters, they called the umpire's attention to Joe's delivery in the hope of rattling him, they tried to get hit with the ball. Through it all, Joe kept on smiling and mowing them down. Only three men got to first. Not one got to second. Thirteen men went out on strikes. And then, to cap the climax, Joe sent a screaming homer into the right field bleachers, sending in two men ahead of him. The final score was 8 to 0. The Giants had won the championship of the National League. Now they were to battle for the championship of the world! CHAPTER XXVIII THE WORLD SERIES It was a happy team of Giants that left Pittsburgh that night on the sleeper for New York. The season's strain was over. The coveted flag was theirs. They had fought their way through many discouragements, had stood the gaff, and now they were at the top of their League, with none to contest their title as champions. "Some victory, eh, Joe?" remarked Jim to his chum. "Right, Jim," was the ready reply. To be sure a great battle loomed up ahead of them, but they welcomed that with eagerness. It meant thousands of dollars to every member of the team, win or lose. But they had no thought of losing. The return of their king pitcher to the box that afternoon, and the proof that he was in magnificent form, had filled them chock full of confidence. And they were doubly glad that the Yankees were to be their opponents. That had been settled three days before, when the American League season had closed with the Yankees just nosing out the Clevelands at the finish. It was settled that every game of the World Series would be played in New York. This meant that there would be no long, tiresome, overnight journeys between cities. But it meant more than that. It meant that the question would now be settled once for all as to which of the New York teams was the better. This had been a mooted question for a good many years past. Each team had its warm friends and admirers, who were ready to back it through thick and thin. The Giants, of course, had been established longer, and had gained a strong place in the affections of the metropolis. Their games, as a usual thing, drew many more spectators than those played by their rivals. But of late the acquisition of Kid Rose by the Yankees had drawn the greater attention to that team, and the Giants had been cast in the shade. They were not used to this and did not relish it. They knew the Yankees were a strong team, but at the same time they believed that they could take their measure if it ever came to a showdown. Now that showdown was at hand, and the Giants were glad of it. The public, too, were eager to have the question of supremacy settled. The metropolis was fairly seething with excitement over the series, and the hotels already were filling up with visitors from as far off as the Pacific Coast. Not only columns but whole pages of the newspapers were filled with comments and prophecies respecting the chances of the respective teams. More than anything else in the public mind was the coming duel between Kid Rose and Joe Matson as home run hitters. Which would make the longer hits? Which would make the more home runs? These were the questions that were on the lips of the fans wherever two or more of them met. And the sporting pages of the daily newspapers were full of it. The series this year was to consist of nine games if so many should be necessary. The team that first won five games would be the champions of the world. The members of the teams were to share in the money taken in at the first five games played, so that there would be no inducement to spin out the series. After certain percentages had been deducted sixty per cent was to go to the winners and forty per cent to the losers. The outlook was that each member of the winning team would get about five thousand dollars and each member of the losing team between three and four thousand, a difference great enough to make each player do his best, apart from his loyalty to his team. Reggie had come up from Goldsboro, bringing Mabel with him, a charge of which Joe promptly relieved him. She seemed to Joe more distractingly beautiful than ever, and his heart thumped as he realized that in less than a month she would be his own. That had been arranged in their correspondence. The wedding would take place in Mabel's home in Goldsboro, and after their honeymoon they were to go to Riverside, to witness the marriage of Jim and Clara. The latter had hoped to come on to see the World Series, but Mrs. Matson was not well enough to come along, and Clara did not want to leave her. So poor Jim had to exercise patience and not be too envious of the almost delirious happiness of Joe and Mabel at being together. A more exciting World Series than that which now began between the Giants and Yankees had never been known in the history of the game. Both teams were out for blood. Every man was on his toes, and the excited spectators were roused almost to madness by the almost miraculous stops and throws pulled off by the fielders. From the start it was evident that the nines were very evenly balanced, and that whichever finally won would in all probability do so by the narrowest kind of margin. Victory seesawed between the teams. Joe pitched the first game, and the Giants won by 3 to 1. The Yankees took the second by 5 to 2. Jim held them down in the third to two runs, while the Giants accumulated six. The Yankees made it "fifty-fifty" by galloping away with the fourth game in a free hitting contest, of which Markwith was the victim, the final score being 9 to 5. The Giants again assumed the lead by copping the fifth by 4 to 0, Joe decorating his opponents with a necklace of goose eggs. They repeated on the following day, and with only one more game needed to make the five, it looked as though they would be certain winners. But the Yankees were not yet through, and they came back strong on the two succeeding days and evened up the score. Each had won four games. The ninth and final game would determine which team was to be the champions of the world. In these contests, Joe had batted like a fiend. McRae had played him in every game, putting him in the outfield on the days that he was not scheduled to pitch. In the eight games, Joe had made six circuit clouts, in addition to four three-baggers, three two-base hits, and some singles. He was simply killing the ball. Kid Rose also had done sterling work, and had rapped out five homers, besides a number of hits for a lesser number of bags. But Baseball Joe so far had outclassed him, both in the number and the length of his hits. There was no stopping him. High or low, incurve or outcurve, they were all the same to him. That eagle eye of his located the course of the ball unerringly, and when the ash connected with the ball that ball was slated for a ride. There was no mistake about it. Joe had arrived. The batting crown was his. He had long since been recognized as the king of pitchers. Now he was hailed by acclamation as the greatest hitter in the game! CHAPTER XXIX THE GAME OF HIS LIFE For the ninth and deciding game, McRae had selected Joe to pitch. "I don't need to tell you, Joe, how much depends on this game," McRae said soberly, as the two came out of the clubhouse and walked across the field towards the grandstand, which was crowded to suffocation. "You know it as well as I do. I'm just counting on you, my boy. You've never failed me yet in a pinch. You won't fail me now." "Trust me, Mac," replied Joe. "I'll do my best to win out." Hudson, the manager of the Yankees, was also pinning his faith on the leader of his pitching staff, Phil Hays. He was a master of the underhand delivery, and had already captured for the Yankees the two games of the series in which he had pitched. In both games he had sorely puzzled the Giants, for there was no pitcher in the National League who used that delivery, and they had found it almost impossible to gauge it. He also had a crossfire, that he used at times with telling effect. He had not yet matched his pitching strength against Joe's, and the crowd was all agog with curiosity to see them battle against each other. Jim had been a little later than Joe in slipping into his uniform, and was still in the clubhouse, after his friend had gone out on the field, when Reggie came rushing in, panting and out of breath. "Where's Joe?" he asked, looking wildly around. "He's just gone out to practice," answered Jim. "Why, what's the matter, Reggie?" "I've got to get Joe," Reggie panted, making a dash for the door. But Jim caught his arm. "Look here, Reggie," he said, holding to him tightly. "Joe mustn't be upset. I can see that something's happened. Tell me what it is, and I'll see about letting Joe know." "It's M-Mabel!" answered Reggie, stammering in his excitement. "She's disappeared." "Disappeared!" echoed Jim, in bewilderment. "What do you mean?" "Just that," answered Reggie. "She went out this morning to call on a friend, but said she'd get back to go with me to the game. I got anxious when she didn't come, and called up her friend, who said she hadn't seen her. Just then a messenger boy brought me this," and he handed over a typewritten, unsigned note, which read: "Miss Varley is in safe hands. If Matson loses his game to-day she will be returned this evening. If he doesn't, it will cost $25,000 to get her back. Personal in papers to-morrow, signed T. Z., will give exact directions for carrying on further negotiations." "Now you see why I've got to see Joe right away," said Reggie in frenzied impatience, snatching the note from Jim's hands. "You mustn't!" ejaculated Jim, barring the way. "Don't you see that that's just what the rascals want you to do? You'd just be playing their game. They want to get Joe so frightened and upset that he can't pitch. It's the scheme of some gamblers who have bet on the Yanks to win. They want to make sure that they will win, and so they want to bribe or frighten Joe into losing. But probably if he did, they'd demand the ransom money just the same. We'll have to keep it from Joe until the game is over. Nothing will be lost by that. I'll give McRae a tip and he'll let me off. Then you and I will get busy and do all that we can for the next two hours. If we turn nothing up, we'll be back here when the game ends and tell Joe all about it. Wait here a minute till I see McRae, and then we'll get on the job." In five minutes he was back with the required permission, and as soon as he had got into his street clothes he hailed a taxicab, and he and Reggie jumped in and were off. When the bell rang for the game to begin, the Giants took the field, and Milton, the big center-fielder of the Yankees, came to the plate. Joe wound a high fast one about his neck, at which he refused to bite. The next one split the rubber, and Milton swung savagely at it and missed. The next was a called strike. On the following ball, he rolled an easy grounder to Burkett at first, who made the put out unassisted. The next man, Pender, Joe put out on strikes in jig time. Then the mighty Kid Rose strode to the bat. He grinned at Joe and Joe grinned back. They were both good fellows, and each thoroughly respected the other. There was no bitterness in their rivalry. "Now little ball, come to papa!" sang out Rose. "Here he comes!" laughed Joe. "Take a look at baby." The ball whizzed over the plate, and Rose missed it by an inch. The next he fouled off, as he did the following one. Then Joe tried a fadeaway, and Rose fell for it, swinging himself halfway round with the force of his blow. "You're out!" cried the umpire, and the Giant supporters in the stands broke out in cheers. It was not often that Rose struck out, and the feat was appreciated. In the Giants' half, Hays set them down in one, two, three order. Curry flied to Russell in right, Iredell went out by the strike route, while Burkett's grounder to Pender at short was whipped smartly down to first. The Yankees were easy victims in the second. Russell fanned, Walsh lifted a twisting foul, on which Mylert made a superb catch close to the Giants' dugout and Mullen hit a grounder between first and the box, which Joe captured and fielded to Burkett in plenty of time. Joe was first up in the Giants' half, and had to doff his cap in response to the cheers which greeted him as he came to the plate. Hays sized him up carefully and did not like his looks. The first ball he threw him was so wide that Banks, the catcher, had to reach far out to nab it with one hand. That might have been lack of control on Hays' part, but when a second followed, that came nowhere in the range of Joe's bat, the crowd jumped to the conclusion that he was deliberately trying to pass him, and a storm of protests rained down on the diamond. "You're a game sport--not!" "Let Baseball Joe hit the ball!" "Yellow streak!" "Matson took a chance with Rose. Why don't you take a chance with Matson?" "Where's your sand?" Whether Hays was stung by these jibes or not, the next ball curved over the plate and just above the knee. There was a ringing crack, and the ball sailed aloft in the direction of the bleachers with home run written all over it. There was no need of hurrying, and Joe simply trotted around the bases, while pandemonium reigned in the stands and bleachers. CHAPTER XXX CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD Wheeler went out on a fly to Milton, Willis fanned, and Larry closed the inning with a pop up to second. But the Giants had scored first blood, and in such a close game as this promised to be, that run stood out like a lighthouse. In the third, McCarthy fell victim to Joe's curves and went out on strikes. Banks was lucky and got to first on a grasser to Iredell that took a wicked bound just as the shortstop was all set to receive it and jumped into left. He was nipped a minute later, when Joe saw out of the corner of his eye that he was taking too long a lead off first and made a lightning throw to Burkett. Hays, after fouling off two, struck out on a mean drop, and the inning ended without damage. Hays put one over for Denton that the latter pickeled for a dandy grasser between third and short. Rose at left was slow in retrieving the ball, and Denton by fleet running and a hook slide reached the middle station. Here, however, he was caught napping. Then Hays braced and set the next two players down on strikes. It was a deft exhibition of "getting out of a hole," and deserved the generous applause that it received. In the Yankees' half of the fourth, Milton sent one to Willis at third that the latter stopped neatly but threw to first too wide, the ball almost missing Burkett's fingers as he reached for it. Pender knocked a grounder to Larry, but the latter hesitated a moment as to whether to make the play at first or second, and when he finally chose second, Milton had reached that bag, and both men were safe. Then Rose came to the bat, with the Yankee partisans shouting wildly for a homer. Joe fooled him twice, but Rose caught the third one and poled a hit to right. Wheeler and Denton both raced for it, and the latter by a herculean effort just managed to get under it. In the meantime, Milton had started forward, and Pender too was on his way. Quick as a flash, Denton straightened up and sent the ball on a line to first. Pender had turned and was running back, but was an easy out. Burkett shot the ball to Larry, putting out Milton, who was scrambling back to second. It was a superb triple play and the crowd went crazy. Iredell started the Giants' fourth with a liner to McCarthy, that settled comfortably in the third baseman's glove. Burkett lammed a single into right. Joe walloped a shrieking three-bagger between right and center, that brought Burkett galloping to the plate for the second run of the game. Wheeler was ordered to sacrifice, but his attempted bunt resulted in a little fly to Hays, and Joe was held on third. Hays turned on steam and struck Willis out. The fifth inning passed without scoring by either side. Both Joe and Hays were pitching magnificent ball, and the crowds cheered each in turn lustily. The first real hit that Joe yielded came in the sixth, when after McCarthy had struck out, Banks lined a beauty into right between first and second. It did no harm, however, for Joe tightened up immediately and made Hays and Milton hit at empty air. The Giants in their half went the Yankees one better in the matter of hits, and yet could not score. Curry sent a twister over second that Mullen could not get under. Iredell followed with a slow roller down the third base line, that McCarthy could not reach in time to field. A moment later, however, Curry was caught napping at second, and Burkett hit into a snappy double play, retiring the side. In the seventh, the Yankees broke the ice. Pender got a life, when his high fly to third was muffed by Willis. Kid Rose came to the bat. "Put it over, Joe, and see me lose it," he called. "I was robbed last time." "That's nothing, Kid," chaffed Joe. "You'll be killed this time." The first ball, which completely baffled the most dangerous slugger of the American League, seemed to bear out this prediction. On the second, however, Rose sent a neat hit to right that was good for two bases and brought Pender over the plate, amid the thunderous roars of the Yankee supporters. Russell tapped a little one in front of the plate, that Joe got in time to put him out at first, but not to head Rose off at third. Walsh went out on strikes. Mullen rolled one to Burkett, and Joe ran over to cover the bag, but Burkett's throw hit the dirt and Rose came over the plate, tying the score. McCarthy fanned, and the inning was over. One hit, sandwiched in with errors, had knocked the Giants' lead into a cocked hat and tied up the game. Not for long, however. Joe was the first man up, and came to the plate with blood in his eye. The first two offerings he let go by. The third was to his liking. There was an explosion like the crack of a gun and the ball started on its journey. That journey was destined to be talked about for years to come. It was the longest hit that ever had been made on the Polo Grounds. On it went over right field, over the bleachers and over the fence, clearing it at a height of fifty feet. In the wild roar that went up as Joe loped around the bases, even the Yankee supporters joined. It was an occasion that rose above partisanship, an outstanding event in the history of sport. The spectators cheered until they were hoarse, and it was a minute or two before play could be resumed. The rest of the inning was short and sweet. Wheeler, Willis and Larry went out in order, the first two on strikes and the latter on a grounder fielded by Mullen. The eighth was on the same snappy order. Joe was determined to maintain his advantage, and was invincible. Banks grounded to the box, and Joe tossed him out. Hays fanned for the second time and Milton followed suit. Hays, too, was going strong, and the Giant batsmen went down before him like a row of tenpins. Denton made three futile attempts and threw down his bat in disgust. Mylert cut three successive swaths in the atmosphere and went back to the bench, while Curry fouled out to Banks. In the ninth, the Yankees again sewed it up. Pender got to first, when Larry was slow in fielding his grounder. The mighty Rose came up amid frantic cheering. But Joe summoned all his cunning, and for the second time that day struck him out, while the crowd cheered his sportsmanship in not passing him to first. Russell popped up an infield fly that Willis and Iredell ran for but collided, the ball dropping between them. In the scramble that ensued, Pender reached third and Russell made second. Iredell was still a little shaken by the collision, and fumbled the easy grounder of Walsh that ought to have resulted in an out at the plate, Walsh reaching first in safety. In consequence Pender scored, and again the game was tied at 3 to 3. A single now would have brought in another run, but Joe by a quick throw caught Walsh asleep at first and struck out Mullen, thus ending the inning. With the frenzied adjurations of McRae and Robbie in their ears, the Giants came to the bat for the last half of the ninth. Iredell made a mighty effort, but came back to the bench after three fruitless swings at Hays' benders. Burkett sent up a towering skyscraper that was gathered in after a long run by Milton in center. On Joe now rested the Giants' hopes. Twice that day he had poled out homers, and once he had ripped out a three-bagger. Could he repeat? Hays was determined that he shouldn't have a chance. Amid the jeers and taunts of the crowd, he deliberately sent three balls wide of the plate. In attempting to do the same with the fourth, however, he sent it a trifle too close. Joe caught it on the end of his bat. How that ball traveled! Almost on a line it whistled through the air in the direction of the right field bleachers. On and on went that terrific, screeching liner straight into the crowd in the bleachers who scrambled frantically to get out of its path. Round the bases went Joe, amid shouts and yells that were deafening. Down on the home plate he came with both feet. The game was won, the series was over and the Giants were the champions of the world! Like a deer Joe made for the clubhouse, to escape the crowds that came swarming over the field. He reached it just as a man was being carried inside. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Any one hurt?" "Only a glancing blow," remarked the club doctor, who had been looking the man over. "He's dazed, but he'll come to his senses soon." Joe bent over to look at him and started back in surprise. "Why, I know that man!" he exclaimed. "His name's Fleming!" "It's Fleming all right," said Jim's voice beside him. "And he's got just what was coming to him." Joe looked up and saw Jim and Reggie. They were grave and worried, and Joe's sixth sense told him that something was wrong. "What's happened?" he asked in alarm. "And where is Mabel? What kept her from the game? Don't stand there dumb! Tell me, quick!" "Now, Joe----" began Jim soothingly, but was interrupted by the injured man who opened his eyes, looked wildly around and struggled to a sitting posture. His eyes dilated with fright when he saw Joe and Jim. "I didn't do it!" he half screamed. "I didn't kidnap her! It was Braxton. He----" Jim interposed. "Clear a space here," he commanded. "This is a private matter for Joe and me. Now, Fleming," he went on in short, menacing words that cut like a knife, "tell me this instant where Miss Varley is. You know. Tell me. Quick! Don't lie, or I'll tear your tongue out by the roots." Before the blazing fury in his eyes Fleming quailed. "She's at Inwood," he muttered. "She's safe enough. She's----" "Reggie," commanded Jim, "jump into the car and take the wheel. Joe, help me to get this man into the car. Don't talk. I'll explain as we go along. Doyle," he continued, turning to a police lieutenant who was a warm admirer of the boys and who happened to be standing near, "come along with us if you don't mind. It may be a case for you." "Sure thing," replied Doyle. "I'm with you." They half dragged, half carried, Fleming to the car, and Reggie put on speed. The lieutenant sat in front with him, and his uniform prevented any question on the part of the traffic policemen. Fleming, pale and apprehensive, was thrust into a corner of the tonneau, while Jim explained the situation to Joe, who was boiling with rage. The headlong speed at which Reggie drove soon brought them to the vicinity of Inwood, and following the faltering directions of Fleming, they drew up before a little house that was a block away from any of its neighbors. They tiptoed up the steps, Joe having his hand so tightly on Fleming's collar that his knuckles ground into his neck. "You know what you've got to do, Fleming," he whispered. "If you don't do it----" His grip tightened and his fist clenched. Trembling, Fleming opened the front door with his latchkey, and the party went softly through the hall. They stopped in front of a door from behind which a man was heard talking. "I'm sorry to have to incommode you, Miss Varley," he was saying in suave polished tones that the boys recognized at once as Braxton's. "But unfortunately it is necessary to the success of my plans. You can't complain that we haven't treated you with perfect respect outside of the little violence we had to use to get you into the car." There was no reply, but the party could hear the sound of sobbing. "Knock," whispered Joe, emphasizing the command by a twist of Fleming's collar. Fleming knocked. "Who's there?" came from within. "It's Fleming," was the weak answer. "Open up." The door opened and the party went in with a rush. There was a cry of joy from Mabel and a startled exclamation from Braxton. He looked toward the door, but the burly policeman had closed it and stood with his back against it. The next instant Joe had smashed Braxton straight between the eyes and the rascal measured his length on the floor. An instant more, and Mabel was in Joe's arms, sobbing her heart out against his breast. For a few moments the reunited ones were dead to the world around them. When at last they had come to their senses, Joe, with a final caress, relinquished Mabel to Reggie's care. "You'd better go out to the car, dearest," he said to her. "I'll be with you soon. I've got a little business to attend to here." The brother and sister went out, and Joe turned to the rest of the party. Braxton had been yanked to his feet by Jim and jammed down hard into a chair, where he sat glowering with rage and fear. Doyle stood guard over Fleming, who presented a miserable picture of abjectness. "Shall I take them in charge, Mr. Matson?" asked the police lieutenant. "You seem to have a clear case against them. They ought to get ten years at least." The fear in the rascals' faces deepened. "No," answered Joe thoughtfully. "I don't want any scandal and I don't believe I'll make a charge. At least, not yet. Jim, can you skirmish around and find pen and ink?" In a minute or two Jim had found them. "Now, you contemptible skunks," began Joe, "listen to me. I'm going to get a written confession from you of this whole business. Put down, Jim, that matter of the anonymous letter. Don't try to lie out of it, you scoundrel," he said, as Braxton started to protest. "Put down, too, that hiring of the auto bandits to cripple me." Here Braxton gave a violent start. "Put down that attempt to dope me in Chicago. That hits you on the raw, doesn't it, Fleming?" he added, as the latter cringed still lower in his seat. "We'll pass over the matter of hiring Bugs Hartley to do me up in St. Louis, for he may have done that on his own account. Now add this kidnaping incident and the record will be complete." Jim wrote rapidly and soon had the document ready. "Now we'll ask these gentlemen to sign," said Joe, with exaggerated politeness. "I won't sign," snarled Braxton, livid with rage. "Oh, you won't?" said Joe. "All right, Lieutenant----" "I'll sign," said Braxton hastily. Both he and Fleming signed, and Joe put the document carefully into his pocket. "Now," he said, "I have you rascals on the hip. Dare to make one other move against me as long as you live, and I'll have you clapped into jail so quickly it will make your heads swim. I'll put you where the dogs won't bite you." Both Braxton and Fleming rose to their feet. "Where are you going?" asked Joe, in apparent surprise. "You're through with us, aren't you?" growled Braxton. Joe laughed outright. "Oh, dear no," he said, as he rose to his feet. "There's just one little thing to attend to yet. I'm going to thrash you within an inch of your life." Braxton made a dash for the door, but Joe caught him a clip on the jaw that sent him staggering back into a corner. "Now Jim," said Joe, "suppose you take that little rat out," pointing to Fleming, "and drop him somewhere. He got his dose when the ball knocked him out in the bleachers, and that perhaps will be enough for him. Lieutenant," he went on, turning to Doyle, "you're a policeman, and might feel called on to stop any scene of violence. I feel it in my bones that there's going to be a little violence here--just a little. Would you mind stepping outside and seeing whether the car is all right?" "Sure," replied Doyle, with a grin and a wink. "Now, you cur," said Joe, as he turned to Braxton, "take off your coat. It's a long account I have to settle with you, and I'm going to give you the licking of your life." There was no way out, and Braxton took off his coat and closed in. He was a big man and fought with the desperation of a cornered rat. He got in one or two wild blows that did no damage. Joe smashed him right and left, knocked him down and lifted him to his feet to knock him down again, until Braxton, beaten to a finish, refused to get up, and lay in a heap in a corner, fairly sobbing with rage and pain and shame. "Just one little bit of news, Braxton," said Joe, as he turned to leave. "You've lost your bets. The Giants won!" He ran lightly down the steps and jumped into the car, where Mabel snuggled up to him. "What kept you so long, Joe?" she asked anxiously. "Just settling an account, honey," he replied, as he drew her closer. "It was a long one and took some time." "An account? What do you mean?" the girl asked, and then added suddenly: "Oh, Joe, you are all--all mussed up!" "Am I, dear? Well, if I am you ought to see the other fellow, that's all." "It was a--a fight?" she faltered. "Hardly that, Mabel. Braxton had it coming to him--and I gave it to him with interest. But let us forget it. It's over now, and all I want to think about is--you!" And he held her closer than ever. * * * * * A few weeks later the wedding march was played in Mabel's home, and she and Joe joined hands for life. Clara was bridesmaid and Jim was best man. Mr. and Mrs. Matson, the latter greatly improved in health, were present. It was a glorious occasion, and all of them, the bride and groom especially, were happy beyond words. "I'm quite a royal personage," said Mabel, as the happy pair, amid a shower of rice, started off on their honeymoon. "To think of poor little me marrying the king of pitchers and king of batters." "As Reggie would say, you're 'spoofing' me," he laughed. "At any rate, I'm luckier than most kings. I've picked a perfect queen." And Baseball Joe smiled broadly. And he had a right to smile, don't you think so? THE END THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ [Illustration] BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ Joe is an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and particularly to pitch. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ Joe's great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ Joe goes to Yale University. In his second year he becomes a varsity pitcher and pitches in several big games. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ From Yale college to a baseball league of our Central States. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ From the Central League Joe goes to the St. Louis Nationals. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ Joe was traded to the Giants and became their mainstay. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ What Joe did to win the series will thrill the most jaded reader. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ The Giants and the All-Americans tour the world. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ Joe becomes the greatest batter in the game. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ Throwing the game meant a fortune but also dishonor and it was a great honor to defeat it. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ [Illustration] The Motor Boys _or Chums Through Thick and Thin_ The Motor Boys Overland _or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune_ The Motor Boys In Mexico _or The Secret of The Buried City_ The Motor Boys Across the Plains _or The Hermit of Lost Lake_ The Motor Boys Afloat _or The Cruise of the Dartaway_ The Motor Boys on the Atlantic _or The Mystery of the Lighthouse_ The Motor Boys in Strange Waters _or Lost in a Floating Forest_ The Motor Boys on the Pacific _or The Young Derelict Hunters_ The Motor Boys in the Clouds _or A Trip for Fame and Fortune_ The Motor Boys Over the Rockies _or A Mystery of the Air_ The Motor Boys Over the Ocean _or A Marvelous Rescue in Mid-Air_ The Motor Boys on the Wing _or Seeking the Airship Treasure_ The Motor Boys After a Fortune _or The Hut on Snake Island_ The Motor Boys on the Border _or Sixty Nuggets of Gold_ The Motor Boys Under the Sea _or From Airship to Submarine_ The Motor Boys on Road and River _or Racing to Save a Life_ THE MOTOR BOYS SECOND SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG Ned, Bob and Jerry at Boxwood Hall _or The Motor Boys as Freshmen_ Ned, Bob and Jerry on a Ranch _or The Motor Boys Among the Cowboys_ Ned, Bob and Jerry in the Army _or The Motor Boys as Volunteers_ Ned, Bob and Jerry on the Firing Line _or The Motor Boys Fighting for Uncle Sam_ Ned, Bob and Jerry Bound for Home _or The Motor Boys on the Wrecked Troopship_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE GREAT MARVEL SERIES BY ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Stories of adventures in strange places, with peculiar people and queer animals._ 1. THROUGH THE AIR TO THE NORTH POLE _or The Wonderful Cruise of the Electric Monarch_ The tale of a trip to the frozen North with a degree of reality that is most convincing. 2. UNDER THE OCEAN TO THE SOUTH POLE _or The Strange Cruise of the Submarine Wonder_ A marvelous trip from Maine to the South Pole, telling of adventures with the sea-monsters and savages. 3. FIVE THOUSAND MILES UNDERGROUND _or The Mystery of the Center of the Earth_ A cruise to the center of the earth through an immense hole found at an island in the ocean. 4. THROUGH SPACE TO MARS _or The Most Wonderful Trip on Record_ This book tells how the journey was made in a strange craft and what happened on Mars. 5. LOST ON THE MOON _or In Quest of the Field of Diamonds_ Strange adventures on the planet which is found to be a land of desolation and silence. 6. ON A TORN-AWAY WORLD _or Captives of the Great Earthquake_ After a tremendous convulsion of nature the adventurers find themselves captives on a vast "island in the air." _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE WEBSTER SERIES By FRANK V. WEBSTER [Illustration] Mr. Webster's style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. =Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors.= =Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid.= Only A Farm Boy _or Dan Hardy's Rise in Life_ The Boy From The Ranch _or Roy Bradner's City Experiences_ The Young Treasure Hunter _or Fred Stanley's Trip to Alaska_ The Boy Pilot of the Lakes _or Nat Morton's Perils_ Tom The Telephone Boy _or The Mystery of a Message_ Bob The Castaway _or The Wreck of the Eagle_ The Newsboy Partners _or Who Was Dick Box?_ Two Boy Gold Miners _or Lost in the Mountains_ The Young Firemen of Lakeville _or Herbert Dare's Pluck_ The Boys of Bellwood School _or Frank Jordan's Triumph_ Jack the Runaway _or On the Road with a Circus_ Bob Chester's Grit _or From Ranch to Riches_ Airship Andy _or The Luck of a Brave Boy_ High School Rivals _or Fred Markham's Struggles_ Darry The Life Saver _or The Heroes of the Coast_ Dick The Bank Boy _or A Missing Fortune_ Ben Hardy's Flying Machine _or Making a Record for Himself_ Harry Watson's High School Days _or The Rivals of Rivertown_ Comrades of the Saddle _or The Young Rough Riders of the Plains_ Tom Taylor at West Point _or The Old Army Officer's Secret_ The Boy Scouts of Lennox _or Hiking Over Big Bear Mountain_ The Boys of the Wireless _or a Stirring Rescue from the Deep_ Cowboy Dave _or The Round-up at Rolling River_ Jack of the Pony Express _or The Young Rider of the Mountain Trail_ The Boys of the Battleship _or For the Honor of Uncle Sam_ CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES By ALLEN CHAPMAN Author of the "Fred Fenton Athletic Series," "The Boys of Pluck Series," and "The Darewell Chums Series." 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. Tom Fairfield is a typical American lad, full of life and energy, a boy who believes in doing things. To know Tom is to love him. [Illustration] TOM FAIRFIELD'S SCHOOLDAYS _or The Chums of Elmwood Hall_ Tells of how Tom started for school, of the mystery surrounding one of the Hall seniors, and of how the hero went to the rescue. The first book in a line that is bound to become decidedly popular. TOM FAIRFIELD AT SEA _or The Wreck of the Silver Star_ Tom's parents had gone to Australia and then been cast away somewhere in the Pacific. Tom set out to find them and was himself cast away. A thrilling picture of the perils of the deep. TOM FAIRFIELD IN CAMP _or The Secret of the Old Mill_ The boys decided to go camping, and located near an old mill. A wild man resided there and he made it decidedly lively for Tom and his chums. The secret of the old mill adds to the interest of the volume. TOM FAIRFIELD'S PLUCK AND LUCK _or Working to Clear His Name_ While Tom was back at school some of his enemies tried to get him into trouble. Something unusual occurred and Tom was suspected of a crime. How he set to work to clear his name is told in a manner to interest all young readers. TOM FAIRFIELD'S HUNTING TRIP _or Lost in the Wilderness_ Tom was only a schoolboy, but he loved to use a shotgun or a rifle. In this volume we meet him on a hunting trip full of outdoor life and good times around the camp-fire. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES By ROY ROCKWOOD Author of "The Dave Dashaway Series," "Great Marvel Series," etc. 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. All boys who love to be on the go will welcome the Speedwell boys. They are clean cut and loyal lads. [Illustration] THE SPEEDWELL BOYS ON MOTOR CYCLES _or The Mystery of a Great Conflagration_ The lads were poor, but they did a rich man a great service and he presented them with their motor cycles. What a great fire led to is exceedingly well told. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR RACING AUTO _or A Run for the Golden Cup_ A tale of automobiling and of intense rivalry on the road. There was an endurance run and the boys entered the contest. On the run they rounded up some men who were wanted by the law. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR POWER LAUNCH _or To the Rescue of the Castaways_ Here is an unusual story. There was a wreck, and the lads, in their power launch, set out to the rescue. A vivid picture of a great storm adds to the interest of the tale. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS IN A SUBMARINE _or The Lost Treasure of Rocky Cove_ An old sailor knows of a treasure lost under water because of a cliff falling into the sea. The boys get a chance to go out in a submarine and they make a hunt for the treasure. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR ICE RACER _or The Perils of a Great Blizzard_ The boys had an idea for a new sort of iceboat, to be run by combined wind and motor power. How they built the craft, and what fine times they had on board of it, is well related. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK * * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected except as indicated below. --Archaic and variable spellings were preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Inconsistencies in formatting and punctuation of individual advertisements have been retained. --A List of Illustrations has been provided for the convenience of the reader. 
55082	----	_Everybody's_ BOOK OF LUCK [Illustration] WHITMAN PUBLISHING COMPANY RACINE, WIS. POUGHKEEPSIE, N. Y. PRINTED IN U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE. I. THINGS THAT BRING YOU GOOD LUCK AND BAD LUCK 3 II. HAVE YOU A TALISMAN? 6 III. HINTS ON FORTUNETELLING 12 IV. PALMISTRY--WHAT MAY BE LEARNED FROM HANDS 13 V. YOUR HANDWRITING REVEALS YOUR CHARACTER 32 VI. YOUR FACE IS YOUR FORTUNE 40 VII. WHAT DO YOUR BUMPS MEAN? 46 VIII. HOW ASTROLOGY DECIDES YOUR DESTINY 49 IX. YOUR CHILD'S OCCUPATION DECIDED BY THE STARS 55 X. WHAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES? 59 XI. WHAT IS YOUR LUCKY NUMBER? 60 XII. YOUR LUCKY COLOR 65 XIII. WHICH IS YOUR LUCKY STONE? 67 XIV. DREAMS--WHAT THEY MEAN 72 XV. TEACUP FORTUNETELLING 83 XVI. LUCKY AND UNLUCKY DAYS 91 XVII. THE LUCK OF FLOWERS 99 XVIII. SUPERSTITIONS REGARDING ANIMALS 104 XIX. CRYSTAL GAZING 107 XX. THE MOON AND THE LUCK IT BRINGS 111 XXI. FORTUNETELLING BY MEANS OF PLAYING CARDS 113 XXII. FORTUNETELLING GAMES 137 XXIII. THE LUCK OF WEDDINGS AND MARRIAGES 151 XXIV. FOLKLORE AND SUPERSTITIONS OF THE MONTHS 159 XXV. A CALENDAR FOR LOVERS 173 XXVI. MAKING USEFUL MASCOTS 191 THINGS THAT BRING YOU GOOD LUCK AND BAD LUCK Ask a dozen people whether they have any superstitions, and the majority will tell you, without hesitation, that they have not the slightest belief in such things. If the truth is told there are very few of us who do not cherish some little weaknesses in this direction. One person may believe in a number of superstitions; another has, perhaps, only a few that are observed; but he or she that has none at all is a remarkably rare individual. As a matter of fact, most superstitions are based on reason and sound common sense, and the man or woman who pays heed to them is acting intelligently, whether he or she knows it or not. Take, for instance, the belief that it is unlucky to walk under a ladder. True, the old assertion is that it is unlucky to do so because Jesus Christ was taken down from the Cross by means of a ladder. But the more practical reason is that painters and other men on ladders are very likely to drop things and, if you happen to be passing at the time, the paintpot or the tools will fall on you. Of course, the reasons for all superstitions are not so evident as this one about walking under a ladder: nevertheless, there is a germ of reason in them all, whether or not we know the reason. Thus, the man or woman who observes the common superstitions of everyday life is acting wisely. Not only will he or she avoid a good deal of trouble, but his actions will provide him with a sense of well-being, and the effect it will have on his mind, the psychological effect as it is called, is all to the good. It is not proposed to explain why this or that superstition is worthy of being observed; in many cases, the reason is obscure; but here we will give some of the beliefs which are current at the present time. First of all, you should never pass anybody on the stairs of a private house, and, while talking of stairs, it may be said that many people believe that, for someone to fall up a step, is a sign of an approaching wedding. Never light three cigarettes with the same match unless you are prepared for a spell of ill-fortune. This superstition gained currency during the War, probably because a match held long enough to light three cigarettes would give the enemy a clue to your position, especially at night-time. If the cord of a picture frame snaps and the picture falls to the ground, it is an omen that somebody is going to die. If the picture is a portrait of a living person, then that person's life is the one likely to be terminated. This omen may be considered a remarkably silly one, with not a shred of sense to recommend it. Yet how many people can point to instances when the prophecy has come true! Of salt, there are several omens. The chief one tells you not to help anybody to salt; in other words, it is unwise to put some on a person's plate. Helping them to salt is helping them to sorrow. Another superstition says that if you spill salt you will be unlucky unless you throw a pinch of it over your left shoulder. To break a mirror is known by all as a serious matter. The reason why it is unlucky, we are told, doubtless finds its origin in a mere association of ideas. The mirror being broken, the image of the person looking into it is destroyed: therefore, bad luck in some form must be the fate of the careless one. What exactly is the penalty one must pay for breaking a mirror is not definite. Some people speak of seven years of misfortune, while others claim that it means seven years of celibacy. To take certain things into the house is the height of folly, if you believe in superstitions. May or hawthorn blossom is one, though the berries of this flower seem to have no ill-potency. Peacock's feathers are another. Somewhat similar is the contention that it is very unlucky to open an umbrella indoors. While sitting at the meal-table, there are several things that must not be done. Helping a friend to salt has been already mentioned, but you must not allow the knives or forks to become crossed. Quarrels with your friends will result if you do. Of course, you must not sit down, thirteen of you, around the table. As is well known, this belief has its origin in the Last Supper, when our Lord sat at meat with his twelve apostles. On the other hand, should you taste a fruit for the first time in that season, you have only to frame a wish and it will be granted. Much the same applies to mince-pies. You will be awarded with a whole happy month for each pie that you eat at Christmas-time which is made in a different house. Of course, it is highly unwise for two people to pour tea out of the same pot at the same meal. To give a friend an edged tool is sure to cut the friendship, whether it be a knife, a pair of scissors, a razor or a chisel. When such a gift is to be made, the usual plan is to sell it to your friend for a penny. You should never put a shoe on a table, and, to see a pin lying on the floor and leave it there, is an omen that you will want before you die. As the jingle runs: See a pin and let it lie, you're sure to want before you die. See a pin and pick it up, then you're sure to have good luck. Elsewhere, a good deal is said about dreams. Here it will be sufficient to mention one or two items of interest. It is decidedly unlucky to dream of a baby, yet to dream of a funeral is lucky. The following is worth bearing in mind: Friday dream and Saturday told; Sure to come true, if ever so old. And here it will be appropriate to recall the fact that it is an unwise thing to get out of bed on the wrong side. The devil will be with you all the day, if you do. You should avoid looking at the new moon through glass; but if you have a wish that you want fulfilled, you have only to count seven stars on seven nights in succession. Let it be said, however, that to count seven stars for this space of time is not as simple as it appears. It is unlucky to treasure locks of people's hair, and, should you drop a glove, it is to your advantage if someone else picks it up for you. If the fire refuses to light properly in the morning, anticipate a whole day with the devil. Everybody knows that one of the luckiest things that can be done is to pick up a horse-shoe. But it is not generally known that the more nails left in it, the better. Nor is it sufficiently well recognized that a shoe, hung up, should have the tips pointing upwards. If they are turned down, the luck will run out of them. Naturally, you will never start anything fresh on a Friday, and you will not cut your fingernails on a Sunday. Regarding fingernails, a poet, of sorts, has said: Cut them on Monday, you cut them for news. Cut them on Tuesday, a new pair of shoes. Cut them on Wednesday, you cut them for health. Cut them on Thursday, you cut them for wealth. Cut them on Friday, a sweetheart you'll know. Cut them on Saturday, a journey you'll go. Cut them on Sunday, you cut them for evil: For all the next week, you'll be ruled by the devil. Of course, bad luck has not a monopoly on your superstitions, for good luck has something to say also. To see a piebald horse is fortunate; to find white heather, four-leaved clover or four-leaved shamrock is even more fortunate. To open a pea-pod and find ten peas in it is particularly lucky. For a black cat to come into your house is worth much. To come across a nickel with a hole in it is not without its merits, but the best thing of all is to put on some article of clothing inside out, and to wear it all day long, without being aware of it until bed-time. HAVE YOU A TALISMAN? "A person who finds a four-leaved clover, and believes it is a harbinger of something good, has adopted the right attitude, for he keeps a keen look-out for that particular good and holds out both hands for it. Seldom is he disappointed, for he has unconsciously set going the mental machinery which brings his wishes within reach. Had he not found the clover and had gone along life's highway unexpectant of anything good, he would never have discovered this pleasant happening. And therein lies the true psychology of luck, which seems too simple to be true, but then its simplicity is really the sign-manual of its verity." This quotation from the writings of a well-known author goes direct to the point about talismans. If you adopt a talisman and put your faith in it, you immediately prepare your mind for receiving an abundance of good fortune. Reject all talismans and argue that there is no such thing as luck, and you straightway set going the mental machinery which looks on the dark side of things and which misses every slice of luck that comes along. Therefore, we say, with emphasis, take to yourself a talisman, a mascot, a charm--call it what you will--and you will never regret it. [Illustration] Of talismans, there are countless varieties; some are known the world over, others are the particular choice of individuals. They range from the amulets and scarabs of the ancients to the golliwogs and crudities of the ultra-moderns. Your choice may roam between these two extremes, but whatever your choice, it must be set with the seal of your faith. In order to assist you in picking out a talisman for yourself, we append the following accounts of those examples which are favored most:-- _THE HORSE-SHOE._--No symbol is a greater favorite than the horse-shoe. There are many legends regarding its origin, but the most commonly accepted concerns the well-known visit of his Satanic Majesty to the shoe-smith. As a consequence, the Devil evinced a wholesome dread of horseshoes, and would not go near a house or person possessing one. It is more likely, however, that the horse-shoe was accepted as a symbol of luck because it was a commonplace object very nearly the same shape as the metal crescents worn by the Romans when they wanted to be fortunate. These crescents were always carried with the horns turned up, and, if a horse-shoe is to bring good luck, it, too, must be placed with the prongs uppermost. The reason for the prongs being so turned depends on a belief that misfortune always travels in circles, but when it reaches the tips of a horse-shoe, it is baffled, unless all the luck has already run out of the tips through them being turned downwards. Of course, an old, worn shoe is more lucky than a new one, and it is a recognized fact that the more nails found in it the luckier will be the finder. _THE SCARAB._--This device is accounted very lucky or very unlucky, according to the disposition of the wearer. The symbol represents the scarab beetle with its wings outspread or with them closed. Such charms are made to-day in large numbers for sale in Egypt, but those who trade in them usually claim that each particular specimen has been in the family since Biblical times. As a rule, the device is made in a rough kind of bluish porcelain and is carved, in intaglio, with divine figures. The Egyptians used to make up the scarab as a neck pendant or as a little ornament for placing in the coffins of the dead. Its mission was to scare away the evil one. [Illustration: No. 2.--An Egyptian Scarab, such as were used as talismen. Two forms are shown, one with the pectoral wings outspread; the other, with wings closed.] _THE TET._--This symbol was shaped somewhat like a mallet, and was always worn with the head uppermost and the handle hanging down. It was made in porcelain or stone, and was often colored gaudily. The Egyptians were the first to find efficacy in this charm, and they wore it suspended around the neck to ward off attacks from visible and invisible enemies. Thus, it was a protection against evil in any form; it was also supposed to provide the wearer with strength and endurance. The tet has been much forgotten of late years, but there are adherents who value it above the horseshoe and almost any other charm. [Illustration: No. 3.--The Talisman on the left is the Tet; on the right, the Arrow-Head.] _THE ARROW-HEAD._--The early Britons spent a great deal of their time in taking suitable flints and shaping them into the form of triangles. These were called arrow-heads, and when the two side edges had been sharpened they were fixed into sticks and used as weapons or tools. Out of this use grew the idea that arrow-heads were potent charms in providing bodily protection against enemy force or the usual illnesses. Accordingly, people began to wear them as neck ornaments and, for this purpose, decorative arrow-heads were made. Ever since then, they have been cherished for their powers in warding off attacks, and a superstition still exists which claims that if one of these arrow-heads is dipped in water, the water will be more potent than any doctor's medicine. _THE CADUCEUS._--This device, which figures as part of the design of some postage stamps, has been considered a bringer of good fortune ever since the time of the ancient Greeks. It consists of two snakes entwining a rod, surmounted by a pine cone. By the side of the cone is a pair of wings. It was the symbol of Mercury. The rod had the supernatural powers of quelling disputes and letting people dwell in harmony. The snakes possessed the property of healing; the pine cone preserved good health; and the wings stood for speed and progress. Thus people wear the caduceus today in order to ensure a life free from quarrels and illness, and to enable them to be healthy and "go ahead." [Illustration: No. 4.--The Caduceus or Staff of Mercury.] _THE EYE AGATE._--As is generally appreciated, the "evil eye" is the source of all trouble and misfortunes, and the early Eastern races thought that, if the "evil eye" could be avoided or frightened away, all would be well. Searching for a charm to effect their purpose, they alighted upon the eye agate, and this they believed would give no quarter to the "evil eye." Accordingly, agates were cut to resemble an eye which would be powerful enough to neutralize the effects of the evil one, and these were worn as brooches, rings and necklaces. The agate chosen for the purpose consisted of thin layers of stone of various colors. Thus, by cutting the stones oval and removing parts of the top layers, it was possible to produce a charm closely resembling a human eye, both in shape and color. Such eyes are still sold today, and many people treasure them in the hope that they will ward off evil in any form. _THE JADE AXE-HEAD._--Many jewelers still sell little axe-heads carved out of jade, for wearing around the neck. The axe-head has been considered a symbol of strength and vigor ever since primitive times, and jade has a world-wide reputation as a charm against disease and accidents. _THE SEAL OF SOLOMON._--This device is now regarded as a symbol of the Jewish religion, but it can be traced to several other religions, and, no doubt, it dates even farther back than the commencement of the Jewish era. The triangle with the upward point stood for goodness; the triangle with the downward point for wickedness; while the two intertwined symbolized the triumph of good over bad. Those who wear the device contend that it preserves them from all that is ill, and, at the same time, it gives them a share of the world's blessings. [Illustration: No. 5.--The Seal of Solomon, one of the oldest lucky charms in existence.] _THE ABRACADABRA._--This charm dates from the second century, and was a symbol of the Gnostic worship. It often took the form of a little piece of parchment, folded into the shape of a cross, but it can, also, be seen as a tablet, made of stone or metal, shaped like an inverted triangle. On the charm, of whatever shape, was inscribed the following: A B R A C A D A B R A B R A C A D A B R R A C A D A B A C A D A C A D A It will be seen that the word "Abracadabra" can be read along the upper line and also down and up the two sides. This word is said to conceal the name of God and the charm has the powers of warding off dangers and sickness. _THE FOUR-LEAF CLOVER OR SHAMROCK._--Everyone knows that a four-leaf clover or shamrock is supposed to be a bringer of luck and good fortune. As these are not readily found and, moreover, they soon perish, the opportunity has been seized by jewelers to produce artificial ones in various precious and semi-precious metals. To wear either is supposed to avoid misfortune. It may be mentioned that the four-leaf Shamrock as a charm has proved immensely popular by those who are interested in the Irish sweepstakes. _BLACK CATS._--Of course, it is lucky for a black cat to walk into your house, but failing an actual cat, a counterfeit one serves the same purpose. Thus, people who pin their faith to black cats often make stuffed ones, or draw pictures of them, and look to the creature of their own handiwork to serve the role of mascot. _YOUR OWN TALISMAN._--So far, the talismans that have received universal acceptance have alone been mentioned, but the tendency today is for enthusiasts to originate a mascot of their very own. It may take any or every form, according to the whim or fancy of the individual. Maybe you will prefer to find your own mascot or talisman in this direction. If you have no preferences, why not constitute a device which embraces your lucky number, your lucky flower, your lucky color, and so on? It is a suggestion bristling with opportunities. Just to show that people are tending towards the idea of choosing a talisman of their very own, we will conclude with a story that was recently published. "There is a precious stone to which the board of directors of a firm of diamond dealers annually pass a vote of thanks. The stone is a sapphire and it has been named Shani, meaning 'bringer of luck.' "Shani was bought by the firm about seventy years ago, and it only leaves the safe on New Year's Day. A special meeting, attended by every member of the firm, is then held in the board room. Shani is placed in the middle of the table and, with hands clasped in prayer, the members offer thanks for the good luck the sapphire has brought the firm during the preceding year. "One of the directors said, 'My grandfather once received a tempting offer for Shani and yielded, but a few hours after the sapphire had been sent away he was taken violently ill with fever. The sapphire was brought back from a distant part of India, and my grandfather became well at once.'" Should not we all have a Shani? HINTS ON FORTUNETELLING Hundreds of dollars are paid each week to professional fortunetellers by people in all walks of life, in order that they may gain a peep into the future. These people belong to every class of society; they are of all ages and they consult the mediums on almost every matter connected with human existence. There is the industrial magnate, the society girl, and the hard-working shop assistant, all anxious to peer into the coming months. Accordingly, the teller of fortunes and the writer of horoscopes is doing an excellent business. The dollars and the cents are pouring in at a remarkable rate, and those who read the future, as a profession, are having the time of their lives. This state of things is one calculated to make you stop and think for a moment. Why should not you learn the rudiments of fortunetelling yourself? Why should not you find out how to read the signs of your own future and the future of your friends? The subject is interesting; it is not a difficult one and all you need to know is set out in this book. Your course of study may well begin with the chapter on Palmistry. Having mastered that, turn to the one on Handwriting, and follow with "_What do your Bumps Mean?_" These three sections will give you a very useful start and then you might continue with "_How Astrology Decides Your Destiny_" and "_Your Face is Your Fortune_." The five chapters named will enable you to read people with a great deal of success, and it should not be long before your friends compliment you on your accuracy. Probably this will spur you to further efforts, and you will study the passages on lucky numbers, dreams, tea-cup readings, lucky colors, etc. These will add a polish to your preliminary knowledge. Very soon you will gain a reputation as a seer and it will add not a little to your vanity when people come to you and ask you to read their futures. In doing so, you will be advised to follow a few rules. Never jump to hasty conclusions. Weigh all the facts and strike a balance. If the hand says "yes" and the face says "no," the conclusion is that "it may be." When disappointing things are noted, be charitable and let the applicant off lightly. In cases where dire illnesses are portended, suppress the facts or state them in such a way that the applicant has a chance of avoiding the trouble, if he or she takes suitable measures. But, whatever happens, never make a statement for which you have not "chapter and verse." And this brings me to my last point. Hands, faces, heads and other characteristics give their readings, but none of these readings should be taken as absolutely final. The power is within us to fight against our failings and to better our good qualities. We may even allow our best ones to deteriorate. That is why two people born at the same time and in the same town need not grow up exactly alike. And it is also why a small percentage of horoscopes and fortunes are bound to miss the mark. PALMISTRY--WHAT MAY BE LEARNED FROM HANDS "There are more things in Heaven and Earth...." People who can see as far as the ends of their noses and then only through a fog, declare (with a superior sniff) that Palmistry is nothing but a trap to catch fools; they call it quackery, or declare perhaps that it is merely a fake or blind guesswork. Now, while we would be the first to deny that Palmistry is an exact and infallible science, yet we just as strongly affirm that it is undoubtedly a most fascinating and interesting recreation; as to its truth, each one must decide that question for himself. For the few who have a wish to take up this study seriously, there are many now who will naturally wish to know just sufficient to be able to "tell fortunes." Fortunetellers are always popular at some jolly party or quiet friendly gathering of an evening. In this book they will find all the simple information required; on the other hand the student will find a sincere delight in reading and sifting thoroughly the numerous books that probe the depths of the subject. Quite apart from any markings which may be upon the hand, a general indication of the habits and temperament of the individual in question can readily be gained by a careful examination of the texture or quality of the skin. It were as well to note here that the impressions gained must never be taken by themselves, but only in conjunction with other confirming signs. Especially is this so when judging the character of a friend or acquaintance. _TEXTURE OF SKIN._--The skin may, of course, be smooth or rough. To judge this you should turn the hand in question back upwards; now get the feel of the skin by actual touch; a smooth, fine-textured skin denotes a refined nature, and _vice versa_. This is a very strong indication indeed, insomuch that should there be other tendencies pointing to coarseness of nature, this texture of the hand would have a refining effect upon the whole. _ELASTICITY OF THE HAND._--This is best tested by actual grip (as in shaking hands). All hands naturally present some feeling of elasticity; this is a matter of comparison, but it is very easy to tell the quick, virile grip of an elastic hand to the dead fish feeling which a flabby hand gives us when we grasp it. _A FLEXIBLE HAND_ denotes an active and energetic person, one who will be readily adaptable to new conditions. He will always rise to the occasion, and manfully withstands the buffets of ill-fortune. This type is always trustworthy and a good friend. [Illustration: No. 6.--Beware of these Hands.--A shows a weak, flattened thumb; B a curved little finger and C a coarse, short thumb. Each has other defects as well.] _A FLABBY HAND_--one that does not respond to your grip or responds but sluggishly--is the hand of an idle man, untrustworthy and inconsistent, a man of weak and negative character; but be sure to search well for other confirming signs of this weakness. THE SHAPE OF THE HAND A fairly accurate guide to character is certainly contained in the shape of the hand. Hands may be roughly divided into two classes--broad and long. A person having a _long hand_ you may judge to have great capacity for mental effort and matters of detail. The broad-handed person you may expect to be a strong man physically; his culture will be bodily rather than mental. He could with advantage improve his culture by reading, and by enjoying the best music. THE SHAPE OF THE FINGERS When an individual is found with _square_ finger-tips, he should make a good marriage partner; he will be practical--a man of method and reason. He is punctual, but should cultivate imagination. _POINTED FINGER_ tips will be found on the hand of the musician, the painter, and, in fact, anyone who is of artistic temperament. Persons with these fingers should curb their imagination with reason, and cultivate the power of doing things, not only dreaming them, though dreaming is well enough in its way. _TAPERING_ fingers indicate people of extremes. "Ice and fire" are these people--impulsive and generous to a fault. They should guard against undue and morbid sensitiveness, and should cultivate a sane philosophical outlook upon life. They are capable of the highest, but are frequently their own worst enemies. _SPATULATE FINGERS._--These are the sportsmen of the world. They are not worried much by the opinions of others, while they love a busy, healthy life; a sound mind in a sound body. GENERAL SHAPE AND FORMATION OF THE HAND If the hands are knotted with the joints swollen, powers of analysis, calculation and reflection are shown; philosophers have this type of hand. _SMOOTH_ fingers and hands indicate the artistic temperament. These people are frequently inspired, and have curious intuitions concerning coming events. Musicians, spiritualists, and martyrs are of this type, together with many folk who are square pegs in round holes; maybe doing work which is uncongenial to them. _THE THUMB_ has also in it certain very marked indications of character. The three bones (or Phalanges) in the thumb each have their interpretation. Beginning at the top these should be judged by length as follows:-- 1. Will. (The pushing type of man.) 2. Reasoning power. (The thinker or philosopher.) 3. Love. Thus a long first or top phalange indicates great will power; or if it is not a certain indication, it points to a definite likelihood of the will being strong. THE MOUNTS Take your subject's hand and examine it closely; a strong magnifying glass should form part of the equipment of every wise palmist. It will be seen that there are certain portions of the hands which are raised above the surface. These are known as "mounts." As will be noticed in the accompanying picture, we call these mounts by astrological names, a method adopted from the very earliest times. They are eight in number, named: Jupiter, Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Apollo, Luna and Mars (of which there are two). Let us look at our picture on page 21. At the base of the first finger you will see Mount Jupiter, then taking the base of each finger in turn, will be found Mounts Saturn, Apollo, and Mercury. Mount Luna will be found at the base of the hand, below the little finger, near the wrist, Mount Mars just above it, Mount Venus stands below Jupiter and at the root of the thumb, with the second Mars above it. All individuals have not these mounts developed to the same extent, and in these variations strong indications of character are to be found. We will now have a little discussion upon the subject of Mounts, taking each individually, and in turn. Usually one of these mounts in your subject's hands will be found to stand out clearly from the remainder. This will give you a good idea of the general type of person whose hand you are judging. These are the general indications to be found. _THE SATURNIAN._--If the Mount of Saturn be over-developed, you have the cold, sceptical type of man. He lacks the milk of human kindness, and is probably a pessimist. A moderate development, on the other hand, is good; this man should be prudent, not miserly; optimistic yet not fatuously so, a well-balanced man. We well know that the excess or over-development of one particular quality (however excellent this quality may be) is evil. Thus a super-artistic temperament gives the neurotic; while the over-prudent man becomes the grasping miser. _THE JUPITERIAN._--Jupiterians, or folk with an excessively strong mount of this name, are the strong men of the world. In excess they are ambitious to a fault, masterful, overbearing and bullying. With a moderate development we have exceedingly good qualities indicated. Power of leadership, rightful ambition, initiative, and great abilities for hard work. _THE APOLLONIAN._--Taking the men and women of Apollo we have the essential optimists, the Micawbers and Mark Tapleys of life. Allied to their cheery natures is a love of the artistic and the really beautiful. The sculptors, painters, and musicians who make life so pleasant, are very frequently Apollonians. The best advice to give an Apollonian is "moderation in all things." He or she must be very careful in the choice of a marriage partner; this last is very important indeed. _THE MERCURIAN._--In excess we have craft, guile, and fondness for falsehoods. In moderation we find the good business man, shrewd, cautious, possessor of a capacity for doing the lion's share of the work, and a fine eye for the main chance. Let him cultivate his opposites. Unselfishness, kindness and generosity will make a Mercurian a most charming person. Their lack will leave a clever, scheming scoundrel. _THE MARTIAN._--When we find Mars in the ascendant (i. e., the mounts excessively developed) we find aggression and even bullying. In moderation we have a fighter in the best sense of the word; a man who will withstand the blows of fate and fight his way through life, resisting evil. He is never mean, and you will find him a sincere and trustworthy friend. _THE VENUSIAN._--When this mount is predominant in excess we find a person of unbalanced mind; he will be careless and will make a dangerous marriage partner. Developed to a moderate degree we find generosity, a power to feel for others, with a pleasing personality. The folk of Venus love beauty, and love their life; they are strongly attracted to those of the opposite sex, and are likely to fall in love without counting the cost. These people should cultivate a habit of thinking before they act, and should not allow generosity to degenerate into extravagance. _THE LUNARIAN._--Lastly let us take the Mount of the Moon. In excess we again find the neurotic or unduly nervous person. In moderation the Lunarian will be a person of imagination, sympathy, and one who loves to look on all that is most beautiful in life. He should be successful as a musician, playwright, or novelist, and has a ready capacity for learning foreign languages. Let me give one piece of final advice to those who truly judge character by the mounts, or indeed by any signs on the hand. Never judge by one sign or you will be led into stupid mistakes. Always take the hand as a whole, for frequently some point in the formation striking you as bad may be strongly counterbalanced by other good signs. This is exceedingly important, and rightly applied will save you many foolish pitfalls in your early fortunetelling days! THE FINGERS Each of the mounts at the base of the fingers gives its name to the finger above it, i. e., the first finger is called Jupiter, the little finger is Mercury, and so on. When judging character by the mounts, the fingers which share their name must also always be noted as to their development. Let us first take Jupiter. If that finger is well developed (i. e., long in comparison to the remainder) this will accentuate the Jupiterian qualities seen in the well-developed mounts. This may be applied throughout the mounts. The important thing to remember is that mount and corresponding finger should be read together. This is essential. To conclude this section let us take the phalanges (or joints of the finger) with their interpretations. Counting from the top joint nearest to the nail, the meaning given by palmists to the three phalanges of each finger are as follows:-- (_Length of phalanx_, or distance between the respective joints, is the _deciding factor_.) For simplicity, we have made a small table. ----------+------------------------+----------------+------------------ Name | | | of Finger | 1st Joint. | 2nd Joint. | 3rd Joint. ----------+------------------------+----------------+------------------ _JUPITER_ | Religion. | Ambition. | Despotic or | | | fondness for | | | governing others. ----------+------------------------+----------------+------------------ _SATURN_ | Fondness for spiritual | Out-door life. | Earthly ambition. | mysticism. | | ----------+------------------------+----------------+------------------ _APOLLO_ | Excess or foolish | Caution. | Love of show. | optimism | | | (Micawber). | | ----------+------------------------+----------------+------------------ _MERCURY_ | The orator's finger. | Great tenacity.| Cunning and | | | greed. ----------+------------------------+----------------+------------------ THE LINES OF YOUR DESTINY We now come to the most fascinating side of Palmistry--the actual study of the network of lines upon the hand, and their relation to the mounts and to each other. This is where your magnifying glass will be of enormous value. There are very many small signs, seemingly of little matter, but in reality of very great importance, such as stars, crosses, squares, and triangles, little marks with frequently great meanings. One word of warning must be given before we go farther. If you see evil in a palm never on any account tell of it. But if you see some misfortune approaching which a little foresight might avoid, by all means warn your subject. Should you by any chance see, or think you see, anything calculated to alarm another, keep it to yourself. Always remember that human intelligence is frail and finite but life is infinite. Palmistry shares in this frailty; it is interesting and intensely fascinating, but far from infallible. It is not an exact science in the sense of mathematics, where two plus two equals four, no more and no less. Let us take these lines in turn and discuss the meaning of each. THE LIFE LINE When the Life line rises high in the hand, great ambition is shown. If you see a Life line circling well into the palm (thus forming a large Mount of Venus) emotional characteristics such as love and generosity are shown. If, on the contrary, the line forms a small Mount of Venus, coldness will be predominant. If the Life line commences very feebly and gradually strengthens, this is a good sign. It indicates a weak childhood but a robust maturity. THE HEAD LINE The Head line works in conjunction with the line of Health (see illustration), thus:--If the Head line is broken some ill health may be indicated which has made or will make its effect felt upon the brain and thinking powers. But only if all other lines should support this. An independent nature is shown when the Head line branches off from the Life line early in its course, and vice versa. If the Head line should curve towards Saturn, there is shown a material outlook upon life; this is the financier's Head line. Curving towards Apollo an artistic nature is shown, while should this line originate near Mount Jupiter it is a sure sign of capacity for leadership, and many go-ahead qualities that make for success. If the Head line is firm, a definite, purposeful nature is probable, while a weak, wavy Head line indicates a weak, wavering outlook upon life. With the Head line joining the Heart line, emotional qualities are to the fore; this individual is impulsive and should put the curb of reason upon himself. Should the Head line have branches which run towards Mount Mercury, Luna and Mars, it is an excellent sign, showing good balance, ready wit, and quick adaptability. THE HEART LINE When this originates on or near the mount called Saturn, there is a leaning towards a sensual, pleasure-loving nature. Rising from between Saturn and its neighbor Jupiter, we have a very deliberate, practical man. His love, while very sincere, is governed by reason; he is intensely practical, and rather lacking in imagination, which it were well worth his while to cultivate. His head will always rule his Heart, especially is this indicated should the Heart line bend towards that of the Head. Should the Heart line cross the palm entirely, the owner is the exact opposite of the individual just mentioned. This person's heart will rule his head; he is sentimental even to a fault, and should practice business-like qualities, and not dream overmuch. Love in a cottage is all very well--but how when the roof leaks? A short Heart line is a warning for care in marriage; without this care a couple may well come to shipwreck on the rocks of married life. Forewarned is forearmed! THE LINE OF FORTUNE This is a line running (as its name suggests) towards the Mount of Apollo. It is a valuable and somewhat rarely-found line. This is the line of genius; effort will scarcely be needed by its owner; he will seem to fly towards success on the wings of destiny. This is the ideal, but it must be borne in mind that there are other lines which must be studied in conjunction with it. On the other hand its absence does by no means prohibit or even endanger success; it merely indicates that individual effort will be required, and what is life without something to strive for? THE HEALTH LINE A good strong Health line is very desirable; should this line be broken, however, there is no need for alarm, it is merely indicated that a certain amount of care is necessary in one's personal habits of life. THE LINE OF FATE This line runs across the middle of the palm, from the Mount of Saturn to the Bracelets, but its full course need not be traced on any particular hand. When of full length and a middle position is revealed, the fate of the individual may be reckoned as particularly lucky. Such a person has strong determination, can make quick decisions and can be powerful without being a tyrant. He has the power of drawing people to him, in a friendly way, and is, thus, always liked. [Illustration: No. 7.--The Map of the Hand. _a._ Life line; _b._ Fate line; _c._ Health line; _d._ Head line; _e._ Heart line; _f._ Marriage line; _g._ Bracelets; _h._ Mount of Jupiter; _j._ Mount of Saturn; _k._ Mount of Apollo; _l._ Mount of Mercury; _m._ and _o._ Mounts of Mars; _n._ Mount of Venus; _p._ Mount of Luna; _s._ Line of Fortune. ] Should the line run from the Bracelets and stop at the Head line, this is a sign that the possessor will have many troubles and obstacles to overcome. Whether he will surmount them depends on the strength of the Head line. In cases where the Fate line continues up one of the fingers, the owner must take care that success does not turn his head and ruin the future. A Fate line that wriggles its way across the palm indicates a life of ups and downs, and, should the line be broken in places, it is a sign that happiness will vary from time to time. Generally speaking, if small lines run upwards out of the Fate line, the signs are good, but the reverse is the case if they run downwards. THE LINE OF MARRIAGE This line is a short, comparatively inconspicuous one, found at the edge of the palm, below the little finger. It runs inwards but not very far towards the center of the palm. How to recognize its significance is explained under the heading, "An ABC of Hands." Now let us put our house in order, refresh our minds, and summarize the broad principles upon which any study of Palmistry must rest. First we have the mounts. It is in the varying relation of the lines to these mounts and to their adjacent fingers that our deductions are founded. One mount lies at the base of each finger, Jupiter, Saturn, Apollo and Mercury respectively. Secondly, we have the four fingers with their astrological names, each finger bearing the name of the mount at its base. _Table showing the general qualities of the mounts._ ------------+----------------------------------------------------------- Name of | Mount | Quality ------------+----------------------------------------------------------- _JUPITER_ | Ambition, leadership, a magnetic personality. (In excess) | Brutal and bullying. ------------+----------------------------------------------------------- _SATURN_ | Cautious, prudent. (In excess) Miserliness, coldness. ------------+----------------------------------------------------------- _APOLLO_ | Artistic Temperament, optimist, healthy living. (In | excess) Shallow character, frivolous, and extravagant. ------------+----------------------------------------------------------- _MERCURY_ | Energy, good judgment. (In excess) Lying, fraud, | deception. ------------+----------------------------------------------------------- Here is a good, sound rule to remember when reading the hands of your friends. First find your type--i.e., Jupiterian, Apollonian, etc. This is accomplished by noting the main characteristics of the hand which you are examining. Suppose that the Mount of Apollo is fully developed and well raised, and that the finger of Apollo is inclined to be long, there you have practically a pure Apollonian type, i.e., Apollo in excess. If the Mount of Apollo is developed but also the finger of Saturn is long, this forms an admirable mixture. This subject will feel the benefit of the steadying influence of Saturn at work on his light-hearted Apollonian nature. Pure types are rare--and fortunately so--for in a pure type, no matter which, you are frequently liable to find a rather poorly-balanced outlook on life. The cold need heat, and the brilliant require solid perseverance and a capacity for hard work to win lasting success. [Illustration: No. 8.--The Marriage Line in varying shapes.] WHICH HAND SHOULD BE READ? The answer to this question is a very decided both! As a general rule the left hand will show the inherent characteristics of the individual; the right hand shows the same characteristics modified by our surroundings or by the individual's personal efforts. The former is possibility--the latter actuality; in short, it is what we actually make our life. The safest rule about reading right and left hands is this:--Read both hands separately and carefully, then read them in their relation one to the other. There is no blind fatalism in the sayings and doings of a true student of Palmistry. What he does or should do is to point out the likelihoods and warn against inherent weakness. In so much he is like a guide helping us to pick our way through the tortuous maze of life. It may strike some of our readers that we have spoken more of the indications of character to be found in the hand rather than of the indications of "Fortune." A few moments' thought will show a very sound reason for this. It is certainly our characters which shape our destinies; should you find a hand with all the indications of strong character, while also possessing a strong will and well-cut Life line, you would be sure in prophesying a happy life for its owner; or as sure as we poor humans ever can hope to be! If you find a hand with the indications of weak will and character, yet with the Health and Life lines strong and well defined, you may well advise the owner of the hand that effort, effort and effort again, is required if he or she would win through! Remember that tact is more precious than fine gold! A tactful and timely warning may prove of the greatest value, while without tact you will surround yourself with an army of acquaintances whose feelings you have hurt by your thoughtless and unintentionally cruel remarks! There is no infallibility about this matter, but with the facts given in this book there are vast possibilities for really pleasurable and interesting recreation. If the study be taken up seriously, and used with discretion, there are almost unbelievable opportunities for good. This is what a man once said to me--and he was a man who thought deeply, and probed matters to their depths: "A wise palmist is as precious as a careful signalman upon life's crowded railroad, and a wise palmist is a tactful palmist." AN A B C OF HANDS In order to be able to follow the explanations given for each type of hand, the list set out below will prove useful. (1) The 1st phalange is the section of the finger carrying the nail. (2) The 2nd phalange is the section of the finger between the 1st and 2nd joints. (3) The 3rd phalange is the section of the finger between the 2nd and 3rd joints. (4) The positions of the Mounts of Mercury, Apollo, Saturn, Jupiter, Luna and Venus are shown in Fig. 7. Of the Mounts of Mars, there are two positions. One is situated between the Mount of Jupiter and the thumb, while the other comes between the Mounts of Mercury and Luna. (5) The Girdle of Venus, which is rarely found, is a curved line running between Mercury and either Jupiter or Saturn. (6) The Bracelets are the lines running across the wrist, close to where it joins the palm. _ABILITY._--A small cross is shown where the Life line finishes. _ABILITY, LACK OF._--A short Head line, terminating in the center of the palm, with the Mounts of Saturn and Apollo almost non-existing. _ACTIVE PERSON._--A rough, firm palm and an indistinct Heart line. _AFFECTIONATE PERSON._--A clear Heart line and a very plump Mount of Apollo. _AMBITIOUS PERSON._--A short line traced from the Life line to the Mount of Jupiter, existing on both hands. _AMIABLE PERSON._--The Mounts of Jupiter and Mercury are very plump on both palms. _AMOROUS PERSON._--A hand deeply furrowed, somewhat silky in texture and the Heart line well developed. _ANGER._--The thumb has short phalanges, especially the first phalange; finger-nails square and reddish at the base. _ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT._--A line running directly from the Head line to the third finger, and fingers long and tapering. _AUDACIOUS PERSON._--The Mount of Mercury and the two Mounts of Mars very clearly in evidence. _AVARICIOUS._--The Head line extends across the palm, from end to end, and is straight. At its end, it forms a small triangle. _BILIOUS TEMPERAMENT._--The Health line wriggles its way along the palm, while the hand is damp and clammy. _BRAVE PERSON._--Straight fingers and both the Mounts of Mars are well defined. Few hair lines cut across these mounts. _CAUTIOUS PERSON._--The first phalange of the thumb twists inwards, whilst all the fingers are remarkably straight. _CHARITABLE PERSON._--A good Heart line with well-developed Mounts of Venus and Mars (particularly the Mars Mount below Jupiter.) _CHEERFUL PERSON._--A long first phalange to the fourth finger and the Mounts of Jupiter, Apollo and Mercury nice and plump. _CLEVER PERSON._--The Life line shows a cross at one of its ends and the Mounts of Apollo and Mercury are well defined. _CONCEITED PERSON._--Very plump Mounts of Saturn, Apollo and Mercury. _CONSCIENTIOUS PERSON._--A broad, thin hand, a very distinct Mount of Jupiter, and the first phalange of the thumb nicely curved. _CONVINCING SPEAKER._--The fourth finger is almost as long as the third, usually because the first phalange is long. This finger is pointed. _CORDIALITY._--The Heart line extends almost across the palm; it is straight, except at one end, which branches into a fork. _COWARDLY._--When the hand is opened out flat, the fourth phalanges of all the fingers dip or curve downwards. None of the mounts are distinct. _CRUEL PERSON._--The Heart line is almost or quite non-existing. The hand is long, but square-cornered, and the finger-nails are pointed at the base. _DARING PERSON._--The Heart line curves round to the back of the hand, while both the Mounts of Mars are fully developed. _DECEITFUL PERSON._--The Head line wavers, is not very distinct, and it has a double prong at one end. One of the prongs cuts across the Mount of Luna. _DEFIANT PERSON._--The third phalange of the first finger is longer than the third phalanges of other fingers. The thumb is large. _DISAPPOINTMENTS TO BE EXPERIENCED._--The Life line has a number of small hair lines running from it, like herringbone pattern. Some of these hair lines reach the bracelets. _DISSIPATED PERSON._--A star beside the thumb-nail and the Head line is deep and wide. _ENERGETIC PERSON._--The head line runs from side to side of the palm. It is clear throughout, while the four mounts below the four fingers are very distinct. _ENVIOUS PERSON._--On the first finger there are several clear lines; they are found mostly on the third phalange, but some exist on the second. None on the first. _EXTRAVAGANT PERSON._--The tips of all the fingers bend back and the Head line is weak. _FAITHLESS PERSON._--The two Mounts of Mars and that of Mercury stand out more clearly than the others. _FAME, PERSON DESTINED FOR._--The Fate line is more distinct than any other and no other line crosses it. _FAR-SEEING PERSON._--The palm is depressed in the middle, the thumb is well developed, strong in outline, and all the phalanges of the fingers are about as long as they are wide. _FAULT-FINDING PERSON._--A long, narrow hand, with an ill-defined Heart line. _FLIRT._--The Head line consists of a line joining up several links, forming a species of chain. _FORCEFUL PERSON._--A cross on the Mount of Apollo and small lines crossing. _FORTUNATE PERSON._--The Heart and Head lines almost touch below the Mount of Jupiter. A cross is often found between them just at this point. The third finger shows a long line running the length of two phalanges. _GOOD CHARACTER._--The Mounts of Jupiter, Saturn and Mercury are much in evidence, while the tips of the fingers are nicely rounded. _GREEDY PERSON._--When the hand is spread out the fingers bend inwards, because of the excessive width of the palm. The Head line runs across the palm almost in a straight line. _HAPPY PERSON._--On the third finger there is a deep line running the length of the third phalange. Also, the bracelets appear as a single deep furrow. _HARD WORKER._--The fourth finger has the second phalange a trifle long, while the two Mounts or Mars are well developed. _IDLER._--The Head line is very short; the Mounts of Luna and Mercury are well developed, while the Mount of Mercury almost touches that of Mars. _IMPATIENT PERSON._--The Mounts of Mars and Mercury stand well above the level of the palm and are crossed by several small lines. _INTELLIGENT PERSON._--The Mounts of Apollo and Mercury are much in evidence, while the Life line terminates in a cross. _JEALOUS PERSON._--The Head line continues round to the back of the hand, while the Mount of Mercury is more defined than the others. _JUST PERSON._--Square-tipped fingers and square nails, while the space formed between the Heart and Head lines is unusually wide. _KIND PERSON._--A star figures on the thumb, while the Mounts of Apollo and Mercury are much in evidence. The Heart line is not short. _LIKING FOR OPPOSITE SEX._--A star is seen on the Mount of Mercury or a star may appear between the Heart and Head lines. _LONG LIFE._--The Heart line curves entirely round the thumb, being plainly evident all the way, while the bracelets consist of three clear lines. _LUCKY PERSON._--See diagram of a very lucky hand. _MARRIAGE._--The Marriage line is a comparatively short line, found above the Heart line and starting from the edge of the palm, under the little finger. If straight and well defined, it is a sign of a happy married life. (See Fig. A, p. 23.) If curved down, there are troubles to overcome. If the line runs down to the Heart line, money difficulties will arise in married life. (See Fig. B.) If the line ends in a fork, there are fears of quarrels and, perhaps, separations. (See Fig. C.) If the line runs up and touches the Fate line, marriage will bring many successes. If there is practically no length to the actual marriage line, but a fork appears almost at the commencement, it is a clear proof that troubles will arise and prevent the owner from marrying when he or she desires it. There will be delays, postponements and other difficulties, but they will be overcome in the end. (See Fig. D.) If there is an island where the line should commence, this may be taken as a sign that the possessor is not a suitable person for marriage. But, if the line is a good one, after the island is past, there are hopes that he or she will mend. (See Fig. E.) If the marriage line hardly exists or does not appear at all, it is a sign of single blessedness through life. If the marriage line on the right hand is minutely examined, short hair lines may be seen rising upwards from it. The number of these denotes the number of children of the marriage. It is usually said that the perpendicular lines represent the boys and the slanting lines the girls. As these lines are often very indistinct, it may be necessary to dust the hand with a dab of face-powder, in order to see them. _NARROW-MINDED PERSON._--The Head line is short and it wavers or wriggles its way across the palm. _NEAT, ORDERLY PERSON._--Where each finger is hinged to the palm, there is a deep crease making a badge on either side of it. The hand itself is square and vigorous in appearance. _NERVOUS PERSON._--The hand is very much lined, and there is difficulty in picking out the chief lines. The Mount of Luna is large and much furrowed. [Illustration: A VERY LUCKY HAND No. 9.--_The Life line begins on the Mount of Jupiter and is doubled._ The Heart line commences on the same mount and is forked at both ends. The Head line is doubled and forked at one end. The Fate line is long, straight and rises from the Bracelets. The finger of Apollo is lined. The Marriage line is straight and clear.] _OVERBEARING PERSON._--The fingers are square-tipped and the first phalange of the thumb is long and thick. The hand itself is rough and coarse. A short Heart line. _PASSIONATE PERSON._--The Heart line is long and the Mount of Mercury over-pronounced. _PHILOSOPHIC PERSON._--The finger-tips are square; the phalanges are all more or less fleshy and full; the thumb is large and long; the palm is comparatively small. _PROFLIGATE PERSON._--The Head line takes a wavering course, and there is a star on the thumb, close up to the nail. _RECKLESS PERSON._--The finger of Saturn is more pointed at the tip than the other fingers. The Fate line does not come anywhere near to the Bracelets. _REFINED PERSON._--The Mounts of Mercury and Luna are far more pronounced than the others; the fingers are slightly pointed, and the texture of the hand is silky. _RELIGIOUS PERSON._--The first finger has a square tip; the Mount of Jupiter is large; the first phalanges of all the fingers are decidedly long, and there is a cross in the center of the palm, close to the Head and Heart lines. _SECOND-SIGHT, PERSON WITH._--An unusual line runs from the Mount of Luna to the Mount of Mercury. It takes a circular course and much resembles the Life line, reversed. This line commences with an island. _SLEEPY PERSON._--A deeply-grooved short Head line. _SUCCESSFUL PERSON._--The Life line starts from the Mount of Jupiter and is double throughout its course. The Heart line commences at almost the same spot and is forked at both ends. _SUPERSTITIOUS PERSON._--The Mount of Jupiter is particularly well developed. There are several lines running across it; while the Head line is shorter than usual. _TACTFUL PERSON._--The hands are long and narrow; the texture of the skin is smooth and silky, and all the first phalanges are plump and, perhaps, longitudinally lined. _TALKATIVE PERSON._--The Heart and Head lines are not easily discovered, and the Mount of Mercury stands up more than the other mounts. _THOUGHTFUL PERSON._--The first finger almost as long as the second; it is pointed at the tip more than the others. A wide space is formed between the Heart, Head, Fate and Fortune (or Health) lines. _TIMID PERSON._--None of the Mounts appear plainly, while the Head and Heart lines run very close together. _UNTRUTHFUL PERSON._--The little finger is long, reaching at least to the base of the nail of the third finger. The Mount of Luna is crossed with many lines. _VAIN PERSON._--The Mount of Jupiter is fuller than the others and it is crossed with many lines. The fingers are long and rather pointed. _VINDICTIVE PERSON._--The Head line wriggles along its course. It has a fork close to the Mount of Luna. _WEALTHY PERSON._--When earned, the Mount of Luna, on both hands, shows a number of lines which all run in one direction. They do not cross at all. When inherited, the same, but there is, in addition, a cross on the Bracelets. _WITTY PERSON._--The Mount of Mercury shows up clearly. In addition, there is a curved line which runs from the junction of the first and second fingers to the junction of the third and fourth fingers. The Heart line is usually good. YOUR HANDWRITING REVEALS YOUR CHARACTER Your handwriting is you; disguise it as you will, it still reveals your character. As a matter of fact, it is a sheer impossibility for an ordinary person to alter his or her writing completely. The natural hand and the purposely-changed hand will bear several resemblances, however hard the individual may try to make them dissimilar. This is due to the fact that the same character lies behind both efforts. Not only is your handwriting you, but the handwriting of your friend is "him or her." This being so, you will find it a simple matter to arrive at his or her qualities by analyzing a few lines of the person's handwriting. To become sufficiently expert for this, you will not need more than half-an-hour's study. _FIRST_ of all we must attend to the direction of the lines of writing, as, should these be level, a normal and calm state of mind is shown, generally reliable, and not subject to change. When the lines slope toward the right, much energy is indicated; when the lines slope downward, a lack of energy is shown, usually from depression which may result from ill health. If the writing slopes upward with excess, it shows recklessness; if downwards, with a very sloping inclination, it shows mental depression verging almost on loss of reason. If the signature slopes upwards, then we may expect to find personal ambition, but if downwards, some physical weakness. If instead of the whole line ascending only words here and there will ascend, this indicates "hope," but if scattered words ascend and descend in the same line, we may read a lack of tenacity in emotions. _SECONDLY._--The lines forming the letters may appear:-- (A) Practically upright; or (B) Sloping slightly to the right. (C) Sloping very much to the right as if each letter were falling over the rest. (D) Sloping to the left, and lastly, (E) "Back-hand writing." Between A and B might be called normal. A Shows pluck and self-possession, and, if pointed, mathematics. B Tenderness, but should the writing be pointed, a quick, acute mind, with no sympathy with sentiment. C Shows indolence; if with pointed letters, mental power, but should the letters be rounded, mental and physical indolence. D Shows a love of ease, while E Looks peculiar and indicates self-consciousness, and, as a rule, hidden sentimentality. _THIRDLY._--The writing small and pointed, we get curiosity; if medium in size, and gradually increasing towards the end of the line, it shows an outspoken nature; should the writing diminish towards the end of the line we read tact. If it is fine and threadlike in appearance, it shows a sensitive mind, diplomacy. Large writing shows promptness, but if the strokes are very fine, we see appreciation of other people's work--a connoisseur. Small, clear writing shows love of the abstruse, and if the lines are very delicate, a feeling for the mystic. If the writing is extremely small, it shows pettiness of nature, fussiness over unimportant details. Letters of different sizes show unreliability of nature, exaggerating trifles and ignoring more important things. Light and fine writing means delicacy of feeling, but if carried to excess it shows fastidiousness. _FOURTHLY._--The connections of the letters with each other must be judged. If the connecting stroke is long, it shows some facility in talking and expression, the power of using words well, _not_ talkativeness. Letters ingeniously connected show constructiveness, but should they be separate, we get perception and intuition. Any eccentricity indicates that the person's career has not been ordinary. Marked originality, especially of capitals, shows unusual taste. Tremulous tendency resulting neither from illness nor old age--Irritability. Highly restrained, small--Refractory disposition, difficult to live with. Regular and well-placed lines, followed by those careless and irregular--A mind quick to embark on an enterprise, but lacking perseverance. Back-handed less susceptible than inclined--The head ruling the heart. Generally the body of the letter or specimen gives the present character, the signature the past. _CROTCHETS._--Egotism, self-satisfaction (a return upon self.) _HARPOONS (HOOKS)._--Tenacity, united perhaps with weak will. _DASHES._--Perfectly straight--Persistence. Undulating.--Art, levity. Undulating, beginning or finishing with a crotchet or ungraceful flourish.--Lack of taste, slight vulgarity. Light.--Writer attaches little idea to things expressed. Ending Thickly.--Resolution, desires ideas to carry weight. Curved Ascendingly.--Versatility; slight inconsistency; speaks without thought. Tremulous.--Timidity, hesitation. Placed at end of line or paragraph.--Lack of self-assertion. Ending abruptly, thick and hard.--Distrust, reserve. Sharply elongated.--Impulsive nature; prudence taught by experience. Used instead of "full stops."--Cultivated caution. _CAPITAL LETTERS._--Large and well-formed.--Pride. Print-like in shape.--Dignity. Thin strokes.--Boasting. Exaggerated in height.--Love of ceremonial. The angle very pointed.--Acuteness, penetrative, leadership. Large and badly-formed.--Egomania. Large upper hall.--Self-assertion. Large bases.--Self-confidence. The capital letter of Christian names larger than that of surname.--Love of home. The capital letter of surname larger.--Love of position. Small capitals.--Lack of self-assertion. Capital letters made like small ones.--Said to show poetic feeling, love of Nature. Print-like in form.--Originality. Eccentric in any way.--Pose or whim. Widely spaced.--Love of open air. Curving far below the line, and almost encircling the word.--Protective love of animals. Letters incorrectly used.--Small detail made over-important. Tendency to replace by print.--Sense of form, artistic and poetic. _SPECIAL LETTERS._--_A.M.N.H._, _G.O._, _R.U.W._--Normal width.--Well-poised mind. Too wide.--Self-contentment, satisfaction. Nearly touching.--Timidity, want of knowledge of the world. First leg slightly raised.--Aristocratic tastes. Second leg exaggerated.--Pose, affectation. Unconnected, ending with crotchet rentrant.--Egotistical, selfish. The letters begun and ended with a small crotchet rentrant.--Avarice, meanness. Letters and words connected.--Power of assimilating ideas, but lack of originality; logic. Letters disconnected even with their parts.--Creative power, want of logic. Equally connected or disconnected.--Balanced intuition and deduction. Last letter increasing in size.--Lack of power of concealment. Decreasing.--Finesse. Handwriting does not invariably show sex, as the qualities indicated are common to both men and women. The writing develops as the soul develops, and imitation comes before originality. QUALITIES SHOWN IN HANDWRITING ALPHABETICALLY ARRANGED _ABILITY._--Small writing, angular, clear, decided capitals. _ACCURACY._--Neat, well-placed lines and words, punctuation correct. _AFFECTION._--Softly sloping writing, rounded, fairly thick. _AMIABILITY._--Rounded letters, often unfinished, medium capitals. _AMBITION._--Large first stroke of capital "M's" ascending lines of writing. Imposing signature. _ANALYTICAL._--Small-pointed, clear writing, letters divided, decided capitals. _ARGUMENT._--Words connected, giving logic, and occasional extra long connecting strokes, small writing. (See A.2.) _AUTHORITY._--Large capitals, especially the letter "I" and first letter of surname, level crossing to t's. _BOASTFUL._--Large writing, exaggerated capital, flying cross bar to t's. (See A.1.) _BOLD._--Large well-formed capitals, clear rounded, but not pointed writing. _BROAD-MINDED._--Well-spaced words, clear capitals, O's and A's wide and rounded. _CANDOUR._--O's and A's open at the top. _CAPRICE._--Eccentric letters, irregular writing, no punctuation. _CARE._--See Accuracy. _CARELESSNESS._--Ill-formed letters, open O's, no punctuation. _CAUTION._--Dashes used instead of full stops. _CEREMONIOUS._--Capitals important, all large above the line, some added flourishes. _CHANGEABLE._--Letters differently formed, eccentric capitals, variability of line. _CHEERFULNESS._--Short, fat loops, rounded letters. _DEJECTION._--Lines tending downwards, curved letters unfinished, last of capital "M" very small. _DELICACY._--Thin thread-like letters, fine pointed writing. (See A.3.) _DISORDER._--Ill-formed, unfinished letters, no punctuation, separate letters. _DISSIMILATION._--Words terminating in thread-like strokes, interchangeable letters. _DISTRUST._--Last downstroke ending very abruptly. [Illustration: No. 10.--A] _DRINK._--Thick strokes, when seen through a glass very ragged, ill-formed letters; self-indulgence. _EATING, GOURMANDIZING._--Small, rounded writing, black, small capitals. _ECONOMY._--Close, compressed writing, no margins. (See A.4.) _ENERGY._--Lines sloping upwards to the right, short downstrokes, high-barred crosses to t's. _EXAGGERATION._--Very large and eccentric capitals, flourish under signature. _EXTRAVAGANCE._--Wide margins, large letters, full loops above and below the lines. _FAINT-HEARTED._--Small capitals, ill-formed thread-like letters, downward tendency. _FOPPERY._--Exaggerated capitals, especially letter "I," wide spacing. _FORGETFULNESS._--Letter "N" shaped like small "U." (See B.1.) _FORMALITY._--Neat lettering, punctuation careful, capitals rather large. _FRIVOLOUS._--Light writing, eccentric, or half-made capitals, irregular lines. _GEOMETRY._--Small, neat writing, print-like small capitals, upright slope to writing, or slightly backward. _GENEROSITY._--Final letters naturally rounded, with upward tendency. _GESTURE OR MOVEMENT._--An elaborate finish resembling a flourish but joined to last letter. _GRANDEUR, LOVE OF._--Imposing and well-formed capitals, large and carefully made "M's." _GROSSNESS._--Very black, thick stroke both up and down, letters badly formed; short loops wide. (See B.2.) _HASTY ACTION._--Long-shaped commas. _HOME, LOVE OF._--Capital letter of Christian name larger than that of surname. _HONESTY._--Well-formed, clear and even letters, level at the bottoms. _HOPE._--The lines ascending with regularity. _HYPOCRISY._--Small A's and O's, open at bottom. _HYSTERIA._--Very irregular writing, badly made letters, and wild crossing strokes to t's, thin and long downstrokes, initial small letters out of proportion to remainder of words. _INDOLENCE._--Rounded writing, sloping "backwards"--i.e., to the left (See A.5.) _INDECISION._--Thin strokes crossing the t's, or else the stroke "tucked in." _INGENUITY._--Curious and original shaped capitals. _INSINCERITY._--Letters raised high above the level, words thread-like, terminations indistinct. _INTEMPERANCE._--Curious rough, black strokes, or else vague formation of letters. _INTRIGUE._--Twisted forms to letters, unnecessary and thread-like strokes. _INTUITION._--Letters separated. (See B.3.) _IRRITABLE._--Curious short downward crossing to t's, cramped and pointed letters. _LANGUAGE._--Occasional long connecting strokes in middle of words or from word to word. (See B.4.) [Illustration: No. 11.--B.] _LOGICAL._--Even, small, well-formed letters, capitals well balanced. _LUXURY._--Black writing, slanting strokes, large capitals. _MADNESS._--Irregular, badly-formed, unfinished words, lines very irregular, and variable directions. _MEAN._--Cramped and compressed letters and lines. _METHODICAL._--Well-formed letters, even lines, good punctuation. _NARROW._--Well-formed but close letters, careful capitals. _NATURE, LOVE OF._--Simple capital letters. (See B.5.) _NEUROTIC._--Irregular dwindling letters, various sizes, words unevenly placed. _OBSTINACY._--Small writing, heavy crossing to "t's" and angular letters. _ORDER._--Letters even, well formed and placed. _ORIGINALITY._--Eccentric forms of letters. _PENETRATIVE._--Acute letters, well-finished long upstrokes to "t's." _PERSEVERANCE._--The bars crossing the "t's" increasing in size. _POETRY, FEELING FOR._--Capital letters made like small ones in shape and neat well-formed words. _PRETENTIOUSNESS._--Many curves and involved capitals. _RETICENCE._--Closed "o's," "a's," and "e's." _SIGHT._--In affections of the eyes the terminals are unfinished. _SLY._--Dwindling ill-formed letters. _STINGY._--Cramped writing, close lines. _SUBTLETY._--Small letters and dwindling lines. (See 6.B.) _SELFISH._--The final coming round to the left, and making a complete loop on itself. _TEMPER, HASTY._--Angular stops. _IRRITABLE._--The cross-bars of the "t's" slightly hooked. _OBSTINATE._--The cross-bar ending in a decided harpoon or hook; a low thick bar. High and thick and tending sharply downward. _OBSTINACY AGAINST OWN INTERESTS._--A short straight down stroke. _CONTROL OF._--Dashes used instead of stops. _TRUE._--Clear, well-formed rounded letters. _VANITY._--Large flourished capitals, wide margins. (See B.7.) _WIT._--Small, rounded letters, generally undulating handwriting. YOUR FACE IS YOUR FORTUNE Everybody sums up the faces of his friends and of the people he meets. It is a habit we all have. But most of us are apt to classify these faces into groups according to whether the possessors are good-looking, ordinary or supremely ugly. We say to ourselves, "Isn't So-and-so charming," or alternatively, "How positively plain is So-and-so." As a matter of fact, the degree of beauty expressed in an individual's face ought to count for very little. What ought to count is the character which his or her features reveal. Let it be said quite definitely that faces indicate character more accurately than any other physical property of an individual. A person can change his voice and he can check his actions, but he cannot alter his features for more than a second at a time, and then only superficially. Thus it comes about that faces are definite indications of character, and these indications are fairly easy to read, once the rules are learned. Of course, all such things as accidental blemishes, such as scars and broken noses, must be ignored at the outset. First, let us take the general shape of the face. [Illustration: No. 12.] _THE SHAPE OF THE FACE._--There can be thousands of different shapes, but the normal is shown by Fig. 1, where the width across the forehead is more than across the chin. The forehead, the nose and the rest of the face should be about equal in length. Add to the width across the forehead and you have a brainy person, a clear thinker, a person whose opinions are worth considering. Of course, an excess of width in this place suggests some mental instability. Fig. 2 shows an entirely different type. It may belong to a jolly person who is excellent company; but do not go to him for sound advice. There is not enough length of forehead, nor width of forehead, to house a superabundance of brains. Fig. 3 introduces us to a ponderous type, slow-thinking, fond of food, and with animal instincts lurking in the background of his make-up. Fig. 4 reveals a long face, narrow for its width. This belongs to a person who is limited in vision, and who can be very awkward at times. Such an individual will find it very hard to agree with others, especially in business matters. He may be deep and more often than not, he is a rather sad companion. [Illustration: No. 13.] _THE NOSE._--Fig. 1 shows the normal nose, betokening an average character. Fig. 2 is too rounded at the tip. Force of character is lacking. Fig. 3 reveals a drooping line between the tip of the nose and the upper lip. This stands for a character that loves amusements and is apt to neglect the real things of life. Fig. 4 gives a pronounced, fleshy curl where the nose joins the face. This is a sign that the possessor is a clear thinker, a leader of others, an intelligent person. Fig. 5 shows a thin, pointed nose. The possessor is, probably, of a refined nature, but he or she is apt to be lacking in sympathy, even cruel. Fig. 6 depicts a curved ridge. This is the nose of a person who lacks a refined nature. He may be jolly and humorous, but certainly not actuated by the highest ideals. Many noses of this shape are the result of an accident, which, of course, does not count. A long nose indicates cautiousness, watchfulness, and often timidity. A prominent nose that stands well out from the face shows a desire to observe and examine things, without the interference of others. A fleshy tip to the nose displays a kindly nature, and a love of ease. A short, small nose tells of conceit and a lack of sympathy for others. A turned-up nose means that the possessor is a busybody, one who cannot keep a secret, but may be kind and generous. _THE EYES._--Large eyes denote love of talking and the ability to learn languages. Small eyes denote secrecy and close-mindedness. Full, dark eyes denote love of the opposite sex. Truthful eyes are set straight in the head. Untruthful eyes slope towards the nose. Eyes that slope downwards from the nose are cruel and deceitful. Eyes set widely apart denote breadth of mind. Eyes set close together denote narrow-mindedness. _THE CHEEKS._--Full, rounded cheeks denote sociability and a love of friends. Thin cheeks denote those who prefer their own company. Fullness in lower part of cheek denotes love of eating and drinking. A moderate fullness denotes hospitality. High cheekbones show that the possessor is very methodical. He or she is likely to interfere in other people's business. _THE FOREHEAD._--Prominent brows denote a practical disposition. Fullness in center of forehead denotes a good memory for dates and events. A broad forehead denotes a humorous disposition. A rounded forehead denotes musical ability; this is usually accompanied by curved eyebrows and wavy hair. _THE MOUTH AND LIPS._--When upper lip is deeply grooved down the center, it denotes modesty and refinement. A plain upper lip, boldness and forwardness. A long upper lip denotes self-esteem and self-control. Redness and fullness in center of lip, love and passion for opposite sex. Fullness at either side shows love of children and animals. A mouth that displays the teeth when smiling denotes love of approbation and attention. A full, red, well-developed lower lip denotes a kindly, sympathetic disposition. Thin lips denote a hard, selfish, and unsympathetic nature. The same with straight lips. [Illustration: No. 14.] _THE CHIN._--A receding chin, as shown in Fig. 1, p. 43, denotes a lack of firmness. It belongs to a person who has insufficient will of his own. A chin shaped as Fig. 2 or 3, or midway between these, provides a very acceptable character. There is determination and grit, without an excess of these qualities. Fig. 2 may be taken as the normal type. Broad, bony structures of the chin denotes conscientiousness and straightforwardness. Length and projection of chin denotes firmness, stability, and perseverance. An extremely long and projecting chin denotes stubbornness and obstinacy. (Fig. 4.) A full ridge of fat under the chin denotes economy. _WRINKLES._--A wrinkle commencing in the lower cheek and extending right under the chin, from side to side, is caused from constant talking. A wrinkle running from the side of the nose, downwards upon the lower cheek, to the outer corners of the mouth, is a sign of love of approbation. Whenever in laughter three parallel circular lines are formed in the cheeks there is a fund of folly in the character. Wrinkles lying horizontally across the root of the nose denote ability to command. Several perpendicular wrinkles between the eyebrows denote a plodding, persevering disposition. _DIMPLES._--A round dimple in the chin denotes love of the beautiful in the opposite sex. Dimples at the outer corners of the mouth are another sign of mirthfulness. Dimples in the center of cheeks are another sign of approbation. When a little cleft is seen at the tip of the nose it denotes the natural critic. Close attention should always be given to texture and quality of the hair, eyes, and skin; this is most important, as the coarseness or refinement of character is shown very plainly to those who take the trouble to notice these things. Color of hair, eyes, and skin is also very important; the depth of the feelings and passions is shown here; poorly colored people are much less passionate than their deeper colored fellow-creatures. Thus from dark individuals of coarse quality we expect coarse passions, and from dark fine-quality individuals deep, refined emotions. [Illustration: No. 15.] _THE EYEBROWS._--Fig. 2 is intended for the eyebrows of a normal individual. Such a person goes about his duties in an ordinary, intelligent manner and does his best to make the world a little better place for having him in it. In Fig. 1, the eyebrows have insufficient shape. They belong to an individual of extremes; he or she is either too determined or devoid of kindness. In Fig. 3, the eyebrows are too curved, forming a full semi-circle. This is a sign of shallowness; they belong to a person who is not going to put himself out for somebody else. In Fig. 4, the eyebrows are higher at the outer than at the inner ends. Such are difficult to diagnose. They may belong to a very jolly, funny person; but they may also belong to someone absolutely untrustworthy, a foxy individual, in fact. They should be read in company with other facial signs. In Fig. 5, the eyebrows meet on the nose. Hesitate before trusting a person so provided. He may be perfectly reliable, but make sure first. Nos. 1 to 5 show eyebrows of fine or medium thickness, but Figs. 6 and 7 are coarser and heavier. Those that are neither too fine or too thick are best, since they are more likely to belong to a well-balanced person. Fine pencil streaks show a finniky, perhaps unkind nature. Heavy, bushy eyebrows point to an austere, querulous nature. In Fig. 7, the upstanding hairs suggest a nature that may derive pleasure from posing. _A FINAL HINT._--In checking the "points" of a face, it is often found that one feature may contradict another. This does not prove that the explanations given above are incorrect. It goes to show that the character of the individual is not definitely set in one direction. He may vary at times or he may have the aptitude for fighting against one characteristic in favor of another. The only sound plan is to assess the character by striking a balance of all the "points" at issue. HAVE YOU A MOLE? Many people do not like these little marks, but let them be comforted, for in olden times, according to the wise men of the day, great reliance was placed on them. Just what a mole means depends on where it is to be found. The following may describe a mole of your own:-- RIGHT EYE (above).--Wealth and a happy marriage. LEFT EYE (above).--You have a great liking for the opposite sex and you will, thereby, gain much happiness. TEMPLE.--As above. NOSE.--You will succeed in business. CHEEK.--You will be happy, but not be blessed with fame and fortune. CHIN.--Fortunate in your choice of friends. EAR (either).--A contented nature. ARMS.--A happy nature, but with something of the "don't care" spirit. SHOULDERS.--Will face difficulties with fortitude. HANDS.--A practical nature. Able to take care of yourself. LEGS.--Strong willed. NECK.--You have a great deal of patience. WHAT DO YOUR BUMPS MEAN? Just feel the shape of your own head, and then ask a friend to let you do the same thing to him or her. Most likely you will be very surprised at the difference between the two. You may have bumps in certain places while your friend has them in totally different parts. The science of phrenology, which is the reading of bumps, has discovered that bumps in certain places point to certain characteristics; if you have them, you must have the characteristics, and, if you have not them, you cannot have those qualities. In fact, the reading of character through the medium of bumps is a very definite science, and it is a science that can be easily learned and applied by almost anyone. Of course, there is much to learn, but there is no need to know a great deal if you merely want to assess a person's character in general terms. A chart is supplied on p. 47, and on it is marked out just enough to enable you to read a head with ease. Only certain areas are mapped out; the rest of the head may be the location of bumps, but it does not present the bumps which are likely to interest us just now. The areas are as follows:-- 1.--_Lying at the top of the head, in the center and coming a little way towards the forehead._ If this area is well developed, it shows that the individual has a benevolent nature. He is generous and kind; he will work for the good of others and not think only of himself. If the area is over-developed, the individual will be inclined to favor others at the expense of his own safety; if it is under-developed, he will be cruel and selfish. 2.--_Situated above but a little behind the eye; usually the place is just covered by hair._ When this area is well developed, it shows that the individual possesses plenty of happiness and a store of wit and mirth. He is a pleasant person, smiles on adversity and is excellent company. If the area is over-developed, the individual is one who can never be taken seriously, who pokes fun at everything; if it is under-developed, he is the type of person who is never known to smile. 3.--_In the middle of the head, where it curves down towards the back of the neck._ In cases where this area is well developed, the person is one who has strength of mind; he is firm in his actions; he cannot be persuaded against his own judgment; and he likes his own way. If this area is over-developed, the person is obstinate and stubborn; if it is under-developed, he is easily led, apt to waver and has not a mind of his own. [Illustration: No. 16.--Chart of Phrenology. 1--Benevolence, generosity, kindness. 2--Happiness, Wit, Mirth. 3--Firmness, Strength of Mind. 4--Self-Esteem, Dignity, Pride. 5--Conscientiousness, Sense of Duty. 6--Love. 7--Courage. 8--Desire for Marriage. 9--Love of Children. ] 4.--_In the middle of the head, lower down at the back than No. 3._ When this area is found in a well-developed condition, the possessor is a person who has dignity, self-esteem and proper pride. He is one who lives an upright life because he puts a high price on these qualities. If this area is over-developed, the individual is over-confident, he thinks too much of himself and is haughty; if it lacks development, he is too humble and suffers from an inferiority complex. 5.--_Lying beside Nos. 3 and 4._ To find this area well developed is a sure sign that the possessor is a conscientious individual; it shows that he has a high sense of duty, and his life will center around actions that are based on what he thinks is right. If this area is over-developed, the possessor will never progress far because he will be always stopping and wondering whether what he proposes to do is right; if under-developed, the possessor is one who does not care whether what he does is wrong or right, so long as it brings him pleasure and gain. 6.--_At the base of the skull, at the back, where it joins the backbone._ If this area is well developed, it shows that the individual has the power of loving somebody of the opposite sex in a proper manner. He or she will fall in love when a suitable occasion arises and will make an excellent partner. If this area is over-developed, the individual will be too passionate, will fall in love with little or slight provocation, and will give himself or herself a great deal of unhappiness; if under-developed, he or she will be too cold to be moved by the thoughts of love. 7.--_A slight distance away from the back of the ear._ When this area is well developed, the individual may be counted on to be courageously inclined. He will not know the meaning of fear, and will not hold back because troubles may be brewing. If this area is over-developed, we have a quarrelsome person and if under-developed, one who is afraid of his skin. 8.--_Beside No. 7, but more in the center of the back of the head._ Whenever this area is properly developed, it shows that the possessor would make an admirable husband or wife. He or she would be devoted, loyal and attentive. If the area is over-developed, the possessor has a jealous disposition; if under-developed, he or she is fickle and apt to flirt with others. 9.--_Beside No. 8, in the center of the back of the head, low down._ Should this area be well developed, it shows that the possessor has a proper love and regard for children and that he thinks no person has experienced the fullest joys of life who has not become a parent. If this area is over-developed, the possessor thinks so much of children that he spoils them; if it is under-developed, he is of the type that "cannot stand them at any price." HOW ASTROLOGY DECIDES YOUR DESTINY Astrology is one of the oldest sciences in the world. It is said to have originated with the Egyptians, almost at the very beginning of time. Indeed, it is almost impossible to trace a period when this science was not practiced. There is nothing new under the sun, and its close followers will scarcely allow any errors in its deductions. They go so far as to declare it to be an exact science, a term which means that everything can be reasoned out and proved; nothing is left to guesswork. Such sciences are Mathematics, Algebra, and Geometry. We need not believe that Astrology is all this, but certainly some very startling and accurate predictions have been made by astrologers. However, as in all other methods of fortunetelling attempted by us mortals, it is far from infallible. So long as we do not take it to be exact and sure, we shall get plenty of amusement and interest from its study, with the exciting feeling all the time at the back of our minds that "it might come true." Here is a list giving you the names and meanings given to planets by astrologers. ---------+------------------------------------------ Name. | Approximate meaning given by Astrologers. ---------+------------------------------------------ Mars. | Strength. Venus. | Beauty. Mercury. | Capacity for adapting oneself. Uranus. | Improvement. Sun. | Life. Jupiter. | Freedom and growth. Saturn. | Diminished--shrinking--lack of growth. Neptune. | Able to receive--receptive. Earth. | Physical--not spiritual. The Moon.| Feeling. ---------+------------------------------------------ The main idea at the back of astrology is that the planets (or starry bodies which revolve round the sun) each have a strong and varying influence upon the minds of human beings. _THE ZODIAC._--Of course when the planets revolve round the sun they travel through a course or path. The Zodiac is the name given by astronomers to the boundary which encloses this course or path in the sky. The signs of the Zodiac are the spaces into which the Zodiac is divided. Here are the signs of the Zodiac arranged in order to show which signs are opposite to each other. Aries. facing Libra. Taurus. Scorpio. Gemini. Sagittarius. Cancer. Capricorn. Leo. Aquarius. Virgo. Pisces. Now each sign has a planet which is said to rule it; this is called the ruling planet. It is from the nature of this planet that the probable character and fate of the individual are told. It is not necessary to know the whys and wherefores of this, if you have not studied astronomy it will only serve to muddle you, and if, on the other hand, you do understand astronomy you will not need any explanation. We will just say what does happen, and that will tell you all you need in these first steps. Well, we all know that the earth revolves upon its axis once in every 24 hours. Now, according to astronomers, this causes one of the Zodiac signs to appear in the eastern sky, where it remains for two hours. We have said that each sign has a planet ruling it, so the sign that appears on the sky at the time of birth decides what planet that person is born under or is influenced by. Let us suppose for a moment that you were born when the sign Libra was rising, as the saying is. The planet which rules Libra is Venus, so the person born at that time would be a Venus type, i.e., a person having the influence of Venus upon him. In addition to the main ruling planet, astrologers will tell you that there are other "neighboring" planets--we will call them neighboring because it is a simple term--which also have their effect upon us. Astrologers call this one planet being "in aspect" with another. For instance, you might have the planet Mars in aspect with (or influenced by) the planet Saturn; you would then be dealing with a very strong character. The qualities of Mars which give the fighter and the pushing type, or in excess the bully, will be well steadied by the qualities of Saturn, which by themselves give coldness and, in excess, lack of feeling. The two together result in a character remarkable for its steadiness combined with its never-wearying energy and good balance. So you see, we seldom find pure types (i.e., qualities of Mars, or other planets by themselves), and it is very fortunate that this is so; we should get a very one-sided world if we did. Now we come to that part of Astrology which really interests most people; here will be shown the birth-dates for each month in the year and the probable characters of persons born at that special time. You may ask why the characters are given and why not the fate or future of the person concerned. The reason is this: you can be pretty sure that what you read of an individual's character will give you a sound idea of what in all probability his future will be. After all, the carving out of our lives is in our own hands. We are the masters of our fate, or as the song has it, "Captain of our Soul." However, if we believe astrologers, there is a way to tell the times of our lives when matters should go smoothly or the reverse. The most favorable times for speculating with money, starting in business, in fact, the most and least favorable periods of our lives can, according to astrology, be worked out by what is known as the Horoscope. Now this Horoscope is in reality a chart of your life. The rocky waters are shown, and the barrier reefs which each of us must avoid through our life, so you will see a use in the study of astrology. It would seem to be Nature's warning to us all of the necessity for effort, effort and again effort. Here are the birth dates and characteristics of persons born between the dates mentioned. Since astrology is not infallible, do not take all these characteristics too seriously. You will notice that each date is taken from about the 20th of one month to the 20th of the next month. WHEN WERE YOU BORN? Dec. 22nd to Jan. 20th. People born during this period have considerable mental ability and a keen business instinct. They are fond of the imaginative arts. They are proud; they like their own way and they see that they get it. Generally speaking, they are better fitted to lead than to follow others. However, they do not take kindly to changes of any kind, and are annoyed by newfangled ideas. They do not want the advice of other people and often resent it. They do not strike out in new directions and they avoid taking risks. They lack "push." To these people, we say: Don't wait for opportunities--make them. Don't let your pride persuade you to keep on the wrong road rather than turn back. Don't be afraid of admitting and correcting a mistake. Don't run away from trouble; meet it with a bold front. Jan. 21st to Feb. 19th. People born during this period have a strong sense of duty. They have a kindly disposition and are inclined to be affectionate. They refuse to think ill of anyone until the bad qualities are proved. Being straightforward themselves, they imagine everyone else is the same and, on this account, they are likely to suffer some bitter experiences. However, they lack a proper regard for their own welfare. They are a little too confiding and they are not adaptable. Once they make up their minds on a matter, it is almost impossible to persuade them to change it. To these people we say: Don't brood over troubles. Face the facts, fight them out, and then, forget all about them. Don't be guided by impulses. Don't neglect the financial side of things, if you want to succeed. Feb. 20th to March 20th. People born during this period are just in their dealings, and would not injure another willingly. Their code of honor is a strict one. They are industrious and persistent. They endeavor to perform their share in making the world a better and a happier place. However, they are too cautious and do not take sufficient risks to make life a complete success. Too often, they ask themselves whether they should go ahead with a project and, while they are hesitating, the opportune moment flies away. To these people, we say: Don't listen to the voice of despair. Don't be downhearted, if you don't see, at first, the way to do a thing. Don't think in small things. Think large. March 21st to April 19th. People born during this period are thoughtful. They are artistic, are fond of the fine arts, and like all that is beautiful. They are self-willed and rebel when others try to drive them. They do not take much notice of convention, and the way of the world means nothing to them. However, they are apt to shrink from disagreeable work, and everything sordid disgusts them. They are too sensitive and take offense too readily. To these people, we say: Don't set yourself against the world: you will lose if you do. Don't tire of your task before it is done. Don't be too thin-skinned. Don't forget that it takes all sorts of people to make up the world. April 20th to May 20th. People born during this period possess a warm and generous heart. They are good workers and display a genuine interest in everything they undertake. They possess the kind of mind that seems to act instinctively and which does not depend so much on real reason. They are lavish in gifts and kindness. However, they are liable to rush to extremes, and they lack balance. Consequently, they are easily misled. To these people, we say: Don't get excited unnecessarily. Don't be too easily persuaded. Don't allow your emotions to master you. May 21st to June 21st. People born during this period are ambitious and they aspire to very high things. They are sensitive and sympathetic. They have lively imaginations and they are given to building castles in the air. They are naturally eloquent and are never at a loss for something to say. However, they are rarely content with things as they find them. Consequently, they grumble a great deal. They do not weigh up the "pros and cons" before deciding on a matter; and they jump to conclusions. To these people, we say: Don't be discouraged too quickly. Dream if you like, but don't neglect to translate your dreams into realities. Don't be too enthusiastic. Don't forget that work rather than plans win a home. June 22nd to July 22nd. People born during this period are highly generous and they make sacrifices in order to help others. They do nothing in a half-hearted way, whether it is work or play. They are persevering and the home is put before anything else. However, they dislike changes which mean an alteration in domestic life and they are a trifle old-fashioned in some of their beliefs. A little flattery or persuasion is apt to lead them astray, and their better judgment is rapidly overborne by a strong personality. To these people, we say: Don't dash headlong into anything. Don't be irritable under contradiction. Don't let your emotions run away with you. Don't spoil your chances for a little show of love. July 23rd to August 21st. People born during this period easily adapt themselves to circumstances, and they are considered "jolly good company." They have "push" and enterprise in a marked degree. They are affectionate, generous and highly capable. However, they lack a certain amount of self-control and they are not always dependable. They frequently forget promises, and they are often late in keeping appointments. In money affairs, they are likely to overlook their obligations. To these people, we say: Don't let your emotions sweep you off your feet. Don't become downcast too easily. Don't be obstinate. Don't make up your mind in a hurry. August 22nd to Sept. 22nd People born during this month are well equipped for the battle of life, and they have several qualities which should bring them success. They are not easily flurried, and they know how to stand firm in an emergency. They are quick in perceiving the correct thing to do, no matter what it is. They are capable, dependable and thorough. However, they are prone to be too independent, and they are apt to disregard good advice, preferring their own judgment. They are not quick in making friends because they are too wrapped up in themselves. To these people, we say: Don't take a plunge before reckoning up everything first. Don't forget that there are two sides to every question. There is yours and the other man's. Don't fall into the habit of doing tomorrow what should be done today. Sept. 23rd to Oct. 23rd. People born during this month are far-seeing and have excellent judgment. They have a passion for "finding out" things, and they want to know about everything that happens. Consequently, they are intelligent. They make delightful companions. However, they are bad losers, and they often let themselves get out of hand. This seriously hurts their vanity, as they are exceedingly desirous of creating a good impression. To these people, we say: Don't speak until you have thought twice. Don't be obstinate. Admit you are wrong when you know you are. Don't abuse your opponent. Oct. 24th to Nov. 22nd. People born during this month possess great ambition, and are persevering. They are full of energy and passionate spirit. One rebuff does not stop them; they return to the fray again and again, until they have conquered. They are precise in their actions, neat, methodical and tidy. However, they are domineering, and endeavor to impose their will on others. They lack discrimination and, once they conceive a hatred, there is nothing which can dispel it. To these people, we say: Don't domineer. Don't do things when you feel resentful. Don't forget that prim and proper things sometimes defeat their own ends. Nov. 23rd to Dec. 21st. People born during this month are, usually, virile and full of go and enterprise. They have more will power than the average and know how to surmount obstacles. Nothing comes amiss to them, and they are self-reliant. However, they are inclined to quarrel with those who offer advice. They carry independence too far, and they often speak without realizing the significance of their words. They seldom confide in others. To these people, we say: Don't act or speak and then think. Think first. Don't be obstinate and think you are being determined. Don't be headstrong and disregard advice that is disinterested. Don't be carried away by fickle fancies. YOUR CHILD'S OCCUPATION DECIDED BY THE STARS It is a well-known fact that every human being is considerably influenced, as far as character and capabilities are concerned, by the time of the year in which he or she was born. That being so, it follows that the occupation best suited to any particular individual is, in a measure, related to his or her birth-date. Parents who are anxious to do the best for their children should take note of these conditions; they may be helpful in keeping round pegs out of square holes. Below, we offer suggestions which have proved of use in thousands of cases, where doubt had previously existed. The information may be used in this way: Suppose a child is about to leave school and is ready to make his or her entry into the world of work. In a number of cases, the child has a very definite idea of what he or she wants to do. If the work is reasonably suited to the child's temperament, station in life, and so on, it is much the best plan to allow him or her to follow the particular bent. It is just as well to note whether the chosen occupation fits in with the work which we list below for his or her individual birth-date. If it approximates to some occupation which we mention, well and good. Let the child go ahead, there is every chance of success. But, if it is quite alien to anything which is given in the list, caution is needed. We do not say that the child's ambition should be checked and that he or she should be put to a job of our selection, but we do say that caution ought to be exercised. We are perfectly ready to admit that the stars and the birth-date are not the only factors which count. Environment, upbringing, the father's occupation, and other things must influence the child. All these influences should be weighed and carefully considered. But where astrology and the stars can give most help is in the case of a boy or girl who has no formulated idea as to what he or she wants to become. Thousands of children reach the school-leaving age without showing the slightest inkling for any particular job. To the parents of such children, we say, consult the lists set out below, seeing that they are based on astrological teachings. Go over the selected occupations carefully, discuss them with the child, explain what they offer in terms of money, work, hours, etc., and watch the effect they have on the child. In this way, it will soon be possible to gain an idea as to what occupation should be eventually decided on. Here are the occupations suitable for each person: _CAPRICORN BORN_ (Dec. 22nd to Jan. 20th).--Since people born in this period have considerable mental ability, it follows that they do well in most of the professions, since they can pass the necessary examinations and become well qualified. Thus, they ought to do satisfactorily in medicine, the law, dentistry, the scholastic profession and similar occupations. The fact that they do not care to take risks unfits them for many business openings, but where aspirations are not high, they do well as clerks and in filling posts which consist of routine work. Girls, especially, should seek work which is connected with the imaginative arts. _AQUARIAN BORN_ (Jan. 21st to Feb. 19th).--Boys display a good deal of interest in occupations which require the use of their hands. This makes them capable in many engineering posts, in wireless, in cabinet-making and similar jobs. They are not good at creating or inventing in connection with these industries, however. There is the roving disposition implanted in these boys and many of them think that the pilot's job on an air liner could not be equalled. Girls are, also, interested in working with their hands: thus they are fitted for dressmaking, the millinery trade, for dealing with arts and crafts supplies, etc. A certain number are eminently suited to secretarial work. _PISCEAN BORN_ (Feb. 20th to March 20th).--Children born in this period have a love for the sea and, therefore, the boys find congenial work as ship's mates, stewards, marine engineers, etc., while girls are suitable for stewardesses and other jobs filled by women on ocean-going vessels. In addition boys and girls are both fitted to all kinds of work in shops, chain stores, etc., but they are not at their best when managing their own businesses. They require authority behind them. A few Pisceans have artistic ability which should lead them to do splendidly as authors, painters, musicians, etc. _ARIES BORN_ (March 21st to April 19th).--The Aries child is often a problem, for certain of them have a rooted objection to anything in the nature of routine work. They chafe at going and coming at the same hour each day, and of doing the same work year after year. It is not that they are lazy, but that their nature refuses to be driven by set rules. With such children, it is wisest to interest them in whatever they fancy, until the time comes when they launch out on some brilliant scheme of their own. Aries men are the ones that fill unusual, out-of-the-way posts. Where this rooted objection does not exist, the children are good in almost any position which permits of movement, as travellers, for instance. _TAURIAN BORN_ (April 20th to May 20th).--As a rule, children who are Taurians are very successful. They do not mind hard work and they have a "flair" for doing the right thing, without knowing why. They have a head for figures and money, and thus do well in banks and stockbroker's offices. They take kindly to long training, which enables them to succeed in law and medicine. Both boys and girls are good with their hands. This makes them successful in a large number of occupations, as widely diverse as engineering and tailoring, or hairdressing and piano playing. _GEMINI BORN_ (May 21st to June 21st).--Gemini children show a good deal of ambition, and their chief fault is that they object to beginning at the bottom of the ladder. Perhaps this is useful, in a way, as it goads them on to climbing upwards. They have a good deal of vision. Thus they make excellent newspaper men and women. They do well in new trades, notably in radio and the motor world. Also, they ought to make a success in certain branches of aviation. Their eloquence fits them admirably for travellers, and they would make their mark in any business which, eventually, gave them work of an imaginative nature. In a general way, they find interest in theatrical work, in literary activities and in architecture. All Gemini people have a streak in their natures which causes them to seek unnecessary changes. _CANCER BORN_ (June 22nd to July 22nd).--Children born during this period are usually "workers." They will plod, they do not mind long hours, and they will set themselves to difficult jobs, if told to get on with them. As a rule, they should be set to something which enables them to work "on their own." They much prefer this to being a small peg in a large machine. They are suited to small businesses and agencies. A mail-order business might fit in with their requirements. Girls would do well as private teachers, running small schools of their own. They are, also, suited to the drapery trade. _LEO BORN_ (July 23rd to August 21st).--Those who are born during this period succeed best in what might be called "clean" occupations. The boys do not want to put on overalls and become grimy, and the girls prefer work that enables them to be always neat and tidy. Both of them show aptitude in marketing such things as jewelry, drugs, books and clothes, but they do not want to be concerned with making them. They are not so much interested in vending the necessaries of life as the luxuries. Thus, motor cars, victrolas, cameras, sports requisites, etc., attract them. They are not much suited to clerical work, but a good number find an outlet for their ambitions in the theatrical and literary world, while a few make good dentists, radiologists and medical practitioners. _VIRGO BORN_ (Aug. 22nd to Sept. 22nd).--These children are capable, but their great failing is that, once they find a fairly suitable post, they will not look for anything better. They prefer to hold on to a moderate certainty than to risk a little for a great success. Consequently, Virgo-born are found living on salaries just sufficient to keep them from want. They are eminently suited to clerical work of the higher types, such as in banks, insurance companies, stockbrokers' offices, etc. They make good company secretaries, excellent journalists, fairly good actors and actresses, and the girls do well as teachers. _LIBRA BORN_ (Sept. 23rd to October 23rd).--Children of this period do not mind hard work, but they hate monotony, especially if it is at all sordid. They have good judgment, a quality which fits them for such diverse occupations as medicine and the drama, the law and dressmaking. No special trades or professions can be singled out for them; but, as long as they are set to work in a direction which provides them with an outlet for a nicely balanced judgment and a capacity for what might be termed the detective instinct, they should succeed admirably. _SCORPIO BORN_ (Oct. 24th to Nov. 22nd).--There is an abundance of ambition in these children, and they seek position rather than money. Thus, the boys do well in the Navy and the Army, and, in a less degree, in the Air Force. The Church holds out good openings for many of them, and the Mercantile Marine interest not a few. Medicine attracts both boys and girls, and so does the stage. Anything to do with chemicals seems to influence many of the boys. Scorpio-born children are often heard to say that they want to make a name for themselves. _SAGITTARIAN BORN_ (Nov. 23rd to Dec. 21st).--Children of this period are fond of animals; thus they are suited to become veterinary surgeons, horse-dealers, farmers and even jockeys. One section of them, having excessive will power and plenty of self-reliance, makes a type of individual who seeks publicity in the political world. All are capable in business, especially in the executive branches. Not a few men become company promoters, chairmen and directors. The girls make excellent teachers and welfare workers. WHAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES? According to your Zodiac sign you have a disposition for certain hobbies. You may not necessarily have these hobbies but your inclinations lie towards them. _CAPRICORN BORN._--Gardening. Nature Study. Rambles in the countryside. Making things of almost any kind. Chemistry. Physics. _AQUARIAN BORN._--Aviation, ranging from actual flying to making aeroplane models. Gliding. Constructing all kinds of articles. Painting pictures. Drawing. Needlework. _PISCES BORN._--Traveling, especially by sea. Photography. Constructing and using wireless apparatus. Making electrical apparatus. Theater-going and amateur theatricals. Arts and crafts (girls). _ARIES BORN._--Traveling, touring. Anything connected with motor cars. Sight-seeing. Making things. Reading. Arts and crafts (girls). _TAURUS BORN._--Constructive hobbies, from wireless to the building of houses. Walking. Golf. Swimming. Collecting antiques. _GEMINI BORN._--Likely to be interested in inventions. Good at solving puzzles. Football. Tennis. Nature rambling. Girls have a bent for household duties, such as cooking, needlework, etc. _CANCER BORN._--Interested in the wonders of the world. Anxious to see things and people. Music. Reading. Collecting antiques. Almost any outdoor game. Girls are fond of needlework of the finer kinds. _LEO BORN._--Hobbies allied to the daily work. Intellectual reading, especially anything bearing on historical matters. Going about. Golf. Swimming. Making things of an artistic nature. _VIRGO BORN._--Indoor games. Making and repairing household articles. Good at manual activities, from playing the piano to constructing toys. Prefers to be amused indoors than out in the open. _LIBRA BORN._--Doing things to keep the home ship-shape. Football. Cricket. Photography. Reading. Wireless. Needlework and knitting (girls). _SCORPIO BORN._--Scientific recreations of all kinds. Keeping pets. Nature rambling. Girls take a keen interest in household duties. Card playing. Seeing people. Dabbling in mysterious matters, such as thought-reading, table-rapping, seances, etc. _SAGITTARIAN BORN._--Hobbies of an intellectual character. Walking. Outdoor sports. Boxing. Nature study. Keeping pets. Reading. WHAT IS YOUR LUCKY NUMBER? Once more from the rising sun of the East further marvelous theories have reached us through the paths of the ages. To many of our prosaic Western minds, maybe not unnaturally, these ideas will at first sight appear almost ridiculous. However, do not condemn numerical mysteries unheard, for no Manual of Fortunetelling would be complete should it not include a talk on this most arresting subject. Students of numbers, as do astrologers and students of palmistry, declare that there is no such thing as luck or chance in the world. They also state that we are strongly but not inevitably influenced by certain powerful laws of Nature. Number science is certainly unknown to the great majority of us, but there are some superstitions which are based on evil numbers; these superstitions we treat with great respect. Very few of us really care to sit down thirteen at table, while I have known a man go sad and smokeless rather than be the third to light his cigarette off one match! Fortunetelling by numbers is allied to astrology very closely indeed. Let us now take each day of the week individually and see what information we can get from it. You will find that very useful as a check upon your other forms of fortunetelling. ON WHAT DAY WERE YOU BORN? If, as I suggested, we take the days of the week we shall find that they in turn are influenced by the order in which they are found, or by the number which is theirs. For instance, Sunday being the first day, is influenced by No. 1, and Friday, being the sixth day takes No. 6 as its ruling number. According to the ancients each number has its corresponding planet; here is a little table showing the planet representing and ruling over each number. No. 0. Represented by Space. No. 1. Represented by The Sun. No. 2. Represented by The Moon No. 3. Represented by Mars. No. 4. Represented by Mercury. No. 5. Represented by Jupiter. No. 6. Represented by Venus. No. 7. Represented by Saturn. No. 8. Represented by Uranus. No. 9. Represented by Neptune. Taking each day of the week in order, we find the following characteristics. TABLE OF DAYS IN WEEK No. 1 (_Sunday_).--You will see by your table that this day takes the Sun for its ruler--Sun-day. It is a fortunate day; persons born on a Sunday have a brave and honest influence on them. They will be optimistic, but not foolishly so, while at the same time they have great pride in the reputation of themselves and their families. If they have any fault it is, maybe, that this pride is felt, a little too strongly; they may be inclined to take themselves rather too seriously. However, I repeat, this is an excellent day. No. 2 (_Monday_).--This day is the Moon-day. The lesson for Monday men to learn is steadiness. They are too easily influenced and are blown hither and thither upon life's winds. They adapt themselves well to change of place, circumstances, scene, and frequently follow the sea. They have plenty of imagination in their natures, and should cultivate common sense. No. 3 (_Tuesday_).--The day of Mars (French--Mardi). Frequently the engineers of the world. An ambitious go-ahead day is Tuesday. These Tuesday folk are the explorers, the men who emigrate, and the earnest patriots of life. Soldiers, workers at the furnace among other workers, are found among those born on Tuesday. Their womenfolk are inclined to be rather shrewish and domineering. They are not naturally good managers, and should cultivate this quality because they are always rare workers. No. 4 (_Wednesday_).--The table tells us that these are the Mercurians. The men are quick at calculating figures, and always capable and thoughtful workers. Mercury, as its name implies, gives quickness, with business trading capacity. The women appear not to be so favorably influenced, they must guard against grumbling and gossip; then they may do well enough. No. 5 (_Thursday_).--Under the planet of Jupiter, these Thursday people have many good qualities. They are liberal and good natured, but have one vice--the outcome of their virtue. They are inclined to be too liberal with themselves, which is extravagance. Given an idea they can turn it to good account, but do not, as a rule, originate ideas. Statesmen are here found; let these Jupiterians beware of a love of display and what is commonly known as side. Then they are very excellent people indeed. No. 6 (_Friday_).--Look at the table--see Venus is the planet of Friday. This accounts for many things. Here we see the typical Venus type. Gay, light-hearted, with no thought of the morrow, they flit happily through life like a gilded butterfly upon the wing. If they lack taste they over-dress. Their good qualities are their charming personalities, pleasing manners, and a quick command of music and art. They should beware of being only butterflies, and should cultivate strength of character. They should also obtain by hook or by crook a liking for hard work; it will serve them in good stead. No. 7 (_Saturday_).--Saturday, as its name tells us, has sad Saturn for its planet. Here we have the exact opposite to the persons mentioned who were born on a Friday. Saturday people miss half the joy of living by their cold and calculating natures. Careful with money, they are patient workers, they must beware of being miserly, and should certainly cultivate their missing sense of humor. The good qualities in these people are their sincerely earnest outlook and their capacity for an almost endless grind of hard work. Their womenfolk frequently make old maids and should practice sweet temper and a kindly feeling towards the rest of the household. YOUR OWN NUMBER But there is much more in the science of numbers than that which can be gleaned from the days of the week. There is your own personal number, the number which influences you and your actions more than any other. If you know your number, think how you can use it for good and avoid others for ill! The finding of your number is a simple matter when you have mastered the elements of numerology, which is the science of numbers. Let us explain how your own number is found. First, write down your birth-date, the day of the month, the month itself and the year. Thus, three items are required. Take first the day of the month. If it consists of one figure, leave it. If it consists of two, add them together, and, if the answer comes to two figures, add them together. All this may appear a little involved, but it is not, as one or two examples will show. Suppose you were born on the 9th of the month, then 9 is the number you want. But, suppose it was the 16th, then six and one make seven. Therefore 7 is the required number. Again, if you were born on the 29th, then nine and two make eleven, but as eleven consists of two figures, you must add them together, and they make 2. So much for the day of the month, now for the month itself. January stands for one, February for 2, and so on, to December for 12. The numbers of the months from January to September can stand as they are, but October November and December, being 10, 11 and 12, must be added up, as already described. Thus October is one, November is two and December three. Thirdly, the number of the year must be considered. Say you were born in 1910. These figures add up to eleven, and eleven, being double figures, adds up to 2. Therefore 1910 is equivalent to 2. Work out your figures here. You have now obtained three separate figures, add them together and if they come to a one-figure number, that is the number which you require. On the other hand, if it is a double-figured amount, add the two figures as before, until you arrive at a single-figured amount. Then that is the number you require. So as to make the whole thing perfectly clear, we will take a complete example and work it out, exactly as you must work out your own birth-date. _Example._--12th September, 1913. 12 = 1 + 2 = 3 September is the 9th month = 9 1913 = 1 + 9 + 1 + 3 = 14 = 1 + 4 = 5 3 + 9 + 5 = 17 = 1 + 7 = 8 Therefore, the personal number of anyone born on 12th September, 1913, is 8. Eight should guide and influence all his or her actions. We are not going to pretend that benefits will accrue on every occasion that the personal number is observed, but we are going to say that we have noted some marvelous pieces of good fortune when it has. When you have found your personal number, there are several ways in which you can use it. Suppose your number is the one just found, eight; then you can conclude that the eighth day of any month will be a propitious one for you. But that is not the only one. The 17th is equally good, because one plus seven gives eight. Moreover, the 26th is in a similar position. Two and six make eight. Yet another way to use your personal number arises when you want to know whether some important step should be taken on a definite day. What is the particular day? Add up its numerological values, exactly as you did with your birthday, and if it resolves itself into the same number as your personal number, you may go ahead with cheerfulness. Put forth your best effort, and, on the day, you will have ample chances of success. THE NUMBER OF YOUR NAME Numerology permits of still another step. Take your own name and see what number it is equal to. You will be able to do this in the following way: A stands for one, B for two, C for three, and so on. When you reach I, which is 9, commence again and give J the value of one, then continue. To make all this clear, we will set out the values of the complete alphabet: 1 = A J S 2 = B K T 3 = C L U 4 = D M V 5 = E N W 6 = F O X 7 = G P Y 8 = H Q Z 9 = I R -- Thus, suppose your name is Joan Shirley, the letters resolve themselves into the following numbers:-- J O A N S H I R L E Y 1 + 6 + 1 + 5 + 1 + 8 + 9 + 9 + 3 + 5 + 7 = 55 55 = 5 + 5 = 10 = 1 + 0 = 1 From all that we have said, it will be clear that the birthdate may be used for finding the personal number, or the letters of the name may be used. On rare occasions, the two ways will provide the same number. When this is the case, great faith should be placed in that number. But, when the two ways give different numbers, what? Does one disprove the other? No. You simply have two numbers favorable to you. The birthdate number is the more definite and reliable because your very existence is based on it. A word at the end. Married ladies must use their maiden name for finding the name number. DO YOU KNOW THAT _Odd Numbers_ have always been credited with mystic powers capable of influencing the destinies of people; and a curious survival of the idea is to be found in the fact that countrywomen, without knowing why, put an odd number of eggs under their hens in the belief that otherwise no chickens will be hatched? In addition, we have noticed that books of sweepstake tickets generally have the odd-numbered tickets withdrawn from them before the even-numbered ones. _Number Three._--This number comes in for a considerable share of popularity, even from mythological times, when there were the three fates and the three graces. Shakespeare introduced three witches in "Macbeth." In nursery rhymes, we have the three blind mice. In public-house signs, we frequently come across the numeral "three," and, of course, pawnbrokers have three brass balls. _Number Seven._--Seven is deemed extremely lucky, it being the perfect or mystic number which runs the entire scheme of the Universe in matters physical and spiritual. Man's life is popularly divided into seven ages: the product of seven and nine--sixty-three--was regarded as the grand climacteric, and the age was considered as a most important stage of life. The seventh son of a seventh son, according to Highland belief, possesses the gift of second sight, and the power of healing the sick. Many people believe that a cycle of seven years of misfortune is likely to be succeeded by another of prosperity. _Number Nine_ is credited with mystic properties, good and bad. A piece of wool with nine knots tied in it is a well-known charm for a sprained ankle. The cat o'nine tails is a form of punishment not to be taken lightly. _Number Thirteen._--Of this number, everybody can supply instances when it has brought bad luck. But it may be cheering to mention that, in certain parts of the world, thirteen is regarded in quite a favorable light. Whether it is good or bad is a matter for each individual to decide. YOUR LUCKY COLOR The old saying, "green for grief," is a well-known one, and the writer would rather wear any color on earth than green, not even a green scarf or belt. Moreover, she sees to it that the other members of the family do not indulge in the unlucky color. But mind you, green only brings her ill-fortune when used for wearing apparel. There is no objection, of course, to a green front-door nor to wallpaper of the same color. For such uses, green plays its part harmlessly enough. Though green dresses are more distressing to the writer than a red rag to a bull, she is quite prepared to admit that many people find it a very lucky color. This brings us to the point. There is no color that is universally unlucky; it is only so in the hands of certain individuals. With others, it may be an absolute harbinger of all that is lucky. Even green may do this. Now the question is, "Which is your lucky color?" If you know it, well and good. Make use of it in every possible way. When wearing dresses made of it, you will feel more confident of yourself than when arrayed in something else. You will get more work done, and it will be better work. The only thing is that you must be sure that it is your lucky color. If you are not quite sure, the tonic effect is absolutely lost. Not only should you wear your fortunate color, but it is a good plan to surround yourself with it. We know a woman who pins her faith to purple. Her dresses are mostly purple; the wallpaper in her bedroom is purple; purple casement curtains adorn the windows; there are purple rugs in various parts of the house; even the back of the hair-brush on her dressing table is purple. And, since she decided that purple was her lucky color and used it in every reasonable way, she has had several strokes of marvelous good fortune. But, of course, you may say in reply to all this that you do not know your lucky color. What then? This is where we can give you a little help. Most people's lucky color depends on the time of their birth and the following list sets out the birth colors. We know full well that everybody does not derive good fortune from his birth color, but that they find it in some other hue. Therefore, the proper course is to make trials with the appropriate color listed below and, if that does not answer satisfactorily, to choose another of your own liking and try that. Only by personal experiment can you finally decide the point. These are the birth-colors. The first given for any period is the one almost universally accepted. Those following after the first are, however, favored by a certain number of people. Birth Date Colors Dec. 22nd to Jan. 20th Emerald Green Sapphire Blue Black Jan. 21st to Feb. 19th Various Blues Dark Green Feb. 20th to March 20th Purple White Silver March 21st to April 19th Rose Red April 20th to May 20th Turquoise Blue Other shades of Blue May 21st to June 21st Light shades of Yellow Orange Gold June 22nd to July 22nd Mauve White Silver July 23rd to August 21st Gold Brown Yellow Aug. 22nd to Sept. 22nd Yellow Orange Light Blue Sept. 23rd to Oct. 23rd Rose Pink Yellow Oct. 24th to Nov. 22nd Dark Green Red Brown Nov. 23rd to Dec. 21st Purple Blue _COLORS_, of course, have certain values attached to them: White is a symbol of purity. Red is typical of fire, blood and anger. Orange stands for marriage. Green recalls spring and suggests youth and hope. Purple means royalty and everything regal. Yellow is associated with great success. Black is a symbol of sadness and mourning. WHICH IS YOUR LUCKY STONE? Ever since time began, it has been a common belief that people derived luck and good fortune by wearing precious stones. A stone, however, that brought luck to one person might be ineffective when worn by someone else. Thus everybody is required to find out which stone he or she must wear in order to enjoy the utmost good fortune. As a rule, the stone which any particular person must choose is decided by the month in which that individual was born. But this it not invariably the case. Many people have noticed that luck has come to them when they have been wearing some other stone than that decreed by their birth-month. And, of course, the opposite has often happened. History records a well-known case in point. The Hope diamond, for instance, wrecked the lives of several royal personages, even including some that were born in April; while an opal, possessed by members of the Spanish royal family, brought disaster to many people, one after the other, although certain of them were born in October. Clearly, then, the proper thing is for all of us to choose our lucky stone according to our own preferences; but failing any definite preference to select it according to the month of our birth. STONES OF THE MONTHS Twelve verses of poetry have been written which set down in rhyme the stones for all the months of the year. Here they are:-- JANUARY By her, who in this month was born, No gem save _Garnets_ should be worn. They will ensure her constancy, True friendship and fidelity. FEBRUARY The February born shall find Sincerity and peace of mind, Freedom from passion and from care, If they the _Amethyst_ will wear. MARCH Who in this world of ours, their eyes In March first open, shall be wise, In days of peril, strong and brave, And wear a _Bloodstone_ to their grave. APRIL Those who from April date their years, Should _Diamonds_ wear lest bitter tears For vain repentance flow: this stone, Emblem of innocence is known. MAY Who first beholds the light of day, In spring's sweet, flowery month of May, And wears an _Emerald_ all her life, Shall be a loved and loving wife. JUNE Who comes in summer to this earth And owes to June her time of birth, With ring of _Agate_ on her hand Can health, wealth and lengthy life command. JULY The glowing _Ruby_ shall adorn Those who in warm July are born. Then will they be exempt and free From all life's doubts and anxiety. AUGUST Wear a _Sardonyx_ or for thee No conjugal felicity. The August born without this stone, 'Tis said, must live unloved alone. SEPTEMBER Children born when autumn leaves Are rustling in the September breeze, A _Sapphire_ on their brow should bind. 'Twill cure diseases of the mind. OCTOBER October's child is born for woe, And life's vicissitudes must know. But lay an _Opal_ on her breast And hope will lull those woes to rest. NOVEMBER Who comes to this world here below, With drear November's fog and snow, Should prize the _Topaz's_ amber hue, Emblem of friends and lovers true. DECEMBER If cold December gave you birth, The month of snow and ice and mirth, Place on your hand a _Turquoise_ blue, Success will crown whate'er you do. AN ABC OF PRECIOUS STONES _AGATE._--A stone, showing irregular bands of browns and yellows, which is often known as onyx, cornelian, etc. It is supposed to have special powers in making and binding friendships, Also, it insures long life, health and prosperity for those born in June. _AMBER._--A brownish material, resembling stone, which is derived from fossilized pine trees. It provides health and happiness when worn round the neck by people born in August. _AMETHYST._--A form of quartz, showing a range of color-shades from purple to lilac. Originally it was worn by the Greeks as a preventive of drunkenness, and, then, as a cure for all excesses of passion. Later, it became the stone associated with St. Valentine. This immediately constituted it the particular charm for lovers. It is the February birthstone. _AQUAMARINE._--A bluish-green form of the beryl or topaz. As the name implies, sea-water, it has long been a mascot for sailors and for those setting out on a long sea journey. It stands for faithfulness: thus it is an appropriate stone for a bridegroom to give to his wife, as a wedding gift. _BERYL._--A pale green stone which is sometimes found with a yellowish tinge. The latter is known as the gold beryl. It is avoided by many people as it stands for doubt, uncertainty and qualities of a wavering nature. _BLOODSTONE._--A stone found with many different colorings and markings. A frequent variety has a greenish surface, sprinkled with patches of vivid red: whilst a totally different variety shows a mottling of red and brown, with streaks of green. The red markings suggested the name of "bloodstone," and the blood became a symbol of bravery, strength and the powers of fighting. Thus, it is a stone to be worn by a man, rather than a lady. In olden days, the women gave bloodstones to their menfolk before going into battle. _CARBUNCLE._--Garnets, when given a round or oval shape, with the surface domed and not cut into facets, are so called. _CHRYSOLITE._--A form of beryl, generally found in colors ranging from olive-green to amber-orange. It is a stone for the September-born and is supposed to banish evil passions and sadness of mind. _CORAL._--A reddish stone, formed by a microscopic animal living in sea water. It is used chiefly for beads. Children wearing such beads are said to be preserved from dangers, whilst married women are ensured a life of happiness. Its powers are chiefly applied to those born in November. _DIAMOND._--A pure form of carbon, water-white in color. The largest known diamond was given to Edward VII, by the Transvaal government in 1907. It weighs one and three-quarter pounds, and is known as the Cullinan diamond. This precious stone is considered to be a symbol of strength and virtue. In olden days, the leaders wore it when going into battle to safeguard their courage. It should be worn on the left side and is the month stone of April. _EMERALD._--This is a delightful variety of green beryl. It has, normally, a brilliant appearance, which is supposed to dwindle should either the giver or the receiver become unfaithful to the other. It stands as a symbol for kindness and true love. It is the month-stone of May. _GARNET._--A ruby-colored stone in the usual form, but there are brown, yellow, green and black varieties. It stands for constancy and fidelity and is the month-stone of January. _JADE._--A very hard stone, usually a rich green, but there are white and other varieties. The Chinese considered that those who wore it would be assured a long and contented life. _JASPER._--An ornamental form of quartz, varying from a reddish-brown to a brownish-black, usually streaked with other colors. It is particularly hard, and this makes it a symbol of firmness and endurance. _LAPIS LAZULI._--This heavenly blue stone is worn as a sign of truth and honesty. The ancients considered that it would charm away certain diseases. _MOONSTONE._--Sometimes called the water opal, this whitish stone reflects a bluish tinge. It is supposed to safeguard those who travel to distant parts, especially if the journey is mostly by sea. _OLIVINE._--A green form of chrysolite, which see. _ONYX._--A form of agate in which the bandings of color are milk-white, alternating with another hue. White and red bands produce the stone known as the cornelian onyx: white and flesh colored bands, chalcedonyx: and white and green bands, sardonyx. The latter is the month-stone of August and stands for conjugal felicity. _OPAL._--A semi-transparent stone, the most usual varieties being whitish in color, but flashing various hues as the angle is changed. The opal has been connected with more legends than, probably, any other stone. To some it is a harbinger of bad luck, but most people agree that it is a stone that brings good fortune to the wearer. It is the month-stone of October. Then it denotes hope, it sharpens the sight and the faith of the possessor. It is supposed to lose its flashing qualities when worn by the unfaithful. _PEARL._--A pearl is a symbol of purity and perfection, and, when given to a lady, is said to inspire her love. _PERIDOT._--A form of olivine or chrysolite. See "Chrysolite." _PORPHYRY._--A stone which usually shows light red or white spots on a background of deep red. There are green varieties, however. This stone, when given to a lady, is a tribute to her beauty. _RUBY._--A stone of deep, clear carmine color, when at its best. It is the month-stone of July, and is supposed to correct evils resulting from mistaken friendships. _SAPPHIRE._--A beautiful blue stone which is reserved for those born in September. It is usually supposed to bring good fortune to those in love, but some people hold that it is a symbol of repentance. _SARDONYX._--See "Onyx." _TOPAZ._--A glassy stone, red, blue, yellow or green in color; but amber is the most usual. It is the stone for those born in November, and denotes fidelity and friendship. _TURQUOISE._--A waxy bluish-green stone. It belongs to those born in December and stands for prosperity in love. _ZIRCON._--It is a stone of lustrous grey-black color. It is a symbol of sympathy. DREAMS--WHAT THEY MEAN A _ABROAD._--(Dreamer going or gone) An early journey. _ACCIDENT._--(being the victim of one) Business deal impending requires great caution. _ACCIDENT._--(to a friend or relative) A letter from him or her conveying good news. _ANCHOR._--A voyage across the sea: (in water) a disappointment: (if a girl dreams) a sailor will fall in love with her. _ANGER._--To dream of being angry with anyone means that that person is a true friend. _ANIMALS._--As a rule, luck; (domestic animals) speedy return of absent friends, family reconciliation: (wild animals) secret enemies. _APPLES._--Long life: (to a woman) many years and many children. _ARROW._--A letter has been written which will cause regret. _AXE._--A way will present itself soon to attain a much desired end. B _BALL._--(Game) Money coming soon. (Rolling ball) an unexpected gift of money which will be soon spent. _BALLROOM._--(Dancing with a dear friend) Marriage to him or her. _BANANAS._--A piece of good luck coming. _BAND._--(Musical) A lucky speculation or business deal. _BAREFOOT._--A successful speculation or bargain. _BARREL._--(Full) Money coming quickly. _BATH._--Health and long life: (if dreamer is a young girl) early marriage to present lover. _BATTLE._--(By girl) Will shortly fall in love; (by a soldier) promotion. _BEAR._--(Chasing the dreamer) Victory of an enemy: (bear running from dreamer) victory over an enemy. _BEES._--Steady pursuit of object in view will bring success. _BEGGARS._--To dream of beggars is a fortunate sign to lovers and business people. _BLIND._--To dream of being blind is a very lucky sign; to see a blind person is a warning of danger. _BLOOD._--To see blood means great riches, an inheritance. _BOAT._--The arrival of a dear friend. _BOUQUET._--To receive one means much pleasure; to give one, constancy of a lover or friend. _BRACELET._--Good luck and fortune coming. _BROTHER._--Seeing dead brothers or sisters in a dream is a sign of long life. _BULLDOG._--A good omen in love or business. _BURIAL._--To dream of being buried means that wealth is coming--"as much wealth as earth laid over you." _BURNING._--(Houses, etc.) Riches and prosperity. _BUYING._--Happiness and contentment, a legacy. C _CAGE._--(Birds in) Early fortunate marriage; (empty) friends or lovers will go away. _CAKES._--To dream of any kind of cakes is a good omen. _CANARY._--(Singing) Marriage and a charming house. _CARDS._--(Playing at) Speedy marriage. _CATHEDRAL._--Prosperity and fortune. _CEMETERY._--An omen of prosperity. _CHAIR._--An increase in the family. _CHERRIES._--Good news, pleasure and enjoyment. _CHILDREN._--Lucky omen: increase in wealth. _CHIMNEY._--Good luck, the higher the better. _CHRISTENING._--Good fortune approaching. _COCK CROWING._--Great prosperity. _COINS._--(Copper) Good fortune; (silver) worry; (gold) commercial troubles. _COLD._--Friends will be kind to you. _CORNFIELD._--Health, wealth and pleasant times. _COWS._--Prosperity, the more the better. D _DAFFODILS._--Pleasure and amusement in abundance. _DAGGER._--A friend will confer a favor. _DEAD._--To dream of oneself as dead is a good and auspicious sign of long life and success. _DEATH OF A FRIEND._--Arrival of good news. _DIGGING._--Good luck with perseverance. _DOCKS._--Good news from abroad. _DOG._--As a rule, a favorable sign; (Dog barking) somebody is trying to do you an ill turn; (Dogs fighting) serious quarrel between two friends of the dreamer. _DONKEY._--Lucky omen, usually a legacy. _DOVES._--Success, especially to lovers. To the married, they denote a pleasure in store. _DROWNING._--(Either the dreamer or another person.) Success, joy, prosperity. _DUCKS._--Increased prosperity and happiness. E _EAGLE._--Success in a new place. _EARS._--A pleasant letter from a friend. _EATING._--(Dreamer eating) ill luck; (seeing others eat) good luck. _ECHO._--Sickness either of dreamer or relations. _EGGS._--Good luck, money, success; (eggs broken) failure and loss. _ELM TREE._--A good turn offered by a male relative. _ELOPEMENT._--Sign of a speedy marriage. _EMERALD._--A sign of good luck and happiness. _EMPTINESS._--Always a bad sign in a dream. _ENGAGEMENT._--(To dream of being engaged to a handsome person) Great pleasure in store; (to a plain person) worry and trouble. _EYES._--In general a sign of good luck, and the prettier the eyes the better. To dream of someone with a defect of the eyes signifies minor misfortunes. F _FACES._--(Smiling) Happy times with friends; (pale and gloomy) trouble and poverty; (changing faces) a removal; (washing own face) repentance for sin; (own face in glass) long-cherished secret plan will fail. _FAIRY._--All dreams of fairies are good omens--success and riches. _FALLING._--Indicates some misfortune. _FAN._--Quarrels, a rival in love. _FARMYARD._--Good fortune coming; comfort and happiness. _FEATHERS._--(White) Success and riches; (black) loss and failure. _FENCE._--(Climbing) A sudden rise in life. _FIELDS._--(Green) Prosperity, a happy marriage, handsome children; (clover, barley, wheat, etc.) great prosperity and happiness. _FIGS._--A good dream, joy and pleasure; (if a woman dreams) happy marriage and many children. _FLEET._--(At sea) Realization of cherished hopes. _FLOATING._--To dream of floating on water is a good and lucky sign. _FLOODS._--Success after triumphing over difficulties. _FLOUR._--Death of a relative bringing a legacy. _FLOWERS._--Prosperity. _FLY._--(Swarm of flies) Rivals and jealous persons are spreading scandal. _FLYING._--(Without wings) Success in love and business; (if ended by a fall) failure in attaining object; (with wings) bad omen--frustrated ambition. _FOG._--Bad dream--business losses. _FOREIGN._--(Country) Success and prosperity at home. _FOREST._--Trouble and losses through rivals. _FORK._--A warning of imminent danger. _FOUNTAIN._--(Playing) Good luck, happy times and laughter. _FOX._--Trouble through secret enemy; (killing one) good luck. _FRIENDS._--(Absence of) Speedy return; (death of) good news; (illness) bad news; (in good health) their prosperity. _FROGS._--Beware of flatterers and pessimists. _FROST._--Success through aid of friends. _FRUIT._--Usually a good dream, according to kind of fruit; (dreamer eating or throwing away fruit) bad sign. _FUNERAL._--A legacy or a rich marriage. G _GAS._--Minor discomforts and annoyances. _GATE._--An obstacle to success will suddenly disappear. _GEESE._--Happiness, success; (to hear geese cackling) a profitable business deal will be quickly concluded. _GEMS._--Usually an unfortunate omen. _GHOSTS._--To dream of ghosts is invariably the presage of misfortune. _GIANT._--Good fortune, success in business or love. _GIFTS._--(Receiving) Good fortune coming. _GYPSIES._--A profitless voyage to many strange countries. _GLASS._--To dream of anything made of glass refers to women; (receiving glass of water) birth in the family. _GLOVES._--Usually bad luck; (gloves on hands) honor and safety; (losing gloves) loss in business. _GOAT._--Bad luck, some misfortune, especially unlucky to sailors; (white goat) a profitable venture; (many goats) an inheritance. _GOD._--A good dream--health and happiness. _GOLD._--Omen of loss and bad luck: (dreamer finding gold) a sign that he will be robbed; (dreamer paying out gold) a sign that he will increase the number of his friends. _GOOSEBERRIES._--Time and trouble spent only for the benefit of others. H _HAIR._--Riches and fine clothes; (hair falling over face) a coming event will cause displeasure; (having hair cut) losses in business; (becoming bald) great danger. _HAMMER._--Triumph over difficulties. _HAMMOCK._--Loss of something that is prized. _HAPPINESS._--A presage of doubt and difficulty. _HARE._--(Alive) Friendship: (dead) good luck: (hare running) a lengthy journey. _HARVEST._--Hopes will not come to fruition. _HAT._--(New) A small success: (blown off or damaged) losses. _HATCHET._--A solution near to existing difficulties. _HAWK._--A happy omen--success in life. _HAY._--Good luck: (dreamer cutting hay) troubles and sorrow. _HAZEL NUT._--(Eating) Troubles and discord. _HEAD._--Good omen--health and money. _HORSESHOE._--(Seeing one) A journey: (finding one) great good lock. _HOSPITAL._--Misery, poverty, wounds. _HOUSE._--Good luck: (dreamer building house) unlucky dream, signifying loss and sickness. _HUNCHBACK._--A troubled life, with many ups and downs. _HUNGER._--To dream of being hungry is a fortunate omen, foretelling that the dreamer, by industry and enterprise, will grow rich. _HUNTING._--(Dreamer returning from a hunt) A fortunate dream: (dreamer going hunting) frustrated hopes and disappointment. _HUSBAND._--For a woman to dream of her husband is not a very favorable dream, usually foretelling discord and deceit: for an unmarried girl to dream that she has a husband is a very bad omen. _HYMNS._--Singing hymns in a dream foretells sickness to the dreamer: (hearing hymns sung) consolation in troubles. I _IRON._--A profitable bargain: (red-hot) sorrows: (burnt with same) dreamer will receive some personal injury. _ISLAND._--For a woman to dream of an island forebodes desertion by husband or lover. _ITCH._--A sign of good luck. _IVORY._--To dream of anything made of ivory is a sign that the dreamer will suffer from fraud and deception. _IVY._--True friends will present themselves. J _JEWELS._--To dream of jewelry of any kind is always a bad sign; love troubles or business dangers. _JOCKEY._--(On horseback) A successful speculation or bet. _JOLLITY._--To dream of jollity and fun by night is good for those about to marry: to the poor a sign of good: to the rich a sign of trouble and loss. See "Merry." _JOURNEY._--(Making one) Peace and contentment at home. _JUDGE._--A bad dream: beware of slander and malice. _JUG._--(Drinking from one) Robust health and wholesome pleasures. _JUMP._--To dream of jumping is unpropitious, foretelling obstacles that prevent fulfillment of a desire. K _KANGAROO._--A secret and powerful enemy or rival. _KENNEL._--An invitation to visit a male friend. _KETTLE._--(Black) An ill omen, death: (copper) lucky dream. _KEY._--Receipt of money: (for young people) a good and handsome partner in life: (holding a key) settlement of business perplexities: (lost key) anger, worry, want. _KILL._--(Dreamer killing a man) Assured happiness: (dreamer being killed) loss to the dream-adversary. _KING._--(Seeing oneself as a King) Warning to beware of flatterers and of self-conceit. _KISS._--Beware of treachery and deceit: (kissing hand of somebody) friendship and good fortune: (kissing a stranger's hand) a journey. _KITCHEN._--Success, advancement in life. L _LAMP._--(Lit) Trouble, not serious. _LANTERN._--Success: (to see light extinguished or darkened) sadness, sickness, poverty. _LARK._--Good luck: improvement in finances. _LAUGHTER._--Presages difficult circumstances. _LAVENDER._--(To smell or to see it growing) Good luck. _LAWN._--(Looking at) Good health and prosperity: (running on) worry and annoyance. _LAWYER._--Trouble, quarrels, expenses, losses. _LEAD._--An inheritance or legacy from beloved friend. _LEAF._--(To dream of being covered with leaves) Difficulties will prove to be only temporary: (faded leaves) disappointed hopes. M _MAGPIE._--A bad sign; back-biting and scandal by a false friend. _MAN._--For a young girl to dream about a man is a warning against gossip and gossipers. _MANURE._--Financial gain: good crops. _MAP._--News or visit from a friend abroad. _MARBLE._--An inheritance. _MARRIAGE._--To dream that one marries is a bad, unhappy sign. _MASS._--(Attending Mass) Happiness and health. _MAST._--To dream of tall, towering masts is a sign of prosperity. _MATCHES._--An increase in wealth. _MAYOR._--An elevation to place of dignity and respect. _MEADOW._--A lucky bargain, comfort, and prosperity. _MELANCHOLY._--A presage of mirth and happiness. _MENAGERIE._--Enemies will fail to injure: friends will be true. _MENDING._--(Clothes, etc.) Unhappiness, submission to others. _MERMAID._--Bad luck and misfortune, especially to sailors and those who live by the sea. _MERRY._--(Being) A presage of sadness and gloom. _MESSAGE._--(Receiving one) An advance in life. _MIDWIFE._--An increase in the family. _MILK._--A sign of peaceful circumstances; often means an increase in family: (spilling) loss in business. _MINCE PIES._--(Making) Good luck, a valuable present; (eating) good news. _MINT._--An improvement in health. _MIRROR._--(Married folk dreaming) Children: (young people) sweethearts: (seeing own face) failure of cherished project. N _NEEDLE._--Love or family quarrels: (unable to thread needle) baseless suspicions causing trouble. _NEGRO._--Unlucky: a warning of trouble. _NEST._--A good omen: fortunate love: happy family life. _NETTLES._--(Stung by them) Sign that the dreamer will make a bold effort to reach a desired end or gain a desired object; for young people to dream thus is a sign that they are in love and wishful to enter the unknown and, possibly, unhappy state of matrimony. _NEWSPAPERS._--(Reading them) A presage of news from a foreign country. _NIGHT._--To dream of night presages sadness and gloom. _NIGHTINGALE._--(Hearing nightingales sing) Joyfulness, success in business, good crops, a happy marriage to a good and faithful mate: (for a married woman to dream) she will have children who will become great singers. _NIGHTMARE._--To dream of having a nightmare is a sign that the dreamer will be immediately married, and (if a man) his wife will turn out a shrew. _NINE._--To see objects or persons to the number of nine intensifies or multiplies the effect, nine being the superlative of superlatives. _NOISE._--Hearing loud, discordant noises, particularly if their source is not apparent, is a bad omen. P _PEARLS._--Weeping and tears, hard times, worry, and treason. _PEARS._--(Gathering them) Pleasant companionship and enjoyment: (eating them) sickness and possibly death. _PEAS._--(Seeing them growing) Fortunate enterprises: (cooked) good and speedy success and enjoyment of well-gained riches. _PEBBLES._--Sorrows and troubles: (young woman dreams) she will be made unhappy by attractive rivals. _PEDDLER._--Beware of false friends. _PEN._--Avoid a friend whose example and advice are bad. _PERFUME._--An augury of success and happiness. _PERSPIRATION._--To dream of being bathed in perspiration foretells the inception of some arduous task which will be successfully achieved. _PETTICOAT._--A bad dream portending troubles caused by frivolity, to a man: and to a woman vexations through vanity and pride. _PIANO._--(Playing or seeing another play) The death of relations, funeral obsequies. _PIG._--Good luck, reasonable success in affairs. _PICTURE._--To dream of painting pictures denotes that you will engage in some unremunerative, albeit not unpleasant, enterprise. _PIGEON._--Domestic peace and comfort, success in exterior affairs. Wild pigeons signify dissolute women: tame pigeons, honest women and wives. _PINE-TREE._--Continual happiness and vigorous old age. _PINS._--Differences and quarrels in families. _PIT._--(Falling in) Disappointment in love, misfortunes, danger: (being in, but climbing out) a difficulty overcome. _PLOUGH._--A good omen in love, courtship and marriage, though the good may be rather slow in coming. R _RABBIT._--(White) Success: (black) worry. _RACE._--To see oneself winning a race is a good omen, except to sick persons. _RACES._--Bad luck: losses by trickery and swindling of low persons. _RAGS._--(Being dressed in) Success and prosperity after much striving. _RAILWAY._--A journey: (accident) a break in friendship. _RAIN._--A lucky omen: an inheritance, prosperity, good crops: (heavy storm) troubles and difficulties. _RAINBOW._--Change of residence or manner of life: (if seen on the right hand) a change for the better: (if on the left) an "Irishman's rise." _RAT._--Treachery from inferiors: (white rat) good fortune. _RAVEN._--Bad luck to the business man, disappointment to the lover, separation to the married. _RAZOR._--An unhappy portent: love quarrels. S _SNAKE, SERPENT._--Bad luck, sickness, short life. _SNOW._--Success, money, plentiful harvest: (eating snow) the dreamer will soon undertake a difficult journey: (lost in snow) hostilities of enemies. _SOAP._--A way out of pressing difficulties will present itself. _SOWING._--An indication of doubtful enterprises. _SPADE._--To dream of using a spade is a sign that the dreamer will commit indiscretions which he will endeavor to hide. _SPARROW._--Troubles: (many) an early journey: (sparrow struggling to escape) a foreboding of mischief. _SPECTACLES._--Be on guard against persons trying to deceive. _SPECTRE._--An omen of misfortune and disaster. _SPIDER._--Good luck, successful schemes: (killing one) a very bad omen. _SPINNING._--Worry and trouble in which strangers are mixed. _STABLE._--Prepare for the visit of a true friend. _STAIN._--(To dream of rubbing out stains which reappear) Retribution and punishment for sin. T _TABLE._--(Sitting at) A sign of comfort and prosperity, a happy marriage. _TEA._--Trouble that will cause sleeplessness and bad health. _TEAR._--To dream of tearing paper while reading is a sign that business perplexities will be smoothed away. _TEARS._--A presage of great joy and merriment. _TEETH._--In a dream teeth denote relatives, the two front teeth representing children, brothers or sisters, and others are distant relations. Losing a tooth is a sign of death of a relative: the loss of all in any way means that the dreamer will outlive all his family. _THIEVES._--A warning against gossipers and tattlers. _THIMBLE._--The loss of employment. _THREAD._--Beware of intrigues: (breaking) poverty: (entangling the thread of a spool or skein) difficulties, perplexities, business troubles. W _WALK._--(Alone and slowly) A sign of poverty and sadness: (fast) success in a desired object: (through fire) danger: (on water or on the sea) bad luck: (with somebody else) enjoyment of comfort and companionship: (girl to walk with her lover) a comfortable and happy marriage. _WALL._--Many obstacles in realizing a future plan: (climbing over or destroying) obstacles successfully surmounted: (jumping over) joy and happiness. _WASH._--(Body) Release from anxieties: (clothes) a presage of hard and unrequited toil for others. _WASPS._--Vexation and troubles caused by envious persons. _WATCH._--Gains, money, prosperity. _WATER._--(Clear) Comfort and happiness: (dirty) sorrow and trouble: (stagnant) severe illness, probably ending with death: (very cold) beware of enemies: (hot) illness: (seeing in improbable places or circumstances) trouble and danger: (dried up or disturbed) an improvement in affairs: (gushing up from below) a sign of unsuspected enemies: (carrying it in a sieve or other unlikely receptacle without spilling) much domestic trouble, disappointment, great losses: (another person doing so) good luck to the dreamer or to that person, or good luck to the dreamer in connection with that person: (drinking clear water) a lucky sign, comfort and satisfaction. TEACUP FORTUNETELLING (In the following pages, you may learn something of the meanings attached to the tea leaves which remain among the dregs in the bottom of your teacup.) HOW TO TEST YOUR FORTUNES Leave a slight amount of tea in the cup, not so much as a spoonful. Place the saucer on the cup, swill the cup round, males do this so that the liquid moves round in a clockwise direction, females in an anti-clockwise direction. The tea is then run out of the cup, the saucer lifted off and the shapes or formations are ready to be examined. [Illustration: No. 17.--Birds seen in tea leaves generally denote an end of your troubles.] WHAT THE FORMATIONS MEAN _ANCHOR._--Denotes a voyage full of hope. It is considered a splendid omen for a sailor's bride. _ARCH._--You are to undertake a journey in the near future. It is sometimes a happy omen for a woman, signifying that she will marry a tall, handsome man and be blessed with healthy children. _AXE._--Denotes that your difficulties have now been overcome by your own splendid endeavors. You have severed the old bad habits and made a clean cut at your past blunders. _BALLOON._--Although it denotes a certain rise in the consultant's fortunes, it carries the warning to beware of a sudden fall. _BANANA._--Signifies to the sick, quick restoration to health. _BASKET._--Implies that a person, by changing his or her mind within the last twenty-four hours, has reason for congratulation. _BELLS._--If they are connected to a rope, you can look forward to splendid news. _BIRDS._--Generally, they denote an end of your troubles. _BOAT._--If you cannot discover an occupant of the boat, the symbol means a voyage. _BOOK._--You should ask advice from some friend for whom you care. Good advice is precious. _BUGLE._--You will be the recipient of good news shortly. _BUTTERFLY._--A warning to a young lady that her lover, whom she trusts implicitly, is rather fond of flitting from one "peach" to another. _CAP._--If you see a man's cap, you may have minor worries: if a widow's cap, married joy will be yours. _CARDS._--If you gamble, you will certainly lose. _CHAIN._--This bids you put forth every ounce of energy in one big endeavor: then, success will be yours. _CIGAR._--Some of your schemes may "end in smoke." _CLOCK._--This signifies that you are to have an important appointment with someone very soon. _COMET._--A symbol to warn you against playing with fire. Beware. _CROSS._--You may have anxiety: but it will soon pass away. _CROWN._--Denotes great honors coming to you. _DART._--You will shortly have a proposal of marriage. Cupid is about. _DICE._--You will lose money if you gamble. _DOVES._--Your trials will end when you see this welcome "messenger of peace." _ENVELOPE._--Good tidings are heralded. _EYE._--Look to some other power than your own. _FINGERPRINT._--A reminder to you to ask and you will find out a secret. _FISH._--This signifies good news from abroad. If the fish is surrounded by dots you will emigrate. _FLAG._--A splendid omen--the best of news is coming from abroad, and you are about to experience good fortune at home. [Illustration: No. 18._--Cross. You may have anxiety, but it will soon pass away.] _FOOT._--This leaf-picture denotes good news which, however, is still far off. _FORK._--Your life would be all the happier were you not so easily flattered. _GALLOWS._--Contrary to expectation, to see this picture denotes nothing of evil significance, but is merely a warning to you to be cautious--in fact, a kindly symbol. _GARDEN._--Prosperous, joyful days. _GATE._--A reminder that patience is a virtue, and that the gate to fortune will open for you in due course. _GIANT._--This denotes you are attempting something which is far too big for you. Better be a successful dwarf than a gigantic failure. _GYPSY._--An invitation to you to wish for something you dearly desire, and your wish will be granted. _GLOBE._--Denotes you are to take a roundabout journey leading finally to your home. _GLOVE._--A sign of good luck. _GOOSE._--You will be the recipient of foolish remarks from stupid persons, but these need cause you no concern. _GRAPES._--From time immemorial the symbol of perfect love between couples. _HAIR._--A lock of hair signifies great devotion on the part of your lover. _HALTER._--A warning that you are too easily led, and that you must cultivate the art of self-reliance. _HAM._--This is a sign you will undergo a brief illness, but will make a quick recovery. _HAMMER._--Triumph over adversity. After enduring many knocks you will hit the nail of success. _HAMMOCK._--Points to the knowledge that your sailor-lover is true and dreams of you every night. _HAMPER._--Suggests useful and serviceable, but inexpensive, presents are coming. _HANDCUFFS._--This is a cogent warning to you to get rid of an evil habit before it is too late. Little sins lead to great crimes, and no one desires to receive the attentions of the law. _HARP._--Count yourself very fortunate. _HAT._--This picture, if it is a lady's hat, signifies luck, but if a man's, it means that you may experience a slight misfortune. _HATCHET._--This leaf-picture is a warning to take great care or you may experience danger. _INITIAL._--In this important leaf-picture the initials should be carefully studied. If the initial is formed near the rim, the significance is one of good fortune. Initials most commonly found are those without curves. Such straight initials are--A, I, L, N, T, V, W. _INTERROGATION MARK._--Signifies doubt. Be careful. _KEY._--An important picture suggesting that you look deeper and more carefully in the cup for an initial, which, when you have found it, will unlock something that has been up till now a mystery. A closed book will be opened for you and past enigmas unravelled. _LABEL._--This ticket-like picture, which must not be mistaken for an envelope, is the sign that you possess a dear friend who will one day be "tied" to you for life. _LACE._--Denotes you will err on a very minor and fragile matter and make a false move on very flimsy grounds. _LADDER._--If on the side of the cup a rise in your fortunes is indicated. _LADY._--Points to the fact that you will shortly make a friend of one who will prove of great service. [Illustration: No. 19.--A Mark of Interrogation signifies doubt: be careful.] _LINES._--These indicate journeys. _LOCK._--This denotes that you can safely confide in your nearest friend. He or she will lock your secrets in his or her bosom. _LOCKET._--A picture denoting steadfast loyalty on the part of a friend whom you have not seen for long months. _LOOKING GLASS._--You are warned by this picture that the world sees you for what you really are. Your character is mirrored for your friends to gaze upon. _MAN._--Denotes a visitor who will bring a gift if his arm is outstretched. If the symbol is clear he is a dark man; if vague he is very fair. _MAP._--A symbol bidding you travel, for you will be sure of success wherever you go. _MAZE._--A regular "maze of difficulty" confronts you, but with care you will find a way out of the labyrinth. _MILESTONES._--You are about to win success after traveling a long and difficult road. _MOON._--If shown as a crescent prosperity and fortune are indicated. _MOTORCAR._--Denotes that you will achieve a rapid success. _MOUNTAINS._--This majestic picture signifies an arduous, lengthy, and uphill fight against bad fortune. Set your heart to it, and toil on to the goal. _MOUSE._--A reminder that the little irritation you are nursing is really a very trivial affair. _NAVVY._--A token that you are very bookish, and fond of digging into abstruse treatises. You are reminded that "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." _NECKLACE._--Grace and beauty of body and mind are here indicated. _NEEDLE._--A single needle signifies you are able to withstand all the sharp pricks of circumstances. Several needles together mean quarrels. _PENDULUM._--Great indecision and lack of character are here indicated. _PENNON._--To decipher this small-pointed flag is a sign that someone on board a ship is thinking much of you. _PENNIES._--They denote great carefulness in small details, which leads to ultimate prosperity. _RING._--A very important symbol. Generally speaking, it always denotes marriage, especially if seen at the bottom of the cup, in which case search for an initial which will reveal to a man or woman his or her future life-partner. _RIVERS._--These denote much peace of mind. _ROADS._--If the roads appear in the clear they predict a speedy change of circumstances, usually for the better. _ROBIN._--This bird always denotes hope. If you see it you can cheer up, as the trouble you now experience is about to pass away. _ROCK._--A massive rock denotes great burdens. If there are a number of small rocks easy fortune and much happiness are indicated. _ROCKET._--Another warning against high ambition. _ROD._--If it is long and slender you will be very fortunate. _ROOF._--If what appears to be the roof only of a house is seen the signification is domestic bliss. _ROOK._--Great happiness is indicated. _SAILOR._--Foretells that very shortly you will receive a letter from over the sea. _SCALES._--This picture is the token that the friend you have weighed in the balance and found wanting is really true and just. _SCEPTRE._--A sign of honor from royalty. _SERPENT._--If on the side of the cup and appearing to be rising to near the brim you may take comfort in the fact that you will shortly receive some information which will be of use. _SHEAVES._--A good omen of a bounteous harvest of prosperity. _SHIELD._--A reminder that you have just escaped from a great calamity. _SHIP._--A large ship with funnels and masts is a token of a long journey, usually on business. _THIMBLE._--This homely picture denotes that industry and devotion to duty bring their own reward. _THIN PERSON._--The figure of a very slender person is usually the sign of very prosperous days ahead. _THISTLE._--This striking leaf-picture is a sign that you will only achieve success by plain living and high thinking. _THORN._--This is always an excellent omen. Good luck and many friends are indicated. _TONGS._--Suggests you are of a fiery nature, and will quarrel with your best friend. _TONGUE._--Someone you are fond of who is far away is speaking about you. _TOOL._--Any instrument of manual operation denotes that hard knocks may be coming. _TRIANGLE._--This is a token of all-round prosperity in love. _TRIDENT._--This is a token of success and honors in the Navy. _WAGON._--A reminder that you are soon to undertake a long journey. _WAITER._--This picture denotes that riches and married happiness will come to you. _WALKING STICK._--A warning not to lean too much on your own efforts. _WATERFALL._--Indicates the removal of many obstructions in your path to happiness. _WEATHERCOCK._--This picture points to a friend who is unreliable. _WEB._--Signifies you will one day be caught in the toils as the result of ignoring friendly warnings. _WELL._--This denotes you are not dipping deep enough into knowledge. WHEN WILL YOU MARRY? It has long been held that an unmarried person can tell how many years it will be before he or she is married, in the following manner. Balance a small spoon on the edge of a teacup. The spoon should be perfectly dry. Then, with the assistance of a second spoon, tilt drops of tea into the balancing spoon and count them, one by one. The number of drops it takes to upset the spoon reveals the number of years that will elapse before the wedding takes place. [Illustration] LUCKY AND UNLUCKY DAYS Most of us have discovered that certain days of the week, or even the year, are more favorable to us than others. But there are some people who have not made this discovery. To them, the indications given in this chapter will be of considerable interest. _Friday--an Unlucky Day._--Fortunately, six of the seven days of the week are charitably disposed towards the majority of us. Here and there, a person may be found who affirms that Monday, Thursday or some other day never did him or her a kindness; but such a remark is not general. Friday, however, can be put on the black list, as it is a notoriously unlucky day. Most men and women cherish a superstitious fear of it, and this opinion has existed since the first Good Friday. Many will never embark upon any enterprise of importance; there are fewer marriages on this day than any other, and sailors are averse to sailing on Friday. Many are the tales they tell of vessels which put to sea on a Friday, and were never heard of again. If all the bank or financial crashes of the last century were counted up, it would be found that Friday supplied the greatest number. A lengthy list could be added to prove that Friday is a day of bad luck. One good thing can be said for it, however--it favors its own: for people born on a Friday are not affected by its evil disposition. _Unlucky Dates._--In an old calendar, astrologers indicated the following dates as unlucky. If any of them fell on a Friday, they were doubly unlucky: January 1, 2, 4, 5, 10, 17, 29--very unlucky. February 26, 27, 28--unlucky; 8, 10, 17--very unlucky. March 16, 17, 20--very unlucky. April 7, 8, 10, 20--unlucky; 16 and 21--very unlucky. June 10 and 22--unlucky; 4 and 8--very unlucky. July 15 and 21--very unlucky. August 1, 29 and 30--unlucky; 19 and 20--very unlucky. September 2, 4, 21, 23--unlucky; 6 and 7--very unlucky. October 4, 16, 24--unlucky; 6, very unlucky. November 5, 6, 29, 30--unlucky; 15 and 20--very unlucky. December 15, 22--unlucky; 6, 7, and 9--very unlucky. These were regarded as perilous days to fall ill upon, to have an accident, to be married, to start on a journey, or commence any work. What is most striking about this list is that the "thirteenth" does not appear on it at all, although most people will tell you that the thirteenth is the date they avoid more than all others. _Lucky and Unlucky Dates depending on Birth-dates._--Much the most accurate way of determining which dates are lucky and unlucky is by using the portents displayed by the Signs of the Zodiac. To do this, it is necessary to know when the individual affected was born. The following is a list worked out on these lines: Born--Dec. 22nd to Jan. 20th. -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 2, 7, 8, 18, 26 and 31 | Jan. 11, 14, 15 and 28 | Feb. 3, 7, 9, 12, 13 and 27 | Feb. 11, 18, 24 and 25 | Mar. 1, 5, 7, 10, 24 and 28 | Mar. 8, 16, 17 and 23 | April 2, 3, 7, 16, 25 and 26 | April 12, 13, 19 and 20 | May 5, 6, 14, 15, 27 and 31 | May 10, 16, 29 and 30 | June 1, 14, 15, 18, 24 and 29 | June 5, 13, 22 and 26 | July 9, 12, 13, 17, 20 and 27 | July 2, 11, 16 and 24 | Aug. 3, 8, 9, 16, 21 and 31 | Aug. 6, 18, 19 and 29 | Sept. 5, 9, 14, 18, 19 and 27 | Sept. 1, 3, 17 and 23 | Oct. 10, 11, 16, 17, 25 and 30 | Oct. 8, 12, 21 and 27 | Nov. 6, 7, 8, 12, 13 and 26 | Nov. 10, 17, 18 and 25 | Dec. 3, 8, 9, 19, 24 and 31 | Dec. 2, 6, 11 and 30 -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Born--Jan. 21st to Feb. 19th -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 1, 5, 9, 10, 15 and 20 | Jan. 2, 19, 24 and 31 | Feb. 2, 5, 6, 11, 16 and 29 | Feb. 13, 20, 26 and 27 | Mar. 3, 6, 7, 10, 17 and 30 | Mar. 11, 19, 24 and 25 | April 4, 5, 10, 20, 23 and 29 | April 7, 14, 15 and 24 | May 7, 8, 16, 17, 25 and 31 | May 4, 12, 18 and 19 | June 5, 12, 17, 18, 25 and 26 | June 1, 2, 28 and 29 | July 10, 11, 19, 22, 23 and 28 | July 5, 12, 13 and 26 | Aug. 10, 14, 19, 20, 24 and 25 | Aug. 2, 22, 23 and 27 | Sept. 10, 11, 12, 22, 29 and 30 | Sept. 4, 5, 19 and 25 | Oct. 1, 3, 9, 13, 27 and 28 | Oct. 2, 8, 11 and 26 | Nov. 4, 5, 10, 15, 23 and 28 | Nov. 11, 18, 26 and 27 | Dec. 7, 8, 13, 21, 25 and 27 | Dec. 9, 16, 17 and 24 -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Born--Feb. 20th to March 20th -------------------------------------+----------------------------- Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 5, 7, 9, 21, 22 and 27 | Jan. 8, 16, 23 and 28 | Feb. 4, 7, 9, 20, 21 and 26 | Feb. 5, 10, 22 and 25 | Mar. 5, 6, 12, 13, 17 and 29 | Mar. 11, 15, 18 and 26 | April 6, 8, 11, 15, 22 and 30 | April 9, 12, 20 and 23 | May 8, 14, 15, 19, 24 and 29 | May 4, 17, 20 and 28 | June 10, 11, 19, 21, 23 and 27 | June 6, 18, 24 and 28 | July 11, 15, 20, 22, 24 and 31 | July 8, 21, 25 and 26 | Aug. 13, 16, 17, 20, 28 and 30 | Aug. 4, 5, 19 and 25 | Sept. 15, 17, 19, 24, 27 and 28 | Sept. 3, 8, 18 and 26 | Oct. 17, 19, 20, 21, 29 and 30 | Oct. 4, 6, 8 and 28 | Nov. 8, 9, 10, 14, 19 and 21 | Nov. 1, 12, 18 and 24 | Dec. 3, 7, 9, 13, 22 and 28 | Dec. 11, 16, 20 and 29 -------------------------------------+----------------------------- Born--March 21st to April 19th -------------------------------------+----------------------------- Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 1, 5, 9, 23, 27 and 28 | Jan. 6, 16, 26 and 29 | Feb. 2, 5, 10, 19, 25 and 29 | Feb. 8, 15, 16 and 23 | Mar. 4, 9, 10, 19, 20 and 31 | Mar. 3, 6, 15 and 21 | April 1, 5, 14, 15, 19 and 28 | April 2, 3, 17 and 30 | May 3, 12, 13, 18, 21 and 31 | May 8, 14, 27 and 28 | June 3, 7, 17, 18, 25 and 27 | June 4, 5, 23 and 26 | July 1, 6, 14, 23, 28 and 29 | July 2, 4, 30 and 31 | Aug. 2, 10, 11, 24, 25 and 26 | Aug. 6, 12, 22 and 23 | Sept. 7, 10, 11, 12, 21 and 25 | Sept. 2, 23, 24 and 26 | Oct. 3, 9, 13, 17, 19 and 31 | Oct. 6, 14, 26 and 27 | Nov. 1, 5, 8, 14, 20 and 30 | Nov. 6, 18, 22 and 29 | Dec. 1, 13, 25, 26, 27 and 31 | Dec. 6, 12, 22 and 28 -------------------------------------+---------------------------- Born--Feb. 20th to March 20th -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 5, 7, 9, 21, 22 and 27 | Jan. 8, 16, 23 and 28 | Feb. 4, 7, 9, 20, 21 and 26 | Feb. 5, 10, 22 and 25 | Mar. 5, 6, 12, 13, 17 and 29 | Mar. 11, 15, 18 and 26 | April 6, 8, 11, 15, 22 and 30 | April 9, 12, 20 and 23 | May 8, 14, 15, 19, 24 and 29 | May 4, 17, 20 and 28 | June 10, 11, 19, 21, 23 and 27 | June 6, 18, 24 and 28 | July 11, 15, 20, 22, 24 and 31 | July 8, 21, 25 and 26 | Aug. 13, 16, 17, 20, 28 and 30 | Aug. 4, 5, 19 and 25 | Sept. 15, 17, 19, 24, 27 and 28 | Sept. 3, 8, 18 and 26 | Oct. 17, 19, 20, 21, 29 and 30 | Oct. 4, 6, 8 and 28 | Nov. 8, 9, 10, 14, 19 and 21 | Nov. 1, 12, 18 and 24 | Dec. 3, 7, 9, 13, 22 and 28 | Dec. 11, 16, 20 and 29 -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Born--March 21st to April 19th -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 1, 5, 9, 23, 27 and 28 | Jan. 6, 16, 26 and 29 | Feb. 2, 5, 10, 19, 25 and 29 | Feb. 8, 15, 16 and 23 | Mar. 4, 9, 10, 19, 20 and 31 | Mar. 3, 6, 15 and 21 | April 1, 5, 14, 15, 19 and 28 | April 2, 3, 17 and 30 | May 3, 12, 13, 18, 21 and 31 | May 8, 14, 27 and 28 | June 3, 7, 17, 18, 25 and 27 | June 4, 5, 23 and 26 | July 1, 6, 14, 23, 28 and 29 | July 2, 4, 30 and 31 | Aug. 2, 10, 11, 24, 25 and 26 | Aug. 6, 12, 22 and 23 | Sept. 7, 10, 11, 12, 21 and 25 | Sept. 2, 23, 24 and 26 | Oct. 3, 9, 13, 17, 19 and 31 | Oct. 6, 14, 26 and 27 | Nov. 1, 5, 8, 14, 20 and 30 | Nov. 6, 18, 22 and 29 | Dec. 1, 13, 25, 26, 27 and 31 | Dec. 6, 12, 22 and 28 -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Born--June 22nd to July 22nd -------------------------------------+----------------------------- Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 3, 9, 11, 13, 16 and 29 | Jan. 6, 8, 27 and 28 | Feb. 7, 8, 13, 14, 22 and 27 | Feb. 3, 11, 24 and 25 | Mar. 5, 7, 12, 20, 21 and 25 | Mar. 1, 4, 22 and 26 | April 2, 7, 8, 12, 13 and 29 | April 5, 19, 20 and 25 | May 1, 5, 10, 11, 18 and 19 | May 3, 17, 23 and 30 | June 2, 7, 10, 15, 24 and 28 | June 13, 19, 20 and 22 | July 3, 4, 7, 20, 22 and 25 | July 10, 13, 23 and 28 | Aug. 5, 8, 9, 21, 22 and 30 | Aug. 7, 12, 19 and 20 | Sept. 5, 12, 13, 19, 27 and 28 | Sept. 3, 10, 16 and 17 | Oct. 1, 3, 11, 15, 16 and 30 | Oct. 7, 14, 27 and 28 | Nov. 6, 7, 16, 17, 27 and 30 | Nov. 8, 9, 18 and 19 | Dec. 4, 9, 13, 24, 30 and 31 | Dec. 6, 7, 18 and 21 -------------------------------------+----------------------------- Born--July 23rd to August 21st -------------------------------------+----------------------------- Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 1, 4, 13, 15, 18 and 27 | Jan. 3, 8, 12 and 30 | Feb. 1, 15, 20, 24, 25 and 29 | Feb. 8, 12, 21 and 28 | Mar. 9, 18, 19, 20, 21 and 28 | Mar. 12, 22, 24 and 25 | April 1, 5, 10, 11, 18 and 23 | April 7, 8, 16 and 22 | May 2, 3, 6, 12, 13 and 31 | May 5, 18, 19 and 24 | June 3, 4, 13, 17, 26 and 30 | June 2, 14, 21 and 22 | July 2, 6, 9, 14, 23 and 29 | July 12, 13, 24 and 25 | Aug. 3, 7, 10, 23, 25 and 30 | Aug. 9, 14, 21 and 22 | Sept. 3, 15, 16, 22, 26 and 29 | Sept. 5, 17, 18 and 19 | Oct. 1, 13, 17, 27, 28 and 31 | Oct. 9, 14, 15 and 29 | Nov. 9, 10, 15, 20, 23 and 27 | Nov. 5, 12, 13 and 17 | Dec. 7, 11, 16, 18, 22 and 26 | Dec. 3, 9, 23 and 28 -------------------------------------+----------------------------- Born--August 22nd to September 22nd -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 1, 3, 9, 15, 20 and 31 | Jan. 4, 11, 18 and 19 | Feb. 3, 12, 13, 18, 23 and 27 | Feb. 8, 15, 16 and 29 | Mar. 1, 11, 20, 21, 28 and 29 | Mar. 6, 7, 26 and 27 | April 7, 8, 15, 17, 24 and 25 | April 2, 3, 9 and 29 | May 4, 7, 10, 18, 22 and 31 | May 8, 21, 27 and 28 | June 1, 6, 7, 11, 15 and 29 | June 3, 9, 16 and 24 | July 4, 9, 10, 17, 25 and 30 | July 2, 14, 20 and 22 | Aug. 3, 5, 12, 22, 28 and 29 | Aug. 10, 17, 18 and 23 | Sept. 4, 9, 10, 22, 23 and 28 | Sept. 7, 8, 17 and 21 | Oct. 1, 2, 11, 12, 25 and 30 | Oct. 4, 8, 14 and 20 | Nov. 17, 18, 22, 23, 25 and 30 | Nov. 5, 7, 12 and 21 | Dec. 9, 10, 18, 23, 26 and 28 | Dec. 4, 5, 6 and 14 -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Born--September 23rd to October 23rd -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 1, 5, 9, 19, 20 and 27 | Jan. 6, 7, 21 and 23 | Feb. 2, 6, 15, 20, 24 and 29 | Feb. 11, 17, 19 and 22 | Mar. 4, 14, 18, 23, 27 and 31 | Mar. 2, 9, 10 and 28 | April 1, 15, 19, 23, 24 and 28 | April 4, 5, 14 and 26 | May 7, 8, 12, 17, 21 and 24 | May 3, 9, 23 and 29 | June 8, 12, 13, 16, 22 and 30 | June 7, 19, 20 and 27 | July 4, 14, 19, 20, 23 and 28 | July 10, 17, 27 and 29 | Aug. 1, 7, 10, 11, 15 and 30 | Aug. 12, 13, 22 and 27 | Sept. 3, 6, 11, 20, 22 and 29 | Sept. 8, 16, 17 and 24 | Oct. 4, 5, 17, 22, 24 and 27 | Oct. 8, 12, 20 and 21 | Nov. 1, 4, 6, 14, 19 and 26 | Nov. 9, 17, 28 and 29 | Dec. 3, 12, 13, 21, 25 and 29 | Dec. 4, 7, 15 and 19 -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Born--October 24th to November 22nd -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 2, 3, 7, 8, 22 and 30 | Jan. 10, 16, 18 and 24 | Feb. 3, 9, 17, 18, 24 and 27 | Feb. 1, 12, 14 and 20 | Mar. 1, 6, 15, 20, 25 and 29 | Mar. 3, 11, 19 and 30 | April 2, 3, 12, 17, 21 and 29 | April 7, 8, 26 and 28 | May 5, 10, 11, 15, 19 and 27 | May 4, 6, 24 and 26 | June 6, 11, 15, 19, 23 and 25 | June 2, 8, 26 and 28 | July 4, 7, 9, 17, 21 and 30 | July 3, 8, 19 and 31 | Aug. 5, 9, 13, 17, 18 and 27 | Aug. 2, 12, 22 and 28 | Sept. 9, 10, 12, 23, 27 and 28 | Sept. 11, 14, 18 and 29 | Oct. 2, 3, 11, 20, 25 and 29 | Oct. 8, 9, 22 and 24 | Nov. 2, 6, 16, 17, 23 and 30 | Nov. 5, 12, 18 and 29 | Dec. 2, 5, 18, 19, 24 and 27 | Dec. 3, 6, 16 and 18 -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Born--November 23rd to December 21st -------------------------------------+------------------------------ Lucky Dates: | Unlucky Dates: | Jan. 1, 9, 14, 15, 23 and 24 | Jan. 6, 12, 18 and 22 | Feb. 3, 5, 7, 19, 21 and 28 | Feb. 8, 15, 16 and 23 | Mar. 5, 8, 10, 19, 23 and 31 | Mar. 6, 7, 15 and 21 | April 4, 14, 15, 19, 20 and 28 | April 3, 18, 22 and 26 | May 1, 12, 16, 20, 26 and 31 | May 7, 14, 15 and 27 | June 7, 8, 13, 17, 21 and 25 | June 3, 11, 23 and 24 | July 6, 11, 15, 21, 22 and 25 | July 7, 20, 23 and 29 | Aug. 3, 6, 7, 14, 15 and 29 | Aug. 4, 12, 18 and 28 | Sept. 1, 10, 12, 15, 26 and 29 | Sept. 13, 17, 20 and 22 | Oct. 4, 5, 22, 23, 27 and 31 | Oct. 11, 12, 18 and 26 | Nov. 9, 19, 20, 23, 24 and 28 | Nov. 6, 14, 15 and 22 | Dec. 3, 7, 8, 17, 22 and 25 | Dec. 6, 11, 18 and 28 -------------------------------------+------------------------------ It should be noted in connection with the above figures that no birth-date is unlucky. Thus, should any particular reader find that his birthday is given as unlucky, he may transfer it immediately to the list of lucky dates. As an example, take the last line of unlucky figures, given above. They are Dec. 6, 11, 18 and 28, and they operate for people born between Nov. 23rd and Dec. 21st. Should a person born on Dec. 6th be consulting this list, the only unlucky dates in December for him or her are Dec. 11, 18 and 28. THE LUCK OF FLOWERS It has been a favorite pastime with maidens in all ages to try to foretell their future by the aid of flowers and plants. One of the most popular fancies is provided by the four-leaved clover, the story of which is told in various legends. One runs to the effect that three beautiful sisters, Faith, Hope and Charity, came from over the seas, and wherever they walked three-leaved clovers, crimson, white and yellow, bloomed profusely. In their footsteps came another more beautiful being, whose name was Love, and in his honor the clover added a fourth petal to the trefoil. In time, it became the talisman of love-sick maidens, who wore it in their shoe to ensure a speedy meeting with their sweetheart, wore it over their heart to frighten away evil spirits and to prevent being jilted. In the case of a quarrel, it served to effect a reconciliation. Apart from its sentimental associations, a four-leaved clover has long been regarded as an emblem of good luck, and has been worn by those who believe in such things when they wished to increase their chances of good fortune. _SPRING FLOWERS._--Naturally, many beliefs flourish around the flowers of the garden and the hedgerow. If you chance to find the first flower of the season on a Monday, it means good luck. If on a Tuesday, big undertakings are likely to be successful. If on a Wednesday, it denotes your approaching wedding. If on a Thursday, hard work with little profit will fall to your lot. If on a Friday, unexpected wealth reaches you. If on a Saturday, you may look out for misfortune. If on a Sunday, phenomenal good luck will come to you. _THE FIRST WILD FLOWER._--From the first wild flowers which you gather in spring, it is possible to discover the initials of your future husband or wife. If, for instance, they should chance to be daisies, violets and buttercups, then expect to find some suitable person with the initials D. V. B., but they may not be necessarily in this order. If someone presents you with a yellow flower, then you may expect a gift of money directly. If you can turn a bluebell inside out without breaking it, then your lover will be true as long as both of you live. [Illustration: No. 21.] _THE PANSY._--If you wish to know your future destiny, pluck a pansy, which takes its name from _pensee_, a thought. Count the streaks or lines upon the petals. Four streaks tell that your dearest wish will be fulfilled. Five streaks stand for hope with fear. Six streaks suggest a surprise. Seven streaks tell of constancy in your lover. Eight streaks, fickleness. Nine streaks, a change and then riches. Markings leaning towards the left denote trouble. Markings leaning to the right denote prosperity. Should the central streak be the longest, then Sunday should be chosen as your wedding day. _THE DAISY._--One of the oldest of flower charms is to pluck at the petals of a daisy or marguerite. At first pluck, these words are said, "He loves me"; at the second, "He loves me not." These sentences are repeated alternately until the flower is deprived of all its petals. Whichever sentence was uttered last describes "his" affections. _THE IVY._-- Ivy, ivy, I thee pluck, And in my bosom, I thee put. The first young man who speaks to me My own true lover he shall be. [Illustration: No. 22.] _THE HAWTHORN OR MAY._--Once upon a time, every porch was decorated with a branch of May to avert the evil eye and prevent witchcraft, but the idea has been departed from, and now it is regarded as a harbinger of ill-luck, and is rarely brought inside a house. _THE MISTLETOE._--From very ancient times, this plant has been regarded with curious veneration. Probably it gained special fame, in the first instance, owing to the peculiar manner in which it grew. The Druids looked upon it as a plant possessing marvelous properties, and they esteemed nothing in the world more sacred than it. They gathered it when the moon was just six days old because the moon was then thought to be at its greatest power. This done, they sacrificed two young bullocks which were milk-white. After that, the mistletoe was cut into small pieces with the aid of a golden hook or bill and distributed among the people present. These took it home and suspended it in a prominent place to ward off evil spirits. From these associations, the mistletoe has become an emblem under which young people may kiss, without any evil coming to them through their act. _HOLLY_ is used as a Christmas decoration because the Romans chose it to hang in their houses on the fast in honor of Saturn. Friends gave bunches of it to those whom they wished to endow with luck and happiness, probably because the prickly leaves symbolized the crown of thorns worn by Christ and the red berries the blood of the cross. BIRTHDAY FLOWERS Just as there are birth stones, so there are flowers which stand for each month of the year. By wearing the blossom named for your month, you may count on good fortune as the result. _JANUARY._--The Snowdrop which is the emblem of purity, hope and gentleness. _FEBRUARY._--The Violet, the emblem of modesty, kindness and faith. _MARCH._--The Daffodil, the emblem of daintiness, sincerity and graciousness. _APRIL._--The Primrose, the emblem of lovers. _MAY._--The White Lily, the emblem of purity and sweetness. _JUNE._--The Wild Rose, the emblem of love and loyalty. _JULY._--The Carnation, the emblem of kindly thoughts. _AUGUST._--The White Heather, the emblem of luck and the best of good fortune. _SEPTEMBER._--The Michaelmas Daisy, the emblem of riches and happiness. _OCTOBER._--The Rosemary, the emblem of remembrance and kind thoughts. _NOVEMBER._--The Chrysanthemum, the emblem of faith and truth. _DECEMBER._--The Ivy, the emblem of loyalty, fidelity and faithfulness. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS For many generations, certain flowers have been accepted as having definite meanings. Thus, a gift of any of the examples listed below, may be taken to infer whatever description is appended. _CAMELLIA._--Beauty, loveliness. _CANDYTUFT._--Indifference, lack of affection. _CARNATION_ (Red).--Alas for my poor heart! _CARNATION_ (White).--Disregard, disdain. _CLOVER_ (Four-leaved).--Be mine. _COLUMBINE._--Foolishness. _DAISY._--Innocence, purity. _DEADLY NIGHTSHADE._--Falsehood, untrue. _FERN._--You fascinate me. _FORGET-ME-NOT._--The same as the name. _FOXGLOVE._--I bow down to you. _GERANIUM._--To console you. _GOLDEN ROD._--Be on your guard. _HELIOTROPE._--I am devoted to you. _HYACINTH_ (White).--Your beauty is recognized. _IVY._--Faithfulness. I cling to you. _LILY_ (White).--Sweetness. _LILY_ (Yellow).--Gay, happy, joyful. _LILY OF THE VALLEY._--Happiness will return. _MIGNONETTE._--Your qualities are even greater than your charms. _MYRTLE._--Love. _ORANGE BLOSSOM._--Chastity. _PANSY._--Thoughts. _PASSION FLOWER._--Willing to suffer hardships for you. _PEACH BLOSSOM._--I am captivated by you. _PRIMROSE._--A token of love. _ROSE._--A token of love, also. _ROSE_ (Red).--Bashful, shy. _ROSE_ (White).--I will be worthy of you. _ROSE_ (Yellow).--Jealousy. _ROSEBUDS._--A confession of great love. _SWEET PEA._--Leave me and depart, or I leave you. _VERBENA._--Pray for me. COMBINATIONS OF FLOWERS In order to convey definite phrases, lovers have long been used to resorting to certain combinations of flowers. A bunch made up of them has the meaning which we print below. _DAISY AND MIGNONETTE._--Your qualities surpass even your great beauty. _FERNS AND LILY OF THE VALLEY._--You are sweet and charming, and you fascinate me. _IVY LEAVES AND YELLOW ROSE._--Your jealousy has put an end to our friendship. _COLUMBINE, DAISY AND LILY._--You have played false and broken our friendship. _PINK AND LAUREL LEAVES._--Your high qualities have been noticed by me. _GOLDEN ROD, SWEET PEA AND FORGET-ME-NOT._--Danger is at hand, be careful. I go away but do not forget me. SUPERSTITIONS REGARDING ANIMALS _SERPENTS._--These creatures have been regarded from very different angles, according to the time and the country. The story of the serpent in the Garden of Eden has caused many people to detest them: but numerous are the references in histories which go to show that serpents and snakes have been reverenced. In ancient Rome, the serpent was a household god: at other times, it was regarded as a symbol of life and vitality, and it was frequently used as a medium for healing the sick. In India, this creature is looked upon as a mascot for time and wisdom. Thus, it is worn by fanatics as a part of their headgear, and people make metal replicas and wear them as rings, bracelets, etc. Clearly, then, serpents have found more favor than disapproval, and they may be counted as mascots, standing for wisdom, long life and good health. _CATS._--Cats, the most domestic of animals, are regarded with mixed feelings. Generally speaking, they are supposed to be unlucky, though oddly enough a black cat is credited with good qualities when it takes up its abode in a house. This is due to the fact that, during the Middle Ages, black cats were supposed to be associated with witches and in league with the evil one. As a result, people treated them kindly and showered favors on them, not because they liked them, but because they thought that this treatment would avert bad luck. The person who drowns or kills a cat may look for ill-fortune for nine years. Bad luck attends the vessel or ship on which a cat is found, but on no account may the creature be thrown overboard after the vessel has sailed. This would only make matters worse. If a cat leaves a house, it is supposed to take the luck with it, and leave nothing but bad fortune behind. If a white cat enters a home, it announces trouble and sickness. A cat licking itself all over signifies fair weather, but if it merely washes its face, it means the approach of rain or storms. _DOGS._--A dog howling under a window indicates death. Dogs begin in jest and end in earnest. A dog, a woman, a walnut tree, The more you beat 'em, the better they be. If a dog bark, go in: if a bitch, go out. A dog will bark ere he bite. _HARES._--If a hare crosses your path, you may look out for a disappointment. If it runs past houses, there will soon be a fire in one of them. In the Isle of Man, hares are believed to be the spirits of old women, and on that account are shunned as articles of food. In other parts, those who wish to look beautiful for a week make a point of eating hare. _BIRDS._--Robins are variously regarded in different parts of the country. Some people think them unlucky, possibly because of their association with the tragedy of the Babes in the Wood. But generally they are welcomed to a garden or house, which is supposed to be all the luckier for their coming. Robins that show signs of being friendly are considered to foretell a hard winter. Woodpeckers and kingfishers are also lucky, and any suggestion of ill-luck is only possible when birds are deliberately killed after having built their nest and claimed the hospitality of a home. The screech of a peacock is best unheard when luck is particularly wanted. The feathers of this bird, known to everyone by reason of their beautiful coloring, should never be taken indoors, as they are reckoned specially unlucky. There is an old superstition regarding the cuckoo. Should a maiden, hearing its notes for the first time that season, kiss her hand to it and say:-- Cuckoo, cuckoo, Tell me true, When shall I be married? she may tell the number of years which will elapse until her wedding by counting the number of times the bird cries "Cuckoo." She must reckon each cry as a year. Another superstition relating to the cuckoo is that what you are doing when you hear its cries for the first time in any season is what you will spend most time at during the remainder of the year. Folk in the Channel Islands claim that they are sure to be fortunate if they jingle their purses and run a short distance when hearing the cuckoo for the first time in the year. Owls, crows and magpies do not presage any good: in fact, many people would rather not meet them when anxiety is at hand. An old jingle says of magpies:-- One for anger, Two for mirth; Three for a wedding Four for a birth. Ravens are supposed to bring luck to the house where they build their nests, so it is unlucky to kill one. It is unlucky to touch a yellowhammer in May, since there is the devil's blood in it then. For a white pigeon to single out a house and hover round it is a sure sign of an early marriage or engagement in that house. A cock crowing during the night-time means a bad illness for someone close at hand: if it crows during the afternoon, a visitor will arrive. Sailors are not over-fond of seagulls, believing them to be the spirits of their dead mates, yet they are most indignant if anyone tries to shoot or kill one of them. _OTHER ANIMALS._--A cricket singing within a house ensures good luck for all the household. Kill a spider and it will surely rain. See a moth on your clothes and you will get new ones. A death's head moth indicates bereavement. Pigs are unlucky creatures when seen singly. To see a white horse and then, shortly after, a red-haired person, tells of approaching good fortune. Moles are unlucky to find alive. Of bees, the following rhyme is prophetic:-- A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay. A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon. A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly. Country people are still given to treating bees as if they belonged to the family. For instance, not a few folk tell the bees of the betrothal, marriage and other outstanding events happening in the home. PROPHECIES REGARDING ANIMALS (a) When black snails cross your path Black clouds much moisture hath. (b) When the peacock loudly bawls, Soon we'll have both rain and squalls. (c) When rooks fly sporting high in air, It shows that windy storms are near. (d) Bees will not swarm before a near storm. (e) When the cuckoo comes to the bare thorn, Sell your cow and buy your corn. But when she comes to the full bit, Sell your corn and buy some sheep. (f) Little bantams are great at crowing. (g) Good luck for a grey horse. (h) Let a horse drink what he will, not when he will. (i) Trust not a horse's heel, nor a dog's tooth. (j) Plenty of ladybirds, plenty of hops. (k) Never offer your hen for sale on a rainy day. (l) When the glow-worm lights her lamp, The air is always damp. (m) Unlucky to hear the cuckoo sing sitting. Or to sit and see the first swallow flitting. CRYSTAL GAZING Before we start this chapter, will you just take a look at the following short list of terms used in crystal gazing and spiritualism? You will find that they will make what follows quite clear, and that they will be useful to refer to. _SPIRITUALISTIC._--Belonging to the spirit world. _SECOND SIGHT._--The power which all have (but few develop). The power to see the future and other things with the spirit eye. _AURA._--The circle of thought which each one of us is unconsciously sending out by our characters and personalities. _THE CRYSTAL._--Any object which helps to fix our attention; i.e., a crystal, a bowl of water, shining metal. There is nothing about the crystal that is magical by itself. _PSYCHIC PERSONS._--Persons possessing second sight. LOOKING INTO THE FUTURE It is believed that this portion of the book will be found particularly interesting because it is here that we touch upon spiritualism, perhaps one of the most talked-of subjects of today. In crystal gazing we actually see many things happen which maybe have not happened as yet. In palmistry and astrology we see the signs but not the actual events. Another distinct difference is that in crystal gazing it is impossible to give definite instructions as to how to receive these messages or visions because there is no "how." What we hope to do in this chapter is to show you that perhaps you possess powers of which you know nothing. Without making the foolish mistake of taking this subject too seriously, you will be able to interest and amuse your friends. You may say, "But I haven't got this power--I could never see anything in a crystal." Don't say that, and don't think it! We all have a little of this power sleeping within us. If we wish to improve it, we must use and practise it, but don't overdo the thing. To understand crystal gazing even a little, it is quite important to know just a few simple facts about spiritualism (the study of the spirit world.) This second sight, or clairvoyance (call it what you will) is merely in its childhood as yet. A very short while ago we should have thought it a miracle for anyone to speak from New York to London along a wire. Now we think no more of it than we should of crossing a road! So with the crystal. At present a few of us only are able to see, more or less clearly, those visions of the future. Who knows but that in some future time we shall consider this quite an ordinary and natural thing to do, just like telephoning, for instance. The first thing to get hold of is this: we have not one body but two. An earthly body and its exact copy in a spirit body. By this I do not mean the soul, but rather our earthly body with all its features just as before, is copied in a spirit of ether body. This may sound difficult, but just try to grasp the idea. In spiritualism there are two of each one of us; one an earthly you, the other (dwelling usually in your earthly body) a spiritual you. But sometimes this spirit body escapes from its earthly prison, maybe, during sleep, sometimes when we look into the crystal, and sometimes in what is called a trance or artificial sleep. It is then (when the spirit body is free) that visions of future things are seen, and maybe premonitions (or feelings) of the future are felt. Our spirit body, with its ten thousand times more clear-sighted eyes, sees things which are invisible to the earthly eyes. This body is able to travel swiftly from place to place, although it always keeps a link or connection with its earthly double. When a person goes off into a trance, this is what has happened. The earthly body sleeps while the spiritual body roams about the future, past and present, or perhaps visits distant places. It is, of course, able to speak with other spirit bodies, and thus get information about other folk who have "passed over," as the spiritualists call death. Now perhaps you can better appreciate the wonderful stories which you hear about mediums (people who pass into these trances), who have spoken--or are alleged to have spoken, for the verdict of science is "Not proven"--with the voices of folk long dead, and whom they have never seen. While everyone does not actively possess this power of releasing his spirit body, we all have it. That this is true can be seen in several ways. Have you never had a presentiment or feeling of evil to come, a strong feeling which it took all your determination and common sense to drive away? Anyway, you will have frequently heard other people saying, "I had a feeling that so-and-so would happen." That feeling is explained by this wandering of the spirit body; for a short time we have had our spirit eyes freely opened, and have gained a glimpse of the unknown. As our spirit eyes are as yet undeveloped it is but a glimpse, then down falls the thick curtain, and the mystery is once more hidden from us! Just as some children learn to walk more easily than others, so do some people learn to walk with their spirit body and to speak the spirit language more quickly than others. Which seems very natural, doesn't it? Let us briefly refresh our minds with the absolutely necessary facts which you must know to understand the first steps in fortunetelling by the crystal. What we are going to say next will then be more readily understood:-- _FIRSTLY._--We have not one body but two, an earthly and a spiritual body. _SECONDLY._--Though normally contained in the earthly body, it is possible for the spirit to escape from its prison, and pass from place to place at a speed greater than light. This occurs during sleep, the artificial or forced sleep of the trance, and also when one gazes into the crystal. _THIRDLY._--We have four eyes. Two earthly eyes, and two very much keener spirit eyes. It is with these spirit eyes that we see the future and the past in the crystal. _FOURTHLY._--Each one of us is sending out thought-waves at this moment. These are known by spiritualists as our aura. It is found in different colors, which depend on our characters or the thoughts leaving us. Certain reds show rage, for instance. WHAT THE CRYSTAL IS FOR The first thing to get hold of is that there is nothing magic or in any way wonderful about the crystal itself. It is merely a means of fixing the attention of our earthly eyes, so that we may see the more clearly with our spirit eyes. Now for a few hints upon actually looking into the crystal. When you gaze into whatever object you have chosen, your earthly body and earthly eyes pass into a more or less sleepy state, thus enabling your spirit body to escape. That gives us our first point to remember. Here it is: When you look into the crystal, whatever you do don't worry about whether or not you will see anything! Try to think steadily of what you wish to see; this will at first seem hard, but practice will help you, and practice makes perfect. Then remember to keep any glare of light from the eyes; it is wise to sit with one's back towards the light. Let your surroundings be quiet and peaceful; there must be absolutely nothing which may catch your attention and so take it off the crystal. If, for instance, a noisy bus or other vehicle were to pass during the time in which you were making your attempt, it would probably disturb things very much. One should never be discouraged if nothing whatever is seen at the first few attempts. A puppy cannot at first see out of its eyes, and it is the same with a beginner in crystal gazing; his spirit eyes may take some little time to open, while others, more fortunate, may find theirs open almost at once. Never strain the eyes in an unwinking stare. Let them wink and blink quite naturally. To do anything else would be sure to take your attention from the picture which you wish to see. HOW TO BEGIN The best thing to do is to try these various methods, and then see for yourself which is the most successful in your own individual case. Here are a few means you might try, in order to test this for yourself. Use either a (1) crystal, (2) a polished object, (3) a bright coin, (4) a sparkling gem, or (5) ordinary glass in the shape of a sphere or ball. There are others, but they are not important. In conclusion, it will be of interest to know just what you may expect to see when, and if, your spirit eyes open. Probably a misty, fogged appearance will first be seen in the crystal. This will remain for some little time, until finally the scene or person (whatever it may be) will appear. The latter may be faint and dim, or it may be clear-cut like a good photograph. The clearness or otherwise will depend among other things upon the keenness of sight of the spirit eye. It will also be influenced by the degree of quiet, and upon the absence of anything likely to disturb the searcher in the realms of the future. THE MOON AND THE LUCK IT BRINGS People of all ages have looked upon the moon as a provider of good and bad luck, and most of us have probably noticed that it has influenced our actions, at times. Here are some of the beliefs that are centuries old. If you see a new moon over your right shoulder, it means that you will experience good luck all the month. If you have money in your pocket and you meet the new moon face to face, turn the money over and you will not run short of money that month. It is unlucky to see the new moon through glass. If you do, go out of doors, curtsey three times to the moon and turn some silver in your hand. This will break the spell which will be cast over you if you do not do as directed. There is one little point, connected with this superstition, which has set us thinking. What of all those individuals who wear glasses? We do not know the answer. There is a strongly prevalent idea that everything falling to the lot of man when the moon is waxing will increase or prosper; but things decrease and do not prosper when the moon is on the wane. Irish colleens were wont to drop on their knees when they first caught sight of the new moon, and say, "Oh, moon, leave us as well as you have found us." And, long ago, Yorkshire maidens "did worship the new moon on their bent knees, kneeling upon the earth-cast stone." If the full moon known as the Harvest Moon appears watery, it is an ill sign for the harvest. (The Harvest Moon is due about the middle of September.) If the moon shows a silver shield, be not afraid to reap your field: but if she rises haloed round, soon we'll tread on deluged ground. If the moon changes on a Sunday there will be a flood before the month is out. A Saturday moon, if it comes once in seven years, comes too soon. A fog and a small moon bring an easterly wind soon. In the waning of the moon, Cloudy morning: fair afternoon. Pale moon doth rain; red moon doth blow, White moon doth neither rain nor snow. When the moon's halo is far, the storm is n'ar (near). When the moon's halo is n'ar, the storm is far. It has long been a custom for girls to go to the nearest stile, to turn their back on the first new moon after Midsummer and to chant these verses: All hail, new moon, all hail to thee. I prithee, good moon, reveal to me, This night, who shall my true love be. Who he is and what he wears, And what he does all months and years. If she were to be married in the course of the next twelve months, the moon answered her questions during her sleep of the same evening. In many parts of the country it is supposed that, on Christmas Eve, the moon will help maidens to find out when they are to be married. The plan is for a maiden to borrow a silk handkerchief from a male relation and to take it and a mirror to some sheet of water, while the night is dark. She must go quite alone; but the sheet of water may be an unromantic pail, full to the brim, stationed at the bottom of the garden. As soon as the moon shows itself, the maiden places the flimsy piece of silk in front of her eyes, and, by holding the mirror half towards the moon and half towards the water, it is possible for her to see more than a pair of reflections. The number of reflections are the months which will ensue before her wedding bells ring out. We recently came across the following information in a document quite three hundred years old: "The first, second and third days of the moon's age are lucky for buying and selling; the seventh, ninth and eleventh are lucky for engagements and marriage; the sixteenth and twenty-first are not lucky for anything." The same document affirmed that: "A baby born before the new moon is twenty-four hours old is sure to be lucky. Anything lost during the second twenty-four hours of the moon's age is sure to be found. All things begun on the fifth twenty-four hours will turn out successfully. A dream experienced on the eighth twenty-four hours must come true." FORTUNETELLING BY MEANS OF PLAYING CARDS Telling fortunes, by means of playing cards, is one of the oldest amusements indulged in by civilized people. The ancients of the Far East used their Tarot packs for this purpose long before the birth of Christ, and, ever since, it has been recognized that cards can be made to give a surprisingly accurate reading of future events. It is interesting to note that, until modern times, it was a common practice of men who had to make great and far-reaching decisions for them to consult a pack of cards and to be guided by what was revealed. Napoleon, it may be recalled, never made an important move unless the cards advised him to take the step. Julius Caesar was another great leader who placed his trust in card readings, and even Shakespeare, the shrewdest of all English writers, shows by a number of passages in his plays that he recognized the use of cards for purposes of divination. As for the noted men and women of today, it is rumored that several derive guidance from their packs when they are in doubt. Whether the science of cartomancy, the name given to telling fortunes by the aid of cards, is taken seriously or not, there is no doubt that it will afford a good deal of merriment when indulged in by a number of pleasure-seeking friends and relations. There are few rules governing this science, but those there are must be strictly observed. First, it is absolutely imperative that the person who is consulting the cards should set his or her mind on the matter. Thus, when a definite question is requiring an answer, the question itself must fill the mind. To let the mind wander to outside things or things that are not involved must lessen the psychic effect. Next, every consultant must cut the pack with the left hand, in order to set his or her seal on the order of the cards. Finally, to obtain the most accurate results, it is necessary that the consultant or person seeking the information should shuffle the pack. THE FOUR-CARD DIVINATION This method of fortunetelling is some hundreds of years old and references to it can be found in the works of people who wrote in Stuart times. After the consultant has shuffled the pack of fifty-two cards, he or she withdraws one of them at random and notes the suit. The card is, then, put back in the pack, which is again shuffled. Next, it is cut with the left hand, as already suggested. Now comes the "lay-out." The cards are set face upwards on the table in four rows, each of thirteen. In doing this, it is imperative that all the rows should be commenced at the right-hand end. That done, the key card is sought. In the case of a lady, the key card is the queen of the suit shown by the card which she picked from the pack at the outset. When it is a man who is seeking his fortune, the key card is the king of the suit indicated by the card he picked originally. Having found the key card in the lay-out, count nine, eighteen, twenty-seven, thirty-six and forty-five spaces from it, and pick up the cards so placed. Remember that in counting, a line must be always begun from the right; also that it may be necessary to revert to the first or subsequent rows in order to obtain the full set of four cards. In picking up the four cards, be careful to preserve their order; the first must be set out first, the second must come second, and the same with the third and the fourth. Each card stands for some definite portent, and the four portents supply the reading which affects the consultant. The portents supplied by each card are as follows:-- Hearts _ACE._--Interests will center more in the home than outside it. _KING._--A person who has the good of others at heart. _QUEEN._--Energy and ability are denoted. There is, however, a strong tendency towards admiration for many members of the opposite sex. _JACK._--Inclined to be selfish and somewhat averse to following the desires of others. _TEN._--A happy marriage is indicated. _NINE._--A somewhat restless nature which soon tires and requires a change of scene. _EIGHT._--This is not a good card for those desiring marriage. If such a ceremony does occur, it will be late in coming. _SEVEN._--There is evidence that an open-air life is what is required. _SIX._--A happy marriage in the near future is heralded. _FIVE._--Happiness will be provided, but it will not be the result of riches. _FOUR._--Marriage is likely, but the measure of affection resulting from it appears to be small. _THREE._--Life will entail many reverses, but a broad mind will conquer them. _TWO._--Marriage will result, but not before many trials have beset the path to happiness. Diamonds _ACE._--Friendships will spring up where enemies have existed. _KING._--There is a clear indication of social happiness, but the home may be neglected. _QUEEN._--This suggests a strong character, but no great amount of affection is displayed. _JACK._--Amiability is the chief character indicated by this card. _TEN._--There are signs of a large and happy family. _NINE._--There is no need to worry over financial matters; money will flow in when most required. _EIGHT._--The consultant should keep a firm check on bad habits. _SEVEN._--A very upright and high-minded individual. _SIX._--A person who wavers when a decision has to be made. _FIVE._--A somewhat shallow character is indicated, one who takes insufficient thought of the morrow. _FOUR._--The consultant displays too little trust in him or herself. An inferiority complex is possessed. _THREE._--A person of considerable merit, but is shy and retiring. _TWO._--Do not tire of waiting for the good things of life; they will come without any doubt. Clubs _ACE._--A successful life is ensured in the commercial world for men, and in the home for women. _KING._--The consultant will succeed in whatever he or she most desires, but it may entail a tedious wait. _QUEEN._--There are signs that too high a value is placed on the opinions of others. _JACK._--One who loves recreations and who gives too little attention to the necessary things in life. _TEN._--Expect many trials unless the other cards point to favorable issues. _NINE._--Money affairs will cause a good deal of anxiety. _EIGHT._--There are definite signs that many so-called friends will only flock to you when you can be of use to them. _SEVEN._--You will have your share of sorrows. _SIX._--Divide your life into three equal portions. One will be pleasant, one will be very happy and the other, more or less ordinary. The fates say nothing of the order in which they will come. _FIVE._--You will have few causes for regrets, if you continue as you are acting at present. _FOUR._--There are people who are prepared to damage your reputation. Therefore, be on your guard. _THREE._--If a request is made of you in the near future, be cautious how you reply. Much will depend on the answer. _TWO._--Beware of coming storms. Spades _ACE._--Much good fortune attends the one who finds this card among the four that are chosen. _KING._--A card which indicates that the consultant revels in doing kind actions. _QUEEN._--This indicates that the consultant is, frankly, a flirt. _JACK._--One who tries to make happiness a feature of his or her surroundings. _TEN._--Fix your thoughts on something devoutly wished for and the Fates will grant it to you. _NINE._--You are given to worrying over things that do not really matter. _EIGHT._--Do not set such store on money. It is not the only thing worth having. _SEVEN._--Be very careful that you do not marry for anything but love. _SIX._--There is every prospect of a comfortable home, surrounded by children who bring you happiness. _FIVE._--Happiness will come to you either early in life or very soon. _FOUR._--You do not know how to handle money and you must be careful that you do not trust it to an unworthy person. _THREE._--You expect too many luxuries. You would be far happier if you valued the simple things of life. _TWO._--Do not be depressed by troubles. They will pass away. Now that the meaning of all the fifty-two cards is known, one thing more requires to be explained. Let us suppose that the four cards have been drawn from the lay-out, as already directed. It may happen that one of them directly contradicts another card. What happens then? In such a case, the second card to be drawn from the lay-out has the effect of cancelling the first, but the force of the second card is weakened thereby and its portent is lessened. It is because of this that it is highly necessary to remember the order in which the four cards are taken from the lay-out. THE THREE-CARD DIVINATION In this case, the first thing is to run through an ordinary pack and separate the court from the non-picture cards. The latter are then shuffled by the person seeking information, who finally cuts them with the left hand. That done, the matching card is sought. The matching card, it must be explained, is a card which matches the consultant. Thus: (a) A lady with brown hair is matched by the Queen of Clubs. A gentleman, by the King of Clubs. (b) A lady who is blonde, is matched by the Queen of Hearts. A gentleman by the King of Hearts. (c) A lady with auburn hair is matched by the Queen of Diamonds. A gentleman, by the King of Diamonds. (d) A lady with black hair is matched by the Queen of Spades. A gentleman, by the King of Spades. (e) Grey or white hair is matched according to its original color. As soon as the matching card is decided on, the consultant shuts his or her eyes, and, with the left hand, picks up a portion of the non-picture card pack. With the right hand, he or she places the matching card on the rest of the pack and the whole is reformed. Thus, the pack now consists of forty-one cards, forty of them being numeral cards and the remaining one, a picture card. On no account may there be any shuffling at this point. All is ready. The cards are turned over one at a time, no notice being taken of them until the matching card is reached. Then, the next three cards of the same suit as the matching card are withdrawn from the pack and set out on the table, in the order in which they were found. These three cards provide the reading sought by the consultant. The interpretations are as follows: _ACE._--You will be lucky in love affairs, if you have not already been so. You will make your partner very happy and your home will be your greatest pride. _TWO._--You are inclined to take life too easily and you are not very keen on hard work. _THREE._--You are a rover and are liable to be very unsettled at times. Remember the old saying that a rolling stone gathers no moss. _FOUR._--You will experience four sorrows in your life that you will never forget. _FIVE._--There is not the slightest doubt that you will accumulate wealth. Probably, some of it will come as a legacy. _SIX._--You will gather many friends around you. All of them will not be of equal worth. _SEVEN._--Your health will be one of your strongest points, unless you neglect it, when it will be sure to rebel. _EIGHT._--You are a fortunate person, and there will be more than one occasion in your life when you will experience a very lucky escape. _NINE._--Do not expect to gain riches by means of games of chance, lotteries, etc. Your fortunes will not be increased by them. _TEN._--You have the habit of looking on the bright side of things. This is a quality worth more than all the gold in the world. Cherish it. THE MAGIC SQUARE This is a very old way of divining what the Fates have planned for yourself, your friends and your enemies. The first thing is to take out of the pack all the court cards, as well as the twos, threes, fours, fives and sixes. Thus, all that is left are the cards ranging between the sevens and the tens--sixteen in all. The second thing is to take your matching card, as described under the previous heading, and to place it with the sixteen cards. These are, then, well shuffled and cut with your left hand. The next step is to turn over the cards from the pack, one by one, preserving the order carefully, until the matching card is reached. When this is found, the cards that have been turned over are placed at the bottom of the stack that is left in hand and the "lay-out" is commenced. [Illustration: No. 23.--The Magic Square, showing the order in which the cards are to be set out.] The first card in hand is placed on the table and the eight that follow are arranged around it to form a square. This square will thus consist of three rows, each made up of three cards, with the matching card in the center. It is very important that the eight cards are placed in definite positions, as follows: The first is set down to the right of the matching card; the second to the left of it; the third immediately above it; the fourth just below it; the four remaining cards are placed in the upper left-hand corner of the square, the upper right-hand corner, the lower right-hand corner and the lower left-hand corner, respectively. (See the diagram.) All these cards are read in the following manner: The three above the matching card refer to the past; the card on either side of it to the present; and the three below it to the future. Next, the three cards on the left-hand side of the matching card refer to your friends; the card above and below the matching card refers to yourself; and those on the right of it to your enemies. Following this, you must note that a heart stands for very fortunate things, a club for good things, a diamond for things that are passable, and spades for things that are no good at all. Thus, should a heart come in the middle of the bottom row it shows that you are to be very fortunate in the future; if a diamond fills the same position in the upper row, it is clear that your past was only passably happy; and if a spade comes immediately on the right of the matching card, it is a clear proof that the particular enemy you have in mind is being harassed by a period of ill-luck. And so on, according to which suit fills each of the remaining positions. THE FORTUNETELLING PYRAMID A simple way of discovering what kind of luck is awaiting you in the future consists in taking a complete pack of fifty-two cards, shuffling them well, and cutting them with the left hand. Following this, you place one card on the table, face up. Below it you set out two cards, also face up, and continue with a row of three cards below the two. Other rows follow with four, five, six, seven, eight and nine cards in each, so that the whole forms a pyramid. This accounts for forty-five cards. The surplus of seven are placed on one side when the figure is completed or they may be thrown aside, one at a time, while the figure is being made at any point desired, but it is important that they must be rejected before being seen. To estimate the amount of luck or good fortune that awaits your future, pick up the last card that was laid down in each row. Naturally, there will now be no card left in the first row, one in the second, two in the third row, and so on until the ninth row will consist of eight cards only. Take the nine cards picked up and sort them into suits. If there are most hearts, you are to be a very lucky person; if there are most clubs, you are to be just lucky; if there are most diamonds you will be passably lucky; but luck will not come your way at all if spades are in the majority. Should two suits tie for first place the Fates require you to make the pyramid over again. SEVENS AND THREES The following method of consulting one's luck must have been attempted many millions of times, but it is not known so well now as it was a century ago. The first thing is to shuffle a full pack thoroughly. This, of course, must be done by the person whose luck is being tested. And then, it is necessary that he or she cuts with the left hand. After these preliminaries, someone takes the pack and deals the cards one at a time, face downwards, on to the table, placing them in a heap. The consultant who is seeking to find out what the Fates are determining should really be blindfolded, but this is unnecessary if the cards are new and cannot be recognized by any markings on the backs. The consultant has to choose any three cards as they are being slowly dealt. They can be three cards coming together, or widely separated, or just as he or she fancies. As each card is selected, it is set aside and, when the three are chosen, not before, they are turned face up and arranged in the order of selection. Each card from one to nine stands for its own value, but tens and all court cards stand for nought. Thus, if the three cards are a seven, a ten and a five, the mystic number derived from them is 705. The final step is to find out if the mystic number is divisible either by seven or by three. If the total is divisible by either of these numbers, then there is good luck awaiting the consultant; if the total is divisible by both seven and three, the luck is doubled. On the other hand, should there be a remainder when dividing, bad luck is not claimed. YOUR LUCK IN THE COMING WEEK A hundred years ago, this method of reading what the Fates were likely to provide for us in the coming week was resorted to in almost every house where a pack of cards existed. The first step is to pick out your matching card from the pack, as explained under the heading "The Three-Card Divination." This card is set out on the table, face up. Then you shuffle the remainder of the pack and cut it with your left hand. That done, you form a ring round the matching card, using the first seven cards from the pack for the purpose. All the cards in the ring should be face down and none should overlap. The next thing is to discard the three top cards from what remains of the pack and then to take the third, sixth, ninth, twelfth, fifteenth, eighteenth and twenty-first cards, placing them one each on the seven cards already set out in a circle. These cards must not be looked at while this is being done, and they may be set on the original seven in any order thought fit. But this should be noted, whichever card is paired first must be taken to represent the coming Sunday and the other days follow in a clockwise arrangement. Thus, the arrangement now consists of a circle, formed of seven heaps each consisting of two cards. Read them thus: (a) Two hearts in the same heap represent a day of exceedingly good fortune. (b) One heart and one club, a day of very good fortune. (c) One heart and one diamond, a day of good fortune. (d) One heart and one spade, a day of moderate fortunes. (e) Two clubs, a day as (c). (f) One club and one diamond, a day as (d). (g) One club and one spade, a day of fair luck. (h) Two diamonds, a day neither lucky nor unlucky. (i) One diamond and one spade, a day much as (h). (j) Two spades, a day of no luck. ARE YOU TO BE LUCKY? Ever since the pack of cards has been constituted as it is now, it has been considered that the four suits have a definite value as far as luck and fortune are concerned. This is a fact that most people probably know, but for the benefit of those who are unaware of it, we will point out that hearts stand for more luck than all the others, that clubs are the next in point of favor, that diamonds come third, and that spades bring no luck at all. These values are used in the following method of finding out whether you may consider yourself as lucky or not. The full pack is taken and, from it, all the twos, threes, fours, fives and sixes are extracted. These cards are put on one side, as they are not used, and the remainder is shuffled. The next thing is for you to cut the short pack with the left hand and then to deal it into four equal stacks. Each stack is given one card at a time; that is to say, the eight cards of one stack are not allotted all at once. This done, you take the third heap, without looking at the other three, and turn up the cards. Most likely all the suits will be represented and the thing is to note how many cards there are of each. If there are most of hearts, your good luck is assured; if clubs predominate, then you are still fortunate; if diamonds head the list, you will have average luck; but when spades are in the majority, your best plan is to tell yourself that there is no such thing as good and bad luck. One thing more about the reckoning. If, say, hearts occur only four times in the heap, and no other suit is present as often, then, as we say, good luck is yours. But, should hearts occur five, six, seven or eight times, then your good luck is correspondingly increased in amount. The same rule should be applied to the other suits. PEERING INTO THE FUTURE You probably have some question that you would like answered. It may concern--well, it can concern anything you like and you need confide to nobody what it is about. This is a method of obtaining the answer to such a question: If you are of the female sex, take the four queens from a pack and, if you are a male, take the four kings. Place them face down on the table in front of you and, with your eyes shut, shuffle them round and round, using only your left hand. Work the cards round in the opposite direction to the movement of the hands of a clock. When you have lost all idea of the identity of the cards, still with your left hand and with your eyes tightly shut, place the cards in a line in front of you. Now, open your eyes and turn the cards face up. The card to the left of the line stands for "This year"; the card filling the second position stands for "Next year"; the card coming third, for "Sometime"; and the card at the right of the line, for "Never." The card that is a heart answers the question and the others are ignored. Thus, if the heart fills the second position, the answer is "Next year"; if it comes fourth, the answer is "Never." It is claimed by astrologers that a true answer to the question is only obtained on the first occasion that this method is employed after a new moon has appeared. WHAT REVERSED CARDS REVEAL In most cases, the cards of an ordinary pack look the same whether viewed one way or the other; in other words, if they were cut in halves across the shortest dimension, each half would be exactly alike. But this is not so in every case. Take, for instance, the aces of hearts, clubs and spades; with these the tops and bottoms would be different, though with the ace of diamonds, they would be the same. All the sevens offer further cases where the two halves are not identical and the same may be said of some of the eights. In addition, it must be pointed out that all packs do not follow the same arrangement, so that a list of these unbalanced cards cannot be given. Astrologists have long considered that these cards, which are not alike top and bottom, possess certain powers in deciding one's luck. This is how they act: Take a full pack and shuffle it thoroughly, then cut with the left hand. After that, turn each card over, one by one, and it is advisable to work slowly, as mistakes are easily made. Look at every card in turn, count the pips on it that are the right way up and those that are upside down. When the latter are more in number than the former, you have a reversed card. Set it aside and continue with the cards that follow. Note that it is not any card that permits of being reversed, but only those that are actually reversed, that should be set aside. Note, also, that a reversed card to you is not reversed to someone sitting opposite you. When the pack has been run through and all the reversed cards taken out, note what you have found. Count up the number belonging to each suit. If hearts are in the majority, you are indeed lucky; if spades figure most, you are the reverse. Clubs are not quite so lucky as hearts and diamonds rank a little below clubs. Should any suit figure much more than the others, then the above readings are strengthened. CARD COMBINATIONS This method of discovering certain facts about your future is as old as the hills, if not older. It depends on laying out the cards and noting how certain of them are arranged. The first thing you do is to take an ordinary pack and remove from it all the twos, threes, fours, fives and sixes. This will leave you with thirty-two cards in hand. Next, you shuffle very thoroughly and cut with the left hand. That done, you set out the thirty-two cards in four rows, each of eight cards. Be careful to commence each row at the right and then work to the left. Of course, you must put them out in exactly the same order as they come off the pack. The "lay-out" being completed, you carefully look at the cards. You look, first, to see if by any chance there are four aces touching anywhere. If so, the scrutiny ceases and you find out, from the list given below, what the meaning is of four aces touching. But if there are not four such aces, then you search for four kings and, failing them, four queens, and so on, down to four sevens. If all these fail, you look for three cards of a kind starting as before with aces and working down to sevens. Should there be no groups of threes, then you look for groups of two. Of course, after that there is no point in continuing the scrutiny if there are no twos. Be careful to understand that the cards forming a group need not all occur in the same horizontal line. As long as one card touches another of the same value, whether at the top, bottom, sides or even at the corners, it will count. Note also that the only reading that may be taken from a "lay-out" is the highest reading. Thus, if there are four aces and three queens, you are not permitted to take the reading of the queens, if you prefer it, to that of the aces. The reading of the aces alone counts. These are the readings:-- Fours _FOUR ACES._--Dangers may attack you while you are least expecting them. _FOUR KINGS._--You are likely to rise in the world and be endowed with fame. _FOUR QUEENS._--You will be led into quarrels, not of your own seeking. _FOUR JACKS._--Treachery is afoot and you will be the victim, unless you play your cards remarkably well. _FOUR TENS._--You will succeed at what you have most set your heart. _FOUR NINES._--People will endeavor to cheat you. Keep your eyes open and thwart the wrong-doers. _FOUR EIGHTS._--You are likely to form some great desire, and that desire will be attained, if you are true to yourself. _FOUR SEVENS._--There is a very happy home marked out for you, if you wish it. Threes _THREE ACES._--Good news is coming. _THREE KINGS._--Some great desire that you have is about to be realized. It is nothing to do with work or business, but pleasure. _THREE QUEENS._--You will be happy in one particular friendship that you are about to make. _THREE JACKS._--Certain disputes are trying to find their way into your existence. Be guarded. _THREE TENS._--Wait patiently and a very happy time will not be long in coming. _THREE NINES._--Your wishes may not come true as soon as you would like. But wait. _THREE EIGHTS._--Marriage is imminent for those of single blessedness who have set their hearts on it. _THREE SEVENS._--First, there is a cloud and behind it is bright sunshine. This applies to you. Twos _TWO ACES._--You are about to start on some new enterprise and make a success of it. _TWO KINGS._--You are shortly meeting a stranger who will mean a good deal to you. _TWO QUEENS._--Doubt is to cloud your mind. You will seek advice from a certain quarter. Take the advice and do not lose sight of the giver. _TWO JACKS._--Your faith is to be sorely tried. See that you do not injure your reputation. _TWO TENS._--There is every sign of good fortune in the future. _TWO NINES._--There is a great surprise in store for you. _TWO EIGHTS._--Be judicious in your dealings with the opposite sex. _TWO SEVENS._--The unengaged are soon to be engaged. Other Combination of Cards Should the cards offer none of the above arrangements, the following may be found, but they are meaningless unless all the foregoing have failed. _KING OF CLUBS AND TEN OF HEARTS._--Love is coming. _KING OF DIAMONDS AND TEN OF SPADES._--Beware of lovers' quarrels. _KING AND QUEEN OF SAME SUIT._--A proposal or its equivalent. _QUEEN OF SPADES AND ANY JACK._--Take care of the wiles of a woman well known to you. _TEN OF HEARTS AND NINE OF CLUBS._--A journey is awaiting you. _TEN OF HEARTS AND ACE OF SPADES._--A birth. _NINE OF HEARTS AND ACE OF CLUBS._--Your wishes will be fulfilled. _SEVEN OF HEARTS AND SEVEN OF CLUBS._--Your troubles are about to end. ZODIAC CARD READING Perhaps you do not know which is your lucky month. If you would like to find out, the following simple method is helpful. Take one or two packs of cards, according to the instructions below. Bridge cards are preferable as they are small. Then, cut twelve pieces of paper, each the size of one of the cards. On each piece, draw a sign of the Zodiac and arrange the pieces on the table, as shown in the diagram. It will be seen that the signs are placed in their monthly order from April to March and not from January to December. This order must be followed. [Illustration: No. 24.--The Arrangement of the Signs for Zodiacal Card Reading.] Next, find out your lucky number, as directed in the chapter "What is your Lucky Number?" For such numbers from one to four, one complete pack is needed; for numbers from five to eight, two packs are necessary. When nine is the lucky number, either use three packs or take two packs and shuffle in with the cards four pieces of paper, each the same size as a card, and on each write a heart, a club, a diamond or a spade. Shuffle the cards thoroughly and then deal them out, giving each sign of the Zodiac a card in turn. Lay on each sign as many cards as indicated by your lucky number, then stop. Look at the cards lying on each sign. Wherever you find more hearts than any other suit on a sign, take it as a portent that the month indicated by the sign is a lucky one for you. Of course, it is quite possible and even desirable that you may have more than one fortunate month. A BIRTHDAY MESSAGE FROM THE CARDS We have seen this fortunetelling game played at many parties and other gatherings, and it has always caused a good deal of innocent amusement. First of all, an ordinary pack is taken and the court cards are withdrawn from it. They alone are used, while the numeral cards are put on one side. These court cards are shuffled and the players sit around the table. One of the players is appointed as the seer. He or she takes the twelve cards, spreads them out in a fan, face down, and the first player selects one. When this card is withdrawn from the fan, it is turned up. While everybody looks at the chosen card, the seer asks the player the date of his or her birth. On hearing the date, the seer notes whether it comes under the heading, spring, summer, autumn or winter. Then he reckons: (a) Any date in March, April or May as spring. (b) Any in June, July or August as summer. (c) Any in September, October or November as autumn. (d) Any in December, January or February as winter. Next, he looks down the appropriate section, given below, and reads out the message, according to the card which the player has withdrawn from the fan. That completes the business for the first player and the performance is gone through afresh, in exactly the same way, for the second and all subsequent people taking part in the game. Here are the messages provided by each card: Spring _KING OF HEARTS._--Kindness to an elderly person will result in financial gain to you. _QUEEN OF HEARTS._--A friendship will grow into love, quite unexpectedly. _JACK OF HEARTS._--You are advised not to marry the one that is good looking. _KING OF CLUBS._--You will have a love letter that will cause you some surprise. _QUEEN OF CLUBS._--Show more affection. Coldness is unlikely to bring you happiness. _JACK OF CLUBS._--Money will mean much in your matrimonial affairs. _KING OF DIAMONDS._--The one you look upon as your best friend is a "dark horse." _QUEEN OF DIAMONDS._--You are marked out for fortune's smile. _JACK OF DIAMONDS._--A light-haired woman is anxious to do you a good turn. _KING OF SPADES._--Be very charming to the person with blue eyes. _QUEEN OF SPADES._--You are shortly to come into money. _JACK OF SPADES._--A sudden change in domestic affairs is imminent. Summer _KING OF HEARTS._--An old acquaintance of whom you have lost sight will return into your life. _QUEEN OF HEARTS._--That for which you have been longing is not far off. _JACK OF HEARTS._--A telephone call will revive some old memories which will please you. _KING OF CLUBS._--Show your love and your love will be returned. _QUEEN OF CLUBS._--A stranger will assist you to good fortune. _JACK OF CLUBS._--You will attend a wedding and something will happen there which will surprise you. _KING OF DIAMONDS._--You are wanted overseas, but do not be in a hurry to accept the invitation. _QUEEN OF DIAMONDS._--You will find happiness most where money abounds. _JACK OF DIAMONDS._--You have remarkable powers which you are not fully using. _KING OF SPADES._--Your happiness lies in marriage. Treat the one who is to be your partner with consideration. _QUEEN OF SPADES._--Live more in the open air and many kinds of happiness will come of it. _JACK OF SPADES._--Be careful to hide your feelings. Autumn _KING OF HEARTS._--A close relation will share some good luck with you. _QUEEN OF HEARTS._--Friendship will change into love. _JACK OF HEARTS._--Get a move on and your luck will change. _KING OF CLUBS._--Don't let money stand in the way of your marriage. _QUEEN OF CLUBS._--Do not be surprised if an enemy relents and becomes a friend. _JACK OF CLUBS._--Try to forget your disappointment. Happiness is due from quite another quarter. _KING OF DIAMONDS._--Relatives are rising against you. Act fearlessly and they will recognize your sterling qualities. _QUEEN OF DIAMONDS._--You are marked out by the Fates to be the recipient of some very good fortune. _JACK OF DIAMONDS._--Within seventeen days or weeks, a startling offer is to be made to you. _KING OF SPADES._--Make a wish within the next hour and it shall be fulfilled within the next year. _QUEEN OF SPADES._--Avoid the one with the dark complexion. _JACK OF SPADES._--A late marriage will be more prosperous than an early one. Winter _KING OF HEARTS._--Good friends are ready to help you on the road to success. _QUEEN OF HEARTS._--Do not decide until you are quite certain. _JACK OF HEARTS._--Be cautious of the friends you make while dancing. _KING OF CLUBS._--Get out of the groove you are in and sail away to success. _QUEEN OF CLUBS._--A delightful adventure will pave the way to happiness. _JACK OF CLUBS._--Flirting never gave anybody any lasting happiness. Be more sober. _KING OF DIAMONDS._--Some good news is coming and the postman will bring it. _QUEEN OF DIAMONDS._--Keep your head and you will keep your lover. _JACK OF DIAMONDS._--You have too many strings to your bow and too many irons in the fire. _KING OF SPADES._--You are beloved by someone you least suspect. _QUEEN OF SPADES._--Your affairs will straighten out shortly and then you will understand. _JACK OF SPADES._--Your rival seems to be gaining successes, but wait. In a short space, they will collapse like a pack of cards. THE WISH CARD The nine of hearts has long been regarded as the wish card; that is to say, if a player wins this card, in any agreed manner, he or she will have a wish fulfilled. The most usual way to decide who is to be the lucky individual is for the players to sit around the table and for each to write down a wish on a slip of paper, and then to initial it. That done, the papers are collected and set aside to await the decision of the cards. The cards are dealt to the players in turn in the ordinary manner from a full pack. Just how many each person is to receive depends on the number of players, but all must have the same number, and each should be given as many as the pack allows. Thus, there will often be a few cards left over. These are set in the middle of the table and not used. When play starts, somebody begins by turning over the first card on his or her pack. If this is a numeral card, the next person follows by turning over the first card on his or her pack, and so the play continues round the table. But, if someone turns over a jack, the next person must pay that person one card, i.e., the card coming first on his pack. If a queen is turned over, the payment is the next two cards; if it is a king, the next three cards, while an ace requires the payment of the four next cards. The person playing the jack, queen, king or ace takes not only the cards paid but any that may be lying face upwards in front of the person paying. All paid cards are placed at the bottom of the receiver's pack. There is one point more to note; if, while in the act of paying, the payer turns over a jack, queen, king or ace his debt is cancelled, the previous player gets nothing and the next player has to enter upon the business of paying. As soon as one player has lost all his or her cards, the game stops and everybody glances through his or her pack to see who possesses the wish card, the nine of hearts. The lucky individual is then given the slip of paper on which his wish is written and must read it out loud. Not until it has been announced to all the company will the Fates take any consideration of it. OLD MAID The game known as "Old Maid" is a favorite that will continue to be played as long as cards exist. How it is played is within the knowledge of everybody, but the following variation is not so well-known, and it is certainly more exciting. Instead of taking out of the pack any of the queens, in this variation the Queen of Clubs is removed. Then, the passing on of cards from one player to another and the pairing, whenever possible, proceeds in the usual way. But a red queen can only be paired with the other red queen, which makes the Queen of Spades a troublesome card. Whoever is left with it at the end of the game is a very unfortunate old maid, since spades are the most unlucky cards of the whole pack. THE LAST CARD Have you some question that you want answered? It may be a question to do with love, marriage, health, finances, or almost anything. Here is a way to find the answer. [Illustration: No. 25.--The Last Card.] From a pack of playing cards, take out the four aces, the four twos, the four threes and the four queens--sixteen cards in all. Note that men use the four kings instead of the queens. Shuffle the sixteen cards and then spread them out on the table, face down. They should lie on the table in a mixed-up heap and not in an orderly pack. To start, pick any card from the heap, turn it over, and then, according to its value, place it in its proper position, as indicated by the formation shown in the diagram. Suppose, for instance, that it is a two of hearts; then it fills the space of the bottom left-hand corner; or if it is the queen of diamonds, it goes in the second space of the third row. When the first card is placed, pick at random a second card and put it in the position indicated for it in the diagram. Follow in the same way with all the other cards, from three to fifteen, but not with the sixteenth. This is the card which supplies your answer. If it is the queen (or king) of hearts, your answer will be "Certainly yes"; if it is the two of spades, it is "Certainly not." The other cards come between these two and supply answers varying from "yes" to "no." Their actual meanings are as follows:-- 1.--_QUEEN OF HEARTS._--Certainly yes. 2.--_ACE OF HEARTS._--Yes. 3.--_THREE OF HEARTS._--Probably yes. 4.--_TWO OF HEARTS._--A likelihood of yes. 5.--_QUEEN OF CLUBS._--It may be yes. 6.--_ACE OF CLUBS._--It is hopeful. 7.--_THREE OF CLUBS._--If you are lucky, it will be yes. 8.--_TWO OF CLUBS._--It is fifty-fifty. 9.--_QUEEN OF DIAMONDS._--The chances are equal. 10.--_ACE OF DIAMONDS._--If you are unlucky, it will be no. 11.--_THREE OF DIAMONDS._--It is not hopeful. 12.--_TWO OF DIAMONDS._--It may be no. 13.--_QUEEN OF SPADES._--There is a likelihood of no. 14.--_ACE OF SPADES._--Probably no. 15.--_THREE OF SPADES._--No. 16.--_TWO OF SPADES._--Certainly no. Be very careful to decide the question before the cards are touched. MADAME LENORMAND'S METHOD Madame Lenormand, one of the most celebrated fortunetellers who has ever lived, had a method of divining people's futures by means of cards which we describe here. [Illustration: No. 26.--Madame Lenormand's "Lay-Out."] First, she decided on her client's matching card, in the way explained elsewhere in this chapter, and placed it on the table in the position marked 1, in the diagram. Next, she took the four aces, twos, threes, fours, fives and sixes from a pack, giving twenty-four cards, and allowed her client to shuffle them, which was followed by the same person cutting them with the left hand. Then Madame took the cards and arranged them around the matching card in the order shown in the diagram. The layout completed, she looked at the various cards and gathered information from their positions. It would be impossible for any ordinary person to derive as much information from them as she did, but we can follow the chief lines of her thoughts. This is how she reasoned: My client assumes the central position, and around her are positions 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9. Now what cards fill these stations? If there is an abundance of hearts, then friends surround her; if there is an abundance of spades, then enemies encompass her. If there are clubs or diamonds, then just ordinary people are flocking to her side. It will be seen that Madame gave little consideration to the clubs or diamonds, though she naturally preferred the former, and made her calculations largely on the positions of the hearts and spades. Broadly speaking, the nearer the hearts pressed around the matching card, the better were the fortunes of her client, the farther away were the hearts, the worse were the client's fortunes. Then, she considered an ace to have a stronger force than a two, and a two a stronger force than a three, and the six weakest of all. Thus an ace of hearts could more than neutralize the evil influences of a six of spades; but an ace of spades would be more than a match for the six of hearts. We advise you to follow Madame Lenormand's method and see how the cards dispose themselves in your favor. PATIENCE LUCK Many people who play games of patience a good deal are convinced that, if they are able to bring three different forms of patience to a successful conclusion on the same day, they only have to wish for something and the wish will be granted to them. The particular games they play are known as "Tens," "Demon" and "the Idiot's Delight." It must be understood that there is no necessity to be successful on the first trial of each of the games. Such a thing is almost impossible. What these devotees do is to go on playing until they bring out, say, the "Tens," and then they turn to either of the other two and work at it. Should they be so lucky as to get out all the three, then they formulate their wish and wait for it to come true. In case some readers do not know how to play these fascinating games, we will proceed to explain them. _TENS._--For this, two full packs are required. The cards are well shuffled and then a row of ten cards is dealt out on the table, face down. This done, another row of ten cards is laid out, also face down. Next, a third row is set out, but this time the cards are placed face up. The player looks at the ten face cards and throws out any aces. Then he builds up suits, as far as he can, by resting a card of opposite color, and of one degree lower in value, on some other card. Thus, a red goes on a black, a black on a red, a queen on a king, a two on a three, and so on. When the shifting of cards causes a file to have no face card in it, then the uppermost non-face card may be turned over, ready for being used. As soon as all the possible movements have been effected, a fresh set of ten cards is dealt out, one being placed on each file. The movements are recommenced. Note that not only can one suitable card be placed on another, but partial runs of cards may be so moved, as long as there is no broken sequence in them. Thus, a black two, a red three, a black four and a red five may be lifted in one operation on to a black six; but a red three, a black four, a black five may not be put on a red six. It is possible, however, to lift the red three and black four on to a red five, if such a card is available. Should a file become quite empty, with not even face-down cards in it, then it is possible to fill it with a king and any proper following sequence, should such a one be within reach in any other file. The use of this movement becomes apparent after a few games have been played. When the second lot of ten face cards has been dealt with, a third ten is set out, and other lots of ten are dealt in the same way, until the double pack, in hand, is exhausted. The aim of the game is to have no cards left in the lay-out, and this is obtained by building up sequences from "king" to "two" and, as soon as one of these complete sequences is formed, it is removed from the game. If, when all the two packs have been dealt out and all the possible movements of cards made, there are broken sequences left, then the game has failed and it is finished. In order to make the explanation absolutely clear, a diagram is given on this and the opposite page. It shows how the cards should be set on the table before any play is commenced. Naturally, the choice of the face cards is arbitrary. This is how the movements will be made: First, the ace of hearts is thrown aside and the card behind it is turned up. Then, the six of clubs (black) is placed on the seven of diamonds (red) and the five of hearts (red) is put on the six of clubs. The card immediately behind the six and, also, the one behind the five are turned face up. Next, the three of diamonds (red) is put on the four of clubs (black), and the card behind the three is turned up. But the four and the three can go on the five of hearts. So the card below the four is turned. In addition, the cards turned up by the movements of those mentioned may help to continue the sequences. [Illustration: No. 27.--The "Lay-Out" for Tens.] [Illustration: No. 28.--See Opposite.] _DEMON._--For this game, one pack of cards is required. After it has been thoroughly shuffled, four cards are placed in line, face up, and then thirteen cards are dealt, face down, in a stack. Some people call this stack the rubbish heap. Next, one card is turned up: it is known as the formation card. Before any more is done, the four cards placed in line are examined. Should one of them be of the opposite color to another, and of one degree lower in value, it is put on the higher card. Thus, a red ten goes on a black jack and a black queen on a red king, and so on. If at this point, or at any subsequent time in the game, one of the four files, originally formed by the four cards first set down, becomes vacant, then it is filled by taking a card from the rubbish heap. Now, let us think of the formation card. Naturally, there are three more of the same value in the pack. Whenever any of these three are discovered, they are placed beside the original formation card. The game is to get out the four formation cards and to build up on them in their proper sequence and in the same suit. Any card uncovered in the play, in building up the alternate sequences on the original files, or turned up from the rubbish heap, may be used for the purpose. When the lay-out has been arranged, the cards in hand are turned over in threes and used for file sequences or formation building. On reaching the end of the pack in hand, it is picked up and turned over in threes again. And this is continued as often as any cards may be used from the pack. When no more cards can be used, there is no point in turning over the threes any more and the game ceases. If the four formation cards have been found and built up with the twelve subsequent cards following them, the game has been successful; but when this is impossible the game has failed. Note that in a case where the formation card is, say, a six, it is built upon in the following order: seven, eight, nine, ten, jack, queen, king, ace, two, three, four and five. _THE IDIOT'S DELIGHT._--Here, again, one pack is needed. First, a line of nine cards is laid out, face up; followed by a line of eight cards; then one of seven, and others of six, five, four, three, two and one card. This gives the formation shown in the diagram. The aim of the player is to get out the four aces and to build upon them, in proper order and the same suits, until the kings are reached. If this is managed, the game is a success: if not, a failure. At the outset, the only cards that can be moved or used in any way are those shown black in the diagram. They are moved according to the following plan: a black six goes on a red seven, a red queen on a black king, and so on. Any number of cards can be placed one on top of the other, if moved one at a time, but it is not allowable to move a stack of two or more cards, except to place it in one of the top nine spaces, and then only when one of these spaces becomes vacant. [Illustration: No. 29.--The "Lay-Out" for The Idiot's Delight.] Two points remain for explanation: (1) When one of the cards, shown black in the diagram, is moved, the card above it comes into play and can be moved. (2) The "lay-out" does not take all the fifty-two cards. There are seven over. These can be used for making up sequences as and when desired. Now, if you can get these three games to work out successfully and do them the same day, not necessarily the first time you try, frame your wish, a reasonable one, of course, and await the issue with confidence. FORTUNETELLING GAMES THE ZODIAC WHEEL The wheel, illustrated on this page, is divided into a dozen sections, and each contains a symbol that stands for a Sign of the Zodiac. These signs greatly influence our lives. We were born under the rule of one of them, and it is the one that rules our own particular birth-date that we must specially note. [Illustration: No. 30.--The Zodiac Wheel.] To test _YOUR_ luck on almost any question, cut out the wheel and fix it to a wall or door, by forcing a pin through the center. Do this loosely so that the wheel will revolve freely when spun in the direction of the arrow. If it is desired to keep the book intact, copy the wheel on a sheet of stiff paper. The twelve sections are easily provided with the assistance of a pair of compasses and then the signs must be drawn, as they are done in the illustration. Before the wheel commences to rotate, blindfold yourself or if you can be sure of playing fairly, merely close your eyes. Then ask the wheel the question about which you desire information, and follow by touching the revolving symbols with some pointed instrument, such as a pencil. The pencil point will arrest the motion of the wheel and, also, it will touch one of the twelve sections. Be careful to keep the pencil from moving until your eyes are opened. Then, note the section which the pencil indicates. [Illustration: No. 31.--The Oracle] Take a long pencil, with a point. Place your hand high up above the oracle. Shut your eyes. Rotate the pencil three times and then bring the point down to the paper. Steady the pencil and keep it still: then open your eyes. If the pencil point rests within a circle, the number gives your age when you will be passing through a very lucky period of your life. If you are more than 20 years of age, add the additional years to the number found in the circle. This is how the wheel answers your question: The reply is "Yes," if the pencil touches your Zodiacal month sign. The reply is "Probably yes" if the pencil touches one of the sections on either side of your Zodiacal month sign. The reply is: There is a fair chance of the answer being "yes" if the pencil touches one of the sections two away from your Zodiacal month sign. The reply is "No" if the pencil touches the section directly opposite to your Zodiacal month sign. Thus VII is opposite to I, VIII is opposite to II, and so on. The other sections give no reading at all. Your Zodiacal month sign can be found from the following table: I _Aries_ Born between March 21 and April 19. II _Taurus_ " " April 20 and May 20. III _Gemini_ " " May 21 and June 21. IV _Cancer_ " " June 22 and July 22. V _Leo_ " " July 23 and Aug. 21. VI _Virgo_ " " Aug. 22 and Sept. 22. VII _Libra_ " " Sept. 23 and Oct. 23. VIII _Scorpio_ " " Oct. 24 and Nov. 22. IX _Sagittarius_ " " Nov. 23 and Dec. 21. X _Capricorn_ " " Dec. 22 and Jan. 20. XI _Aquarius_ " " Jan. 21 and Feb. 19. XII _Pisces_ " " Feb. 20 and Mar. 20. Note.--When the wheel is to be spun, the section that corresponds to the date must be placed in the "twelve o'clock" position. YOUR MARRIAGE MONTH Here is a very popular game which tells you in which month you should be married. There are two diagrams. The first is a frame, embellished with the signs of the Zodiac. Cut out the blank part in the center. The second diagram consists of two court cards. Cut them out separately, leaving the signs given on the edges. It will be seen that the two court cards fit into the Zodiacal frame. The game is based on the fact that the signs of the Zodiac are very powerful in watching over people's destinies. To play this game, place the Zodiacal frame on the table, close your eyes, and twist the frame round three or four times, or until you have no idea of the position of the signs. Then, take the two court cards and, while your eyes are still shut, shuffle them about on the table until you do not know which is which. Pick up either of them, whichever you prefer, but without seeing them, and then proceed to fit the card of your choice in the frame. You will be able to do this by the sense of touch. When you have set the card in the frame, open your eyes, and examine what you have done. If any sign on the card is immediately opposite the same sign on the frame, it indicates the month in which you are most likely to be married. When two signs on the card pair off with two signs on the frame, your choice lies between the two months suggested by the signs. On occasions there will be no signs on the card pairing off with the signs on the frame. These are the instances when the Fates are undecided. The belief is, however, that your marriage month is indicated by a sign on the card being duplicated by the same sign, one position to the right, on the frame. In saying "to the right," the intention is that the move be made in the same direction as the motion of the hands of a clock. [Illustration: No. 32.--Your Marriage Month.--The Frame.] [Illustration: No. 33.--Your Marriage Month.--The Court Cards.] THE DISCS OF FATE This is an excellent device for those who enjoy fortunetelling schemes. There are four discs and they all have to be cut out. While doing this care must be taken to preserve all the projections intact. Note that the white center of each disc must be removed. This is fairly easy to do if a pointed pencil is pushed carefully through the paper. When the four shapes are ready for use, slip them on to a long pencil, so near together that they are almost touching. See to it that the disc bearing the lucky devices is fitted on last. It will then hide the three others. The game consists in revolving the discs and, while they are turning, there is a likelihood that they will spread out on the pencil-axis. This can be avoided by slipping a rubber band on to the pencil in front of the discs, and another behind them. Leave just enough space for them to revolve comfortably. How to Consult the Discs Place the arrow projections, one at 3 o'clock, another at 6 o'clock, the third at 9 o'clock, and the remaining one at 12 o'clock. When all is ready, twirl your finger three or four times round the disc in the same direction as the hands travel round a clock face. Then, when the discs have come to rest, look at the cut-out space in the disc bearing the lucky symbols. Count up the numbers shown in this space and consult the lists below. Whatever message is attached to your number, so is your fate. It is well to remember that if any part of a projection comes within the disc-space, its particular number counts, whether it can be seen or not. The fact that the projection is visible is what matters. You can consult the discs on love, marriage or fortune, but you must decide which you are engaging before the discs are rotated. [Illustration: No. 34.--The Discs of Fate.] Love Answers 1.--Do not be cold. More affection will help on your cause. 2.--Take no thought of interfering relatives. Make up your own mind. 3.--A proposal is not far distant. Give it very careful consideration. 4.--A quarrel, followed by a speedy reconciliation, is predicted. 5.--A misunderstanding will cause a good deal of dissatisfaction; but all's well that ends well. 6.--A pleasant adventure will be experienced by you within the next twelve months. 7.--You are more successful than, apparently, you imagine. 8.--Make up your mind which one you want. There is danger ahead if you keep more than one hanging to your apron strings. 9.--Whatever is to happen will happen soon. Do not be taken unawares. 10.--What you think of him or her, he or she thinks of you. Marriage Answers 1.--The right person is the one you think. 2.--Marriage will not come suddenly upon you and it will come late. 3.--Do not let money matters enter into the considerations of your marriage. 4.--There will be certain ups and downs to navigate before the ceremony is arranged. 5.--Your marriage will be influenced by a person with dark eyes and dark hair. 6.--You ought not to hesitate. 7.--There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, so do not worry. 8.--Do not be in any hurry. Time is not precious and nothing is as important as knowing your own mind. 9.--More than likely, your own wedding will be influenced by some other wedding. 10.--Don't worry. Everything is progressing satisfactorily. Answers Regarding Your Fortunes 1.--Money will come to you, but not until you have worked hard to gain it. 2.--Expect some important change of position very soon. 3.--Somebody is about to lend you a helping hand. 4.--A large slice of luck will come your way before two moons have run their course. 5.--Do not be afraid to strike out of the old rut. 6.--You are placing too much faith in friends. Be more self-reliant. 7.--When you are least expecting it, you will get all you deserve, and more. 8.--Do not be too keen on experiments. Be thankful for what you already have. 9.--Avoid anything in the nature of "chance" where money is concerned. 10.--You will go on a journey and much benefit will come of it. THE LUCKY SQUARE This is a rattling good game for several players. First, give each person a sheet of paper and a pencil. On the paper, a large square has to be drawn, such as is used for crossword puzzles. Each side of the square is divided into six equal portions, and lines are drawn from side to side and from top to bottom. The figure is now a large square, divided into thirty-six small squares--six along any horizontal or vertical row. [Illustration: No. 35.--The Square required for this game.] The next thing is to exhibit a card on which is printed the following signs of the Zodiac: _ARIES_ _CANCER_ _TAURUS_ _VIRGO_ _PISCES_ _GEMINI_ _LIBRA_ The card is so placed that the players can see the names and refer to them during the game. When play starts, the first person chooses any letter he likes, but will probably select one which helps to spell one of the words set out above. He calls out the letter and all the players put it in one of the squares on their paper. That done, the next person selects any letter he chooses, and, on calling it out, all the players put it in another of the squares. The third person does similarly, and so do all the other players, until the game is stopped by someone or until all the thirty-six squares are filled. The aim of each player is to be the first to spell in consecutive squares, either horizontally or vertically, one of the names of the signs, as given on the card. And, naturally, the aim of the other players is to frustrate their opponents. Obviously, it is forbidden for one person to look at the attempt of another. The first player to complete a word cries "stop," and if he is adjudged correct, he has a wish granted to him. There is a good deal of skill needed in this game. Suppose the first competitor selects P as his letter. All the others know he is aiming for "Pisces" and player No. 2 then calls V. Clearly, he is trying for "Virgo." So player No. 3 quietly calls A which leaves him free to work on "Aries," "Cancer," "Taurus" or "Libra." Now, suppose No. 3 is working for "Aries," in calling, say I, he helps No. 1 to the I of "Pisces," and so on. WHEN IS YOUR WEDDING? Several ways are mentioned in this book of finding out which month is to bring you some particular portion of luck, and here it is proposed to describe a game of dominoes that tells you the month in which you are to be married. Nothing is told you about the year of your nuptials--merely the month, and it is an amusing game for unmarried people only. Get out the dominoes and ask an unmarried friend to take a hand with you. When you have played to the finish, the result will provide one of you with the name of your marriage month, whichever was previously decided on. Then, it is usual to play a second game, so that the second of you may receive enlightenment on the same point. The game is played in practically the ordinary way that one takes a hand at dominoes. All the cards from double-six to double-blank are shot on the table, pips down, and shuffled. Then, each player selects five cards at random and examines them. The player who is seeking information lays down any card he or she chooses and then the game consists in matching the two ends with other cards bearing a number that will match. This is done by the two players in turn. If at any point in the game one of the players while still holding a card cannot match at either end, he or she must draw cards, one by one, from the heap on the table, until it is possible to match, but one card must always be left in the heap. The game ceases when one player has disposed of all his or her cards, or when the game is shut (i.e., there are no more cards available that will match seeing that they have all been used) or when neither player can "go" and there is only one card left in the heap. As soon as the game is finished, the pips at the two ends of the formation are added together, and, whatever the addition happens to be, stands for the number of the month. Thus, if there is a five at one end and a two at the other, this gives an addition of seven, and the seventh month is July. It should be remembered that when a "double" card figures at one end, only the single number is reckoned; thus the total can never exceed twelve, as two sixes, one at either end, is the highest possible score. It will be very quickly appreciated that the thing to avoid is to stop the game with a blank at both ends. What this means will be perceived by all players. THE GAME OF LUCK L stands for Luck, and that is why the track of the game we are now discussing is arranged in the form of this letter. The game, shown on the next page, is played by two or more persons and the scores are decided by throwing a dice, each person taking a turn. Should any player arrive at one of the sections marked with a cross, he must go back to the nearest previous station which is a multiple of five; also, if he alights on a section marked with shaded lines, i.e. 15, 50 and 75, he goes forward to the next station which is a multiple of five. The balloons are so arranged that every player must eventually reach one of them. This is how his luck or fortune is determined: Whichever balloon is reached, the figures forming it are added up and the key is given below. 100 = 1 + 0 + 0 = 1.--You are a favored individual, who should find the world a very pleasant place. You are proud of yourself and your near relations, and you have a reputation amongst your friends that you value. Your worst fault is that you are prone to take yourself a little too seriously. 101 = 1 + 0 + 1 = 2.--You have a great deal of imagination and are not slow in recognizing how things will map out in the future. You can turn your hand to a good number of things and are, thus, a useful member of society. Your worst fault is that you are prone to believe too much of what irresponsible people tell you. 102 = 1 + 0 + 2 = 3.--You are a hard worker and you are likely to pull your weight in the world. You have an exploring nature and love to go about and see things. Your worst fault is that you are a trifle domineering and like to be obeyed. 103 = 1 + 0 + 3 = 4.--You have a facility for calculating and you have a head for business especially if figures play an important part. You are quick in most of the things you do. Your worst faults lie in the direction of grumbling and gossiping. 104 = 1 + 0 + 4 = 5.--You have a generous nature and are kindly and affectionate. In most ways, you are a clear thinker, but you have one fault. You are extravagant and must have whatever you desire at the moment, whether you can afford it or not. 105 = 1 + 0 + 5 = 6.--You have a charming personality, pleasing manners and are entertaining. You are excellent company and make an admirable friend. You will get on in the world, but, even so, you are not fond of hard work. 106 = 1 + 0 + 6 = 7.--You are a careful and patient worker: you are sincere and conscientious; you have an honest desire to get on in the world. Your greatest fault is that you lack a sense of humor and are totally unaware that life has a bright side. [Illustration: No. 36.--The Game of Luck.] A GAME FOR "GROWN-UP" PARTIES A good deal of fun can be obtained at "grown-up" parties by giving marks to the various players, according to their merits, as set out in some of the chapters of this book: then finding out who obtains the highest score and adjudging him or her the champion of the evening. The following details are suggested, but they may be, of course, altered in any way as thought desirable: _PALMISTRY._--First, every player's hand is examined, and the person with the longest Marriage line is awarded five points. Those with shorter lines are given four, three, two, one or no points, according to the length of their Marriage lines. The same process is then followed in the case of the Heart, Head and Fate lines. This accounts for a possible total of twenty marks. _BUMPS._--Second, the players take it in turn to have certain of their bumps read. For this, the chart of phrenology should be consulted and a maximum of five points awarded for the best development of the bumps numbered, on the chart, 2, 5, 6, 7 and 8. This, also, accounts for a possible total of twenty marks. _HANDWRITING._--Third, everybody is given a pen and paper, and asked to write three or four lines of any passage, taken from a newspaper, in the usual handwriting. Anyone who obviously disguises or distorts his or her writing can be dealt a low mark. When all have finished the papers are examined and assessed according to the hints printed under the heading "Qualities Shown in Handwriting, Alphabetically Arranged." The writing is tested for the following: Accuracy, Generosity, Ingenuity, Logic and Wit. As the papers take a little time to check, it is advisable for a helper to attend to them while the next item is progressing. If five marks are the highest awarded for each test, this will account for a further twenty marks. _THE ORACLE._--Fourth, turn to the Oracle on p. 138, and allow each person to rotate the pencil and strike a number, the eyes being shut during the performance. Give ten points to the player with the lowest score and deduct one point from ten for each successive score. This will account for a possible total of ten points. _THE ZODIAC WHEEL._--Fifth, the Zodiac Wheel is set up and each person, before being blindfolded, states the month in which he or she was born, and then asks a question. If the wheel answers "Yes," the player receives ten points; if the reply is "probably yes," then the player is awarded six points; while four points are given for the answer "there is a fair chance." Here the game may end or it may be continued, at will, by introducing further items. If the program we outline is adhered to, the total of possible marks is eighty. [Illustration: No. 37.--The Wish-Bone of a chicken will provide some good fun. Two rivals hold a tip with two fingers; but their fingers must not grasp higher up the shank than indicated by the arrows. Then they tussle to see who can snap off the larger part of the bone. The winner frames a wish which, of course, is sure to be granted.] THE LUCK OF WEDDINGS AND MARRIAGES It seems only natural that many superstitions should cluster around a bride and her wedding day, since from the dawn of civilization, if not the birth of humanity, all the world has loved a lover. Every act of hers, according to lore, is fraught with significance and attended by good or evil fortune, and she is hedged round on every hand by customs and conventions as old as the hills. LUCKY AND UNLUCKY TIMES The season of the year is an important consideration. She must avoid Lent if she hopes for good luck, but the forty days following Easter are supposed to be extremely fortunate for the celebration of nuptials; and so is June, which takes its name from Juno, the goddess who is generally regarded as the patroness of womankind. If she values her prospects of happiness, a bride will avoid May. The belief dates from the time of the Romans, who observed the Festival of the Dead at that time. All other religious ceremonies and observances were neglected for the time being, even the temples were closed, and those who contracted matrimony then were considered to be acting in defiance of the Fates, who revenged themselves on the foolhardy mortals. In Scotland the feeling against May marriages dates back to the time of that most fascinating and tragic figure in history, Mary Stuart, who married her third husband, the Earl of Bothwell, then aroused criticism by wearing blue and white, and lived so unhappily all the rest of her life. Superstitious people shook their heads at the temerity of King Alfonso and Princess Ena of Battenberg, who elected to be married on May 31, and were the objects of a dastardly attempt on their lives whilst on their way back to the palace. WHEN TO MARRY Marry when the year is new, Always loving, kind, and true. When _FEBRUARY_ birds do mate You may wed or dread your fate. If you wed when _MARCH_ winds blow Joy and sorrow both you'll know. Marry in _APRIL_ when you can-- Joy for maiden and for man. Marry in the month of _MAY_ You will surely rue the day. Marry when _JUNE_ roses blow Over land and sea you'll go. They who in _JULY_ do wed, Must labor always for their bread. Whoever wed in _AUGUST_ be Many a change are sure to see. Marry in _SEPTEMBER'S_ shine Your living will be rich and fine. If in _OCTOBER_ you do marry Love will come, but riches tarry. If you wed in bleak _NOVEMBER_, Only joy will come, remember. When _DECEMBER_ snows fall fast Marry and true love will last. Another poet has given us a different version of the same theme: Married in January's frost and rime, Widowed you'll be before your time; Married in February's sleety weather, Life you'll tread in tune together; Married when March winds shrill and roar, Your home will lie on a foreign shore; Married 'neath April's changeful skies, A checkered path before you lies; Married when bees or May-blooms flit, Strangers around your board will sit; Married in queen-rose month of June, Life will be one long honeymoon; Married in July's flower-banks' blaze Bitter-sweet memories in after days; Married in August's heat and drowse, Lover and friend in your chosen spouse; Married in gold September's glow, Smooth and serene your life will flow; Married when leaves in October thin, Toil and hardship for you begin; Married in veils of November mist, Fortune your wedding ring has kissed; When December's snows fall fast Marry and true love will last. THE LUCKY WEDDING DAY Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all; Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, Saturday no luck at all. MARRIAGE DAY SUPERSTITIONS Superstitions and customs vary greatly in different countries and periods, but they all bear somehow a strong family resemblance. For instance, one old English proverb runs: "Blest be the bride that the sun shines on," yet in Germany a bride prays for rain, believing that a new joy comes with each raindrop, and that then all her tears will be shed before, and not after, her wedding. There, too, it used to be the custom to take a lot of old dishes to the door of the bride's house and break them to pieces in the street, and if by any chance one escaped, it was accepted as a bad omen. In China, however, when a marriage was being arranged, and any article of value, such as a vase or a bowl, was broken the ceremony was postponed. At the wedding feast in Scandinavia someone makes a speech or sings a song, which ends up in a tremendous noise, and this is the signal for a general peal of laughter and for the guests to present their congratulations to the newly-wedded couple. The Slavs pour a tankard of beer over the bridegroom's horse for luck, and in the North of England, the maid pours a kettle of hot water over the doorstep to ensure that another wedding will take place ere long from the same house. A curious idea among the Burmese is that people born on the same day of the week must not marry, and that if they defy the Fates their union will be marked by much ill-luck. To prevent these disastrous marriages, every girl carries a record of her birthday in her name, each day of the week having a letter belonging to it, and all children are called by a name that begins with that letter. In New Guinea it is always Leap Year, for in that island the men consider it to be beneath their dignity to notice women, much less to make overtures of marriage to them. The proposing is left to the women to do. When a New Guinea woman falls in love with a man she sends a piece of string to his sister, or, if he has no sister, to his mother or some other lady relative. Then the lady who receives the string tells the man that the particular woman is in love with him. No courting, however, follows. If he thinks he would like to wed the woman he meets her alone and they arrange matters. OMENS OF GOOD OR ILL There are so many things for good or ill which the bride herself must or must not do that she would have a very anxious time keeping them all in mind if she is very superstitious. These customs begin on the eve of her wedding, when, for luck, she steps on a chair, and then mounts the table to ensure good fortune and a rise in the world. On the morning of the day--the happy day--if she should be awakened by the singing or chirping of a bird, even of a sparrow, or by swallows sweeping past her lattice at dawn, she may accept these as signs of great good luck. She must be careful, however, not to break anything, particularly the heel of her slipper, as such things spell disagreement and trouble with her new relations. A cat mewing betokens the same undesirable state of affairs, so she would be wise to see that it has its breakfast in time. If it sneezes, that means the best of luck. The bride must not gaze on her reflections, however pleasing, in the mirror, after she has fully dressed. If she happens to do so, then she must put another pin in her veil, button her glove, or make some addition to her toilette, to avert evil consequences. The girl who keeps a pin removed from the bridal veil is not supposed to get married, and yet in Brittany the girl who secures one, makes sure of a speedy marriage. If a small spider is found in the folds of the bridal gown or trousseau, it is accepted as an excellent sign that money will never be wanting in the family, but the spider should not be killed: it must be taken out of doors. Under no circumstances may the bride read or listen to the reading of the wedding service immediately before the ceremony, not even on the day previous. She must not try on her wedding ring, and if it falls during the ceremony woe betide her. It is considered unlucky to pass a funeral on the way to church, or to meet a monk, a pig, a hare, a lizard or a serpent. On the other hand, it is a happy omen to encounter a lamb or a dove, as both of these are emblems of Christ, and the only forms into which the Evil One cannot enter, according to mediaeval superstition. A storm of thunder and lightning during the service is regarded as fateful, and so is an open grave in the churchyard. In entering the church and returning to her home or the place where the reception is held, the bride should step with her right foot first. If she sees her groom before he sees her, she will rule him absolutely, but if he forestalls her glance, then he will be the master. The bride and bridegroom are not supposed to meet each other until they do so at the altar, and in former times a bride did not appear at breakfast, or even emerge from her room, until she was fully attired and ready to go to church. The forward individual who steals the first kiss before the bridegroom has had a chance to do so is supposed to ensure good luck throughout the year. It was wont to be the prerogative of the clergyman, but it seems a trifle hard on the newly-made husband. THE ORIGIN OF MARRIAGE CUSTOMS Since marriage is usually regarded as the chief event of life, for a woman at least, and as most women are highly superstitious, it is not surprising to find that every detail surrounding the auspicious occasion is enveloped in a web of legendary lore. _THE BRIDAL WREATH._--In ancient times in England bride and bridegroom alike wore wreaths conserved specially for their use in church, and in the thirteenth century the bridal chaplet frequently consisted of ears of corn--signifying plenty. Rosemary was considered lucky in Shakespeare's day. "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance." _ORANGE BLOSSOM._--These spotless blossoms, which betoken purity and innocence, and are symbolical of a prosperous life, are supposed to have been first brought by pilgrims from the Holy Land, and thereby possess a religious significance. _THE BRIDE'S VEIL._--This was originally a fine piece of cloth held over the couple during the ceremony. Later on it was only held over the bride, as it was supposed she was more in need of it than her bridegroom, and so it became part of her attire. In Ireland the old custom still prevails of a sprig of mistletoe, or a twig of hawthorn, being used to keep her veil in place. _THE WEDDING RING._--Since earliest times the giving or exchanging of rings cemented any and every contract. Amongst the early Christians, the thumb and first two fingers typified the Trinity, and the husband placed the ring on his wife's finger in the threefold Holy name. Some authorities believed that the third finger of the left hand was connected by a nerve or artery with the heart, hence its choice for this purpose. _THE BRIDE'S CAKE._--This important part of the wedding feast has come down to us from the Romans, who baked one compounded of flour, salt, and water, which was partaken of by the bridal pair and their friends as they witnessed the wedding contract. _THE BRIDE'S DOWRY._--The phrase "with all my worldly wealth I thee endow" dates back to primitive times when a man bartered so many head of cattle for his bride. This money, known as "dow," or "dower," was originally handed over during the ceremony, and in the course of centuries the bride's father provided its equivalent either in money or kind. Later still the bride herself spun the linen for her portion, and was not regarded as eligible for wifehood until she had stocked a chest with her handiwork. The term spinster arose in this way, and if a girl's marriage was delayed until she was of mature age she occasionally sold the contents of her linen chest and set aside the proceeds as her dowry. The box, with a lid which is to be found in old-fashioned chests and trunks, was destined as a receptacle for money thus earned and earmarked. _THE GOING AWAY._--The rice and confetti thrown after the newly-wedded couple signifies fruitfulness and plenty, and the flowers, usually roses from which the thorns have been extracted, bestrewing their path denoted happiness, just as the orange blossom and the myrtle of the bridal bouquet were emblems of constancy and never-dying love. _THROWING OLD SHOES._--In Anglo-Saxon marriages the bride's father presented his daughter's shoe to her bridegroom, who touched her on the head with it to remind her that he was now her master. Then the throwing of shoes came to be considered a sign of good luck. "Nowe, for goode lucke caste an olde shoe after mee." The custom, too, is symbolical of the parting of the new life from the old, or of shaking the dust of a place from one's feet and severing all connection with it. _A TEAR HANDKERCHIEF._--In some parts of the Tyrol a beautiful old custom is still observed. When the bride is starting for the church, her mother gives her a fine handkerchief, woven for the purpose of the best linen possible. This is called the "Tear-Kerchief," and with it the girl is supposed to dry the tears she will naturally shed on leaving home. After the marriage-day the "Tear-Kerchief" is folded up carefully and laid in the linen closet, where it remains till its owner's death; then it is taken out and spread over her face. THE BRIDAL DRESS Something old, something new, Something borrowed, something blue. So runs the ancient rhyme regarding the bride's wedding dress. White is the popular wear, and has been for several centuries, but previously yellow, pink, and a brilliant scarlet were frequently chosen, unless by a girl named Mary, who was expected to wear blue, the Virgin's sacred color. Some years ago, the daughter of a duke, who was united in marriage to a commoner, shocked society by insisting on a "green" wedding. In less than a year, she and her baby were buried in the family tomb. WHICH COLOR Married in white, you have chosen aright. Married in green, ashamed to be seen. Married in grey, you will go far away. Married in red, you will wish yourself dead. Married in blue, love ever true. Married in yellow, ashamed of your fellow. Married in black, you will wish yourself back. Married in pink, your spirits will sink. Married in brown, you'll live out of town. Married in pearl, you'll live in a whirl. THE BRIDEGROOM The groom, as the secondary figure in the day's ceremonies, escapes very easily as far as superstition goes, and may do pretty well what he pleases, save letting his hat or the ring drop, both of which are very unlucky. He should carry a tiny horseshoe in his pocket, and fee the clergyman with an odd sum of money. No one ought to hand him or his bride a telegram on the way to church, and if he wishes to be master in his own house, then he must take care to see her before she has time to catch a glimpse of him ere arriving at the altar. MARRIAGE PROVERBS Happy is the wooing that's not long in doing. Marrying for love is risky, but God smiles on it. The married man must turn his staff into a stake. Mary in May, rue for aye. Marry in Lent, live to repent. Advent marriage doth deny, but Hilary gives thee liberty: Septuagesima says thee nay, eight days from Easter says you may: Rogation bids thee to contain, but Trinity sets thee free again. Happy is the bride that the sun shines on. My son's my son till he gets him a wife. To change the name and not the letter is to change for the worse and not the better. Wedlock's a padlock. He who marrieth does well; but he who refrains from marriage doth better. Needles and pins; needles and pins, When a man marries, his trouble begins. Honest men marry soon, Wise men not at all. Marry in haste: repent at leisure. He who repents him not of his marriage, sleeping and waking, in a year and a day, may lawfully go to Dunmow and fetch a gammon of bacon. It will not always be a honeymoon. Keep your eyes wide open before marriage and half shut afterwards. Lips, however rosy, need feeding. Marriage with peace is the world's paradise: with strife, this life's purgatory. Marry above your match, and you get a good master. Marry for love and work for silver. Marriages are made in heaven. Don't marry for money, but seek where money is. A man may not wive, and also thrive all in the same year. Better be half hanged than ill wed. He that marries for wealth sells his liberty. He that marries late, marries ill. He that is needy when he is married shall be rich when he is buried. Better have an old man to humor than a young rake to break your heart. Marry your sons when they will; your daughters when you can. Marry your daughters betimes, lest they marry themselves. Two heads are better than one, or why do folks marry? FOLKLORE AND SUPERSTITIONS OF THE MONTHS JANUARY This month is so called in honor of the god Janus, who is always depicted with two faces or heads, one to look forwards, the other backwards. His work was to preside over the beginning of any new thing and, ever since his time, people have invoked his aid and sympathy when they have been setting out on some new enterprise. On New Year's Day, the Romans gave presents to one another, much as we do at Christmas, but accompanying the gifts was usually a small copper token showing the double head of Janus. To possess one of these tokens ensured prosperity when commencing some new work, and it was supposed to carry enterprises already started, but not yet finished, to a successful conclusion. The accompanying illustration gives a reproduction of one of the tokens used. [Illustration: No. 38.--Janus, the Two-Headed God. On New Year's Day the Romans gave copper medallions bearing this device to their friends. To possess such a medallion was a sure way to be lucky in commencing any new piece of work or any new enterprise.] _NEW YEAR SUPERSTITIONS._--Endless are the superstitions which have gathered around the dawn of the New Year, which, although neither a Christian nor a Church festival, afford sober reflection to many. In several districts, the custom known as "first-footing" is still common. People wait until the old year has been rung out and then they call on their friends to wish them a happy new year. They must not go empty-handed, however, or this will provide a lean year for the friends. A cake will ensure abundance, a red herring stands for luck, and the gift of even the smallest coin is a certain portent that a lucky financial year is opening. While anyone is free to pay these visits, it is much the happiest omen if the caller be a man, a dark-haired man, and if he takes with him a lump of coal and a fish. Any fish serves the purpose--even a tin of sardines. Let a man, answering these requisites, be the first to cross the threshold of your door, after the old year has gone, and there is no better way of entering on the new year. Another custom, which has many supporters, is to tidy up the house, to build up the fires and to open wide the front door, just when the old year is departing. The open door allows the exhausted year to make its exit completely. It is then supposed to take with it anything savoring of ill-fortune. The tidy house welcomes the new year in a spirit of brightness and gladness. For a clock to stop just as the new year is coming in, or to be found to have stopped then, is an ill omen. Therefore, householders have long been careful to give an eye to their timepieces some little while before. Weather-lore regarding the new year is plentiful. Here is a well-known rhyme: If on New Year's night wind blow south, It betokeneth warmth and growth: If west, much milk and fish in the sea: If north, much cold and snow there will be: If east, the trees will bear much fruit: If north-east, flee it, man and brute. January has been described as follows: The blackest month in all the year Is the month of Janiveer. In Janiveer, if the sun appear, March and April will pay full dear. If January calends be summerly gay, It will be winterly weather till the calends of May. (The calends, it may be explained, were the first days of the months.) _ST. PAUL'S DAY_ (January 25th) If St. Paul's Day be faire and cleare, It doth betide a happy year: But if by chance it then should rain, It will make deare all kinds of graine: And if ye clouds make dark ye sky, Then meate and fowles this year shall die: If blustering winds do blow aloft, Then wars shall trouble ye realm full oft. FEBRUARY February derives its name from Februare--to expiate, to purify. In this connection, it is interesting to note that on the 2nd of the month falls Candlemas Day, which is the purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary. _CANDLEMAS DAY_ (February 2nd) (a) If Candlemas Day be fair and bright, Winter will have another flight: But if Candlemas Day brings clouds and rain, Winter is gone and won't come again. (b) If Candlemas Day be fine and clear, Corn and fruits will then be dear. (There'll be twa winters in the year.) _ST. VALENTINE'S DAY_ (February 14th).--Like so many of our old observances, the festival of St. Valentine dates from the time of the Romans, but the Church rechristened the custom and called it after one or two saints of the name, both of whom were martyred, one in the third and the other in the fourth century. Latterly, the day has been dedicated to Cupid by fond lovers who believe it to be the date on which each bird chooses its mate. The poet Drayton sings:-- Each little bird this tide Doth choose her loved peer, Which constantly abide In wedlock all the year. Charms and omens are in favor on St. Valentine's Eve. Maidens decorate their pillows with five bay leaves and firmly believe that, if they dream of their lover then, they will be married to him in the course of the year. Another fancy is that the first person of the opposite sex whom one encounters, that morning is destined to be one's husband or wife. Naturally, there must be some sort of friendship in view previously. A weather prophecy regarding February runs:-- All the months in the year Curse a fair Februeer. February fill the dyke, Weather, either black or white. If February gives much snow, A fine summer it doth foreshow. In Cornwall, there is a proverb, "A February spring is not worth a pin," and the same thought is expressed in Wales by the saying that "The Welshman had rather see his dam on the bier than to see a fair Februeer." MARCH March was given its name by the Romans in honor of Mars, the God of War, as at this time of the year the weather was such that it enabled them to begin their campaigns after the worst of the winter was over. The Saxons called this month _LENET MONAT_, meaning "length month," in reference to the lengthening of the days. Several weather prophecies refer to March:-- (a) A peck of March dust and a shower in May Make the corn green and the fields gay. (b) As many mists in March you see, So many frosts in May will be. (c) A peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom. (d) March damp and warm Will do farmers much harm. (e) Eat leeks in March and garlic in May, And all the year after physicians may play. (f) March search, April try, May will prove whether you live or die. (g) If on St. Mary's Day (March 25th) it's bright and clear Fertile 'tis said will be the year. (h) A dry and cold March never begs its bread. (i) A frosty winter, a dusty March, a rain about Averil, another about the Lammas time (Aug. 1st), when the corn begins to fill, is worth a plough of gold. (j) March flowers make no summer bowers. (k) March winds and April showers bring forth May flowers. (l) Whatever March does not want, April brings along. (m) On Shrove Tuesday night, though thy supper be fat, Before Easter Day thou mayst fast for all that. APRIL The word April is probably derived from the Latin, _Aperio_, I open, since spring generally begins and Nature unfolds her buds in this month. April is regarded as the most sacred month in the calendar of the Church, since it usually includes Good Friday, on which day blacksmiths once refused to work owing to the fact that one son of Vulcan made the nails for the Crucifixion. _FIRST OF APRIL._--The great majority of the old-time customs which clustered round this day and contributed a dash of gaiety and humor to the more prosaic, everyday life of the community, have fallen into the limbo of forgotten things, and the day is chiefly remembered by schoolchildren, who exercise their juvenile ingenuity in playing pranks on their fellows. The most careful research has failed to ascertain the exact origin of these observances, and someone has hazarded the theory that they began with the advent of the second man on earth, who sought to try the effects of a practical joke on the first. Anyhow, a form of fooling may be traced to the time of the Roman Empire, but little mention of such a thing is to be found in English literature until the eighteenth century, although "Hunting the Gowk," the sending of some half-witted youth, the village idiot, on some utterly absurd errand from house to house, was long before then a favorite pastime in Scotland, and in France, too. A weather prophecy for this day runs: If it thunders on All Fools Day, It brings good crops of corn and hay. _SIMNEL OR MOTHERING SUNDAY._--It is a very old custom to make rich cakes during Lent and Easter, which are known as Simnel cakes. In South Lancashire the fourth Sunday of Lent is known as Simnel or Mothering Sunday, and young people provide themselves with delicious cakes "'gainst they go a-mothering." The sons and daughters present these to their mothers, who in turn regale their families with "furmenty" or "frumenty," derived from froment (wheat), as the dish was made of wheat and milk, with the addition of a few raisins. For children to fail in paying this compliment to their mothers is sometimes taken as a sign that they will have no further opportunity of doing so. _GOOD FRIDAY._--It is a misnomer to name the world's blackest Friday thus, but the words are a corruption of _GOD'S FRIDAY_. Many quaint and curious customs are connected with its celebration, the origins of which are not merely secular but pagan, as well. For instance, the worship of Terminus, the Romans' pagan god, has still left its mark on Christian England, where, in certain parishes, the custom known as "beating the bounds" is still kept up. Terminus decreed that everyone possessing land should mark the boundaries with stones and pay honor to Jupiter once a year. Failure to do this would invoke the wrath of Jupiter and the crops growing on the land would be blighted. Good Friday or the days previous were marked out for the ceremony. A wet Good Friday has always been considered favorable for crops, although people on pleasure bent will think otherwise: "A wet Good Friday and a wet Easter Day foreshows a fruitful year." It may be useful to add here a saying about the day previous to Good Friday; it runs, "Fine on Holy Thursday, wet on Whit-Monday. Fine on Whit-Monday, wet on Holy Thursday." _HOT-CROSS BUNS._--Hot-cross buns may be either a survival of the sacred cakes offered in the temples to the gods, or of the unleavened bread eaten by the Jews at the Passover. Bread marked with crosses was common in ancient Egypt before the days of Christianity. It is an old belief that the eating of buns on this day protects the house from fire, and other virtues are ascribed to them. For instance, to eat such a bun grants a wish that you may be anxious to realize. _EASTER._--This name is derived from _Eoster_, the goddess of light and of spring, in whose honor a festival was held in the month of April. Few, if any of the old customs observed at this time still survive. Eggs, as being the emblem of the Resurrection, are peculiar to the feast of Easter, and it is lucky to eat them on the morning of Easter Sunday. At one time, paschal candles were lit to signify the Resurrection of our Lord. These were of colossal size, and each church seemed to vie with its neighbor as to which should have the largest. Easter Sunday was known as Joy Sunday, and was celebrated by gifts to the poor and the liberation of prisoners. It was a time when all differences of opinion should be swept aside and enemies should be forgiven. To harbor enmity against others was to ensure a time of blackness for oneself. Many curious customs used to be observed. Most of them have fallen into decay, but in some parts of the country bouquets in the form of balls are still presented, and graves are decorated with sweet spring flowers. Weather observances are numerous:-- (a) April weather. Rain and sunshine both together. (b) If the first three days in April be foggy, Rain in June will make the lanes boggy. (c) If Christmas is snow, Easter is mud. (d) If Easter is late, there will be a long, cold spring. (e) A dry April, not the farmer's will. April wet is what he would get. (f) When April blows his horn (i.e., thunders), It's good for hay and corn. MAY Some authorities maintain that the month takes its name from Maia, the mother of the god Hermes or Mercury; others claim that it comes from Majores or Maiores, the Senate of the first constitution of Rome. _WHITSUNTIDE._--Whitsuntide, which shares pride of place in the Church Calendar with Christmas and Easter, is closely connected with the Jewish feast of Pentecost, which became identified with one of the great summer festivals of the pagan inhabitants of Western Europe, and this idea is borne out by the fact that Whitsuntide has always been the most popular festival period of the year. It was commonly celebrated in all parts of the country by what was termed Whitsun ale, which was usually consumed under the auspices of the churchwardens in some barn near the church, when all assembled agreed to be good friends for once in the year and spend the day in "sober" joy. The day was a prolonged picnic, for each parishioner brought what victuals he could spare. The squire and his lady came with their pipe and taborer, the young folk danced or played at bowls, and the old looked on while they sipped their ale, which was brewed fairly strong for the occasion and sold by the churchwardens for the repairs of the church. During the Middle Ages, Whitsun services were marked by some curious customs, one of which was the letting down of a dove from the roof, another the dropping of balls of fire, of rose leaves, and the like. _THE MORRIS DANCES._--Whitsuntide was pre-eminently the time for the performance of the Morris dances, which some suppose derive their name from the Spanish Moriseo, a Moor, and the dance was originally identified with the fandango. Others believed them to be connected with one of the season's pagan observances prevalent amongst primitive communities and associated in some mysterious manner with the fertilization and slaughter of all living things. Usually the Morris dances were only performed at special seasons once or twice a year, and in some districts they were only indulged in at Christmas. It is highly significant, and bears out the belief in the religious origin of the movement, that the first of the Whitsuntide dances in some villages was performed on the top of the tower of the church. Lucky indeed were those who took part in these church-top revels, for they were certain to be free of the devil's attentions for some while to come. Weather lore affirms the following:-- (a) Dry May Brings nothing gay. (b) Mist in May, heat in June, Makes the harvest come right soon. (c) Shear your sheep in May, And shear them all away. (d) Change not a clout Till May be out. (e) A dry May and a leaking June Make the farmer whistle a merry tune. (f) A May wet was never kind yet. (g) For an east wind in May, 'Tis your duty to pray. (h) Fogs in February mean frosts in May. (i) Who shears his sheep before St. Gervatius' Day (May 13th), loves more his wool than his sheep. JUNE June owes its name to Juno, the goddess of heaven, who takes a special interest in women and protects their interests. She is supposed to accompany every woman through life, from the moment of her birth to her death. Little wonder, then, that the women of ancient times considered that, by propitiating Juno, their fortunes were assured. This they usually did on their birthdays. Midsummer Day (June 24th) is sacred to the memory of John the Baptist, and the ceremonies practised at this season in the Middle Ages were partly relics of the saints and partly relics of old sun worship. Great fires of wood or bones blazed on every mountain top, and were supposed to be typical of the saint, who was called a burning and a shining light. These Beltane fires burned often on bare, flat rocks, not only in England, Scotland, and Ireland, but on the Alps, the Hartz Mountains, and elsewhere. It was a great thing to be present at or in view of one of these fires, for the evil spirit was dispelled by the potency of the light and flames. Rhymes regarding June:-- (a) A dripping June Brings all things in tune. (b) If St. Vitus' Day (June 14th) be rainy weather, It will rain for thirty days together. (c) He who bathes in May will soon be laid in clay; He who bathes in June will sing a merry tune; But he who bathes in July will dance like a fly. (d) Look at your corn in May, And you will come weeping away: Look at the same in June, And you'll sing a merry tune. (e) June, damp and warm, does the farmer no harm. (f) If it rains on Midsummer Eve, the filberts will be spoilt. JULY This month was so named in honor of Julius Caesar, whose birth-month it was. The Saxons called it Hey Monat on account of the hay harvest. The following old sayings regarding July may be noted with interest:-- (a) A shower of rain in July, When the corn begins to fill Is worth a plough of oxen And all belonging theretill. (b) Ne'er trust a July sky. (c) Whatever July and August do not boil, September cannot fry. (d) If the first of July it be rainy weather, It will rain more or less for four weeks together. (e) Dog days bright and clear Indicate a happy year. But when accompanied by rain, For better times our hopes are vain. (The dog days are from July 3rd to Aug. 11th.) (f) St. Swithin's Day, if ye do rain, For forty days it will remain. St. Swithin's Day an ye be fair, For forty days 'twill rain nae mair. (St. Swithin's Day is July 15th.) (h) Whoever eats oysters on St. James's Day will never want money. (July 25th.) AUGUST Augustus Caesar, not to be behind Julius, named this month in honor of himself. He was born in September, and it may seem strange that he did not bestow his name on that month; but he preferred August as a number of lucky incidents befell him then, and he gained several important victories. Rhyming prophecies regarding this month are as follows:-- (a) If Bartlemy's Day (Aug. 24th) be fair and clear, Hope for a prosperous autumn that year. (b) Dry August and warm, Doth harvest no harm. (c) Yet there is a saying that "A wet August never brings dearth." (d) On St. Mary's Day (Aug. 15th) sunshine Brings much good wine. (e) So many August fogs, So many winter mists. (f) Mud in May means bread in August. (g) After Lammas (Aug. 1st) the corn ripens as much by night as by day. (h) As the Dog days commence, so they end. (The Dog days are from July 3rd to Aug. 11th.) (i) All the tears that St. Swithin can cry, St. Bartlemy's dusty mantle wipes dry. (St. Swithin's Day is July 15th, and St. Bartlemy's Day Aug. 24th.) SEPTEMBER September takes its name from the Latin word, _septem_, meaning seven. It was the seventh month of the year as long as March was constituted the first month. The Saxons named it Gerst Monat, or barley month, because they reaped the barley then. Sayings regarding the month:-- (a) If it be fair on the First, it will be fair all the month. (b) A wet June makes a dry September. (c) September blow soft, Until the fruit is in the loft. (d) If Matthew's Day (Sept. 21st) is bright and clear There will be good wine in the coming year. (e) If the hart and the hind meet dry and part dry on Rood Day Fair (Sept. 14th), for six weeks there will be no more rain. (f) If on September 19th there is a storm from the south, a mild winter is certain. (g) If it does not rain on St. Michael's (Sept. 29th) and Gallus (Oct. 16th), a dry spring is certain for the coming year. (h) If St. Michael's (Sept. 29th) brings many acorns, Christmas will cover the fields with snow. (i) So many days old the moon on Michaelmas Day (Sept. 29th), so many floods after. (j) Michaelmas chickens and parsons' daughters never come to good. OCTOBER October is so called from being the eighth month in the old Latin calendar. _ALL HALLOW E'EN._--Hallow E'en, the vigil of All Saints' Day, was wont to be a season of merry gathering and quaint observances, especially where lovers were concerned. It is still kept up with great success in Scotland. Propitious omens were sought. Nuts, for instance, were burnt in pairs. If they lay still and burned together, it meant a happy marriage, but if they flew apart, the lovers would not live in harmony. All sorts of charms were practised. Girls pared apples and sought to discern an initial in the shape the peel assumed. The apple had to be peeled in one strip without any break, and the whole strip was then thrown over the left shoulder. Also, they stuck an apple pip on each cheek, and that which fell off first indicated that the love of him whose name it bore was unsound. The customs varied with the locality, but many of them were not unlike the rites of St. Valentine's Day. Burns's poem enshrined most of the Scottish practices, such as throwing a ball of blue yarn into a kiln, winding it in a new one off the old, and, as the end was approached, the maiden enquired, "Who holds?" and a voice from the kiln-pot gave her the name of her future spouse. Some girls took a candle into a dark room and peered into a looking glass while they ate an apple or combed their hair, and saw the face of their true love looking over their shoulder. Others went out into the garden in couples, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pulled the first kail-runt or plant they came to. According to its being big or little, straight or crooked, it was regarded as prophetic of the kind of man they would marry. If the heart of the stem was soft or hard, so would be the man's nature, and, if any earth adhered to the root, it signified "tocher" or fortune. October prophecies:-- (a) If October brings much frost and wind, Then are January and February mild. (b) Dry your barley in October and you will always be sober. (c) In October manure your field, And your land its wealth shall yield. (d) October never has more than fifteen fine days. NOVEMBER November was the ninth month according to the old Latin calendar. It was known as Wint Monat, or wind month, by the Saxons, as the stormy weather then experienced prevented the Vikings putting to sea and attacking their shores. It was sometimes called Blot Monat, or blood month, as it was then customary to kill large numbers of cattle and salt them for winter use. November prophecies: (a) If ducks do slide at Hollantide (Nov. 11th), At Christmas they will swim. If ducks do swim at Hollantide, At Christmas they will slide. (b) At St. Martin's Day (Nov. 11th), Winter is on the way. (c) Set trees at Allhallo'n-tide (Nov. 1st), and command them to grow. Set them at Candlemas (Feb. 2nd) and beg them to prosper. (d) Where the wind is on Martinmas Eve, (Nov. 10th), there it will be for the rest of the winter. (e) If there be ice that will bear a duck before Martinmas (Nov. 11th), there will be none that will bear a goose all the winter. (f) Wind north-west at Martinmas (Nov. 11th), severe winter to come. (g) As at Catherine (Nov. 25th), foul or fair, so will be the next February. DECEMBER _Decem_ means ten and December was the tenth month of the early Roman calendar. Probably it has had more names conferred upon it than any other of the twelve months. Among the Saxons, it was originally Winter Monat, but after their conversion to Christianity, it was Heligh Monat, or holy month, in honor of the birth of Christ. December proverbs: (a) December frost and January flood, Never boded the husbandman good. (b) Frost on the shortest day (Dec. 22nd) indicates a severe winter. (c) The day of St. Thomas, the blessed divine Is good for brewing, baking and killing fat swine. (St. Thomas's Day is Dec. 21st.) (d) Never rued the man that laid in his fuel before St. John (Dec. 27). _CHRISTMAS EVE._--The Latin Church called Christmas the Feast of Lights, because Christ, the true light, had come into the world, hence the Christmas candle and the Yule log, which sometimes were of immense size. "Now blocks to cleave this time requires, 'Gainst Christmas for to make good fires." In the western parts of Devonshire, a superstitious notion prevails that on Christmas Eve at 12 o'clock the oxen in the stalls are found on their knees, as in an attitude of devotion. Mince pies were intended to represent the offerings of the wise men. As many of the ingredients come from the East, the connection of ideas is plain, but what can be the origin of the notion that it is desirable to eat mince pies made by as many different cooks as possible to ensure as many happy months is not so easily explained. Some authorities are of the opinion that mince pies were formerly baked in coffin-shaped crusts intended to represent the manger, but in all old cookery-books the crust of a pie was styled the coffin. It is said, by those who should be able to speak with authority, that ghosts never appear on the night of December 24th-25th. This is a fact that Charles Dickens must have overlooked. Christmas Proverbs, etc.:-- (a) A warm Christmas, a cold Easter. (b) A green Christmas, a white Easter. (c) Christmas in snow, Easter in wind. (d) Christmas wet, empty granary and barrel. (e) If there is wind on Christmas Day, there will be much fruit the following year. (f) Snow at Christmas brings a good hay crop next year. (g) If Christmas falls on a Sunday, there is good luck in store for all of us. (h) A child that's born on Christmas Day, is fair, and wise, and good, and gay. (i) Carols out of season, sorrow without reason. (j) If Christmas Day on Thursday be, A windy winter ye shall see: Windy weather in each week, And hard tempest, strong and thick. The summer shall be good and dry, Corn and beasts will multiply. (k) Light Christmas, light wheatsheaf. ("Light" here refers to the full moon.) (l) There is a firm belief that to leave Christmas decorations hanging beyond Twelfth-Night is to bring ill-luck to everybody in the house. _HOLY INNOCENTS' DAY._--December 28th was formerly reckoned as the most unlucky day of the whole year, and few had the temerity to begin any work or start any new undertaking then. _HOGMANAY._--In Scotland, the night of December 31st is known as Hogmanay. Then the fire is "rested," and on no account is it allowed to go out on the hearth, nor is the house swept, nor ashes nor water "thrown out," in case all the luck should be swept out. "Dirt bodes luck." It is lucky to give away food or money, to break a drinking glass accidentally, for a girl to see a man from her window on New Year's morning, and the birth of a child brings good luck to the entire family. OTHER WEATHER PROPHECIES A blustering night, a fair day. One fair day in winter is often the mother of a storm. A snow winter, a rich summer and autumn. A summer fog is for fair weather. A foot deep of rain will kill hay and grain. But a foot deep of snow will make all things grow. A sunshiny shower never lasts an hour. A late spring is a great blessing. A wet spring, a dry harvest. After a wet year, a cold one. As the days lengthen, so the cold strengthens. Between twelve and two, you'll see what the day will do. Cloudy mornings, clear evenings. Evenings red and mornings grey help the traveller on his way. Evenings grey and mornings red bring down rain upon his head. A bee was never caught in a shower. If fowls roll in the sand, rain is at hand. If hoar frost comes on mornings twain, the third day surely will have rain. If Friday be clear, have for Sunday no fear. If the cock goes crowing to bed, he'll certainly rise with a watery head. If the moon changes on a Sunday, there will be a flood before the month is out. If the oak is out before the ash, twill be a summer of wet and splash. If the wind is north-east three days without rain, eight days will pass before south wind again. Neither give credit to a clear winter nor a cloudy spring. On Thursday at three, look out and you'll see what Friday will be. Rain at seven, fine at eleven. Rain at eight, not fine till eight. It is not spring until one can put down a foot on a dozen daisies. Mackerel sky, mackerel sky; never long wet and never long dry. Thunder in spring, cold will bring. Sharp horns do threaten windy weather (referring to the points of the moon). When the squirrel eats nuts on a tree, there'll be weather as warm as warm can be. When the wind veers against the sun, trust it not, for back 'twill run. When a cow tries to scratch its ear, it means that a storm is very near. A CALENDAR FOR LOVERS The information set out below is derived from star-readings and other heavenly data. It applies only to the average individual. The days of the months refer to the birthdays of those whom the information concerns. JANUARY 1.--Will make a good partner, though desirous of being the ruler. 2.--Likely to marry late. 3.--Women born on this day often marry men younger than themselves. 4.--Will make an excellent partner if allowed to lead a peaceful life. 5.--Likely to marry late, but the union will bring considerable happiness. 6.--Married life will be a success if both partners are prepared to run the home on business lines. 7.--Will be cautious in entering the matrimonial state. 8.--Married life will become more and more a boon, as the years pass by. 9.--Will marry late and have much difficulty in making up his or her mind. 10.--Money matters will cause the greatest concern during married life. 11.--Such an individual will make a difficult partner unless he or she marries someone with a stronger will. 12.--Somewhat slow in deciding on marriage. 13.--Likely to miss rare opportunities by wavering. 14.--Will be critical regarding his or her partner. 15.--A faithful lover, but should avoid too close a relationship with his or her partner's relatives. 16.--Will need a good deal of persuasion or assistance in agreeing to marriage; but will not regret having taken the step, afterwards. 17.--Unduly shy in facing the routine of his or her wedding. 18.--Will want to keep dark the facts of his or her wedding, but not because he or she is ashamed of the partner. 19.--A late marriage. 20.--Not likely to show the extent of his or her affections. 21.--Will think overmuch of gaining security in the world before plunging into marriage. 22.--Will probably have an exalted opinion of his or her partner, due to great affection. 23.--A faithful lover. 24.--Likely to marry late and will want to rule the roost. 25.--Slow at expressing feelings of love, but once the mind is made up there will be no wavering. 26.--Such an individual should see that he or she is not marrying on insufficient money. Considerable difficulties are likely to result, if this warning is overlooked. 27.--There will be more love expressed after marriage than before. 28.--Such an individual must seriously question himself or herself whether he or she is really marrying for love. 29.--Not a person to fall in love at first sight. 30.--Love is likely to be a matter of business. 31.--A very faithful lover and one that will take his or her obligations very seriously. FEBRUARY 1.--Unlikely to marry before a number of romances have been experienced. 2.--Will think worlds of the one he or she marries. 3.--Is not likely to enter matrimony without considering all the "pros and cons." 4.--Likely to put too much faith in his or her partner and to think too highly of him or her. 5.--A rather late marriage, but it will be a real love match when it is eventually planned. 6.--Very likely to consider him or herself unequal to the partner; perhaps unworthy is the more correct description. This erroneous idea should be banished. 7.--Rather slow in showing affection. 8.--It is highly important that this individual marries the right person; otherwise he or she will never be thoroughly happy. 9.--It is "fifty-fifty" whether he or she marries at all. 10.--Probably a breaker of hearts. 11.--Likely to expect the partner to be a paragon of virtue and to be disappointed if he or she is not. 12.--If relations can be kept from interfering, marriage will bring great blessings. 13.--Not likely to marry the person everybody supposes will be the one. 14.--Will make a very kind and attentive partner, if the partner plays a similar role. 15.--Too fond of comforts and one's own company to embark on marriage lightly. 16.--Will expect a great deal from married life. May easily be disappointed. 17.--Will find it difficult to choose the right partner from a large circle of acquaintances. 18.--Marriage will be late. 19.--Will fall in love many times before making the all-important choice. 20.--Will not fall into love unconsciously. It will need an effort. 21.--Nobody will know what this individual thinks in regard to love matters. Most likely he will announce, one day, to the astonishment of all that he is to be married shortly. 22.--A long courtship awaits this person. 23.--Should marry someone with totally different qualities and an entirely different outlook on life. 24.--Will grow to think so highly of his or her partner that life without this person, even for a day, becomes unbearable. 25.--Likely to be fickle. 26.--Men born on this date are liable to find that the girl has formed an attachment elsewhere, while they were weighing up her good qualities. Girls may hesitate to say "yes" and find that the opportunity has passed. 27.--Marriage might easily prove somewhat disappointing. 28.--Such individuals should make absolutely sure of their minds before sealing the bargain. 29.--People born on the twenty-ninth are always considered to be very lucky in matters of love and marriage. MARCH 1.--There are signs that point to dangerous flirtations. 2.--Greatest happiness will come after the first few years of married life have passed away. 3.--Marriage will mean considerable happiness. 4.--Such individuals have a most compelling way with the opposite sex and they make excellent partners. 5.--Is not likely to remain satisfied with the love of one person. 6.--Marriage for such as you is necessary. It will be the making of you. 7.--A very faithful lover. 8.--Will be extremely happy, if he or she does not rush into marriage and choose the wrong partner. 9.--It is probable that you will have numerous tempting chances to marry. The proper selection will be a matter fraught with great difficulties. 10.--Will treat matrimony too much as a business. 11.--Likely to make a very suitable match. 12.--An early marriage, most likely, not with the person most friends think probable. 13.--A happy married life is almost certain. 14.--This individual will be at his or her wits' ends to make the final and proper decision. 15.--After marriage, this person will thank his or her lucky stars that events have shaped as they have, especially in view of doubt experienced at the moment of deciding. 16.--"A dark horse." Nobody understands him or her, not even the partner for life. This only adds to the individual's attractions. 17.--If this individual works hard, as the horoscope says he or she should, married life will prove a great blessing. 18.--Married life will not be supremely romantic, but it will be congenial. 19.--There are dark patches in this individual's married life. They may be quarrels and estrangements, but they will not be continuous. 20.--He or she will be very faithful and have an extremely high opinion of the partner. 21.--This individual will have unnecessary disappointments, largely through a temperament which blinds him or her to the partner's point of view. 22.--Likely to put up with difficulties rather than cause unpleasantness. Is worthy of better treatment. 23.--The opposite of March 22nd. Is likely to cause trouble for things that hardly matter. 24.--Rather fickle in love affairs. 25.--A very passionate individual. Will only be satisfied with marriage if the partner gives way to him or her on almost all matters. 26.--Very fond of the opposite sex. May find the situation becomes awkward. 27.--A thoughtful individual who will make the partner of the marriage very happy. 28.--Will make a good husband or wife, but money matters may cause difficulties. 29.--This individual may easily take offence at things done by the partner. Otherwise, he or she will be affectionate. 30.--This person will probably show more affection before marriage than after. 31.--A person who will make a charming partner if the one he or she marries sets out to pander to his or her foibles. APRIL 1.--An early marriage is probable and it should be a very happy one. 2.--Will make a marriage in which the man plays a subordinate part. 3.--The general course of marriage will be very happy, but there are likely to be times of estrangement. 4.--A somewhat rebellious nature is likely to cause occasional difficulties. 5.--Likely to marry without giving the matter all the consideration it deserves. 6.--This individual will probably hesitate before accepting a partner for so long that the opportunity will be missed. 7.--This individual will only be happy in the married state if the partner is particularly amenable. 8.--A rather passionate lover, but the ardor will considerably lessen as time rolls on. 9.--Married life may fall short of expectations because the individual refuses to face difficulties. 10.--Marriage should be undertaken early. 11.--Has great attractions for the opposite sex and is likely to be fickle. 12.--Very affectionate but is likely to overlook the desires of his or her partner. 13.--This individual may neglect his or her partner through being unthoughtful. 14.--An individual who will be quite content to sail through married life in a placid manner. 15.--Likely to fall in love at first sight. 16.--Will find married life very congenial if he or she takes the upper hand. 17.--An individual who will be difficult to understand, but with better qualities than are usually attributed to him or her. 18--Will only be happy in married life if the home is artistically planned. 19.--A happy married life if the partner can understand this individual's temperament. 20.--Will marry early. 21.--Love and marriage will be the means of providing considerable happiness. 22.--An individual who will love deeply, but may be inclined to jealousy. 23.--Marriage will be planned and carried out in a very short space of time. 24.--Should avoid marriage with a person of strong likes and dislikes. 25.--The course of true love never runs smoothly, and it will not with this individual. 26.--Warm-hearted, this person will make an admirable partner. 27.--An individual who should not rush into marriage lightly. He or she is liable to be guided more by the heart than the head. 28.--Will make an admirable lover and partner in marriage. 29.--Very emotional, this individual should guard against marrying someone who is too matter of fact. 30.--An individual who will put the home before everything else. MAY 1.--A very affectionate person where the right partner is concerned. 2.--Will be most concerned in providing joys for his or her partner. 3.--Is likely to be an admirable husband or wife as long as he or she may indulge in harmless flirtations. 4.--Early married life may have its ups and downs owing to misunderstandings. Later on, things will materially improve, due to a better knowledge of each other. 5.--Very affectionate if allowed to idolize his or her partner. 6.--A very charming lover. 7.--This individual is apt to be swayed by extremes, but on the whole he or she will prove an excellent partner in marriage. 8.--He or she is much too practical to allow petty worries to mar the married life. 9.--An individual who will take marriage very seriously. 10.--Marriage will mean some sacrifices but many joys. It will be tremendously worth while. 11.--An individual who will have numerous "affairs" before settling down to the right partner. 12.--There are disappointments for this partner, and the greatest joys of marriage will only come in middle life. 13.--A person who will expect his or her partner to be perfect. Given this, he or she will be adorable. 14.--Love will be life to this person. 15.--A person who will work hard to give the partner a glorious time. 16.--An individual who will be sought after by numerous members of the opposite sex. 17.--One who will love very deeply. 18.--An individual who will play with love for a long time before giving it serious consideration. 19.--Having a warm heart and a generous nature, this person is sure to bring his partner much happiness. 20.--This individual will have so many attachments that he or she will find difficulty in making the right choice. 21.--An excellent and faithful husband or wife. 22.--This individual will aspire to marrying beyond his or her station. 23.--This person is likely to seek elsewhere, if refused on the first occasion, be he a man. Thus, the prospective bride should be wary of saying "no" out of caprice. 24.--Of a sensitive nature, this person will be very shy in showing his or her feelings. 25.--Rather apt to grumble about the trifles of married life. Quick to notice faults. 26.--This person is likely to work out the affairs of love much as he or she would attend to a tradesman's account. 27.--A person who would prove a more practical than ardent lover. 28.--Very much admired by the opposite sex, but one who is likely to cool down a great deal after marriage. 29.--One who finds it difficult to be more than three-quarters in love. 30.--A number of minor love affairs will suddenly give place to finding the right partner, followed by a speedy marriage. 31.--Likely to be jealous without sufficient cause. JUNE 1.--An individual who will treat matrimony with a great deal of caution. 2.--Slow in showing affection, but is in earnest when he or she does. 3.--This person will have to be careful if he or she is not to lose the partner, wanted most. 4.--You have a very high opinion of the opposite sex, and your affections are not centered on one person. This will make your married life somewhat difficult. 5.--This person will have difficulty in knowing his or her mind. 6.--Marriage will be the beginning of much happiness. 7.--Do not be discouraged if things appear black at first. The end is what matters most, and things will work out happily. 8.--His or her love affairs must be carefully handled if success is to come of them. 9.--A happy married life is in store. 10.--It will require much tact if the good ship "Matrimony" is to sail the seas of adventure without coming to harm. 11.--This individual may never realize all his or her dreams of matrimony. 12.--Will most likely drift into the married state hardly knowing it. 13.--You are too practical to make anything but a very sensible union. 14.--This individual will have numerous flirtations, then a time of quiet, followed by a happy marriage. 15.--It will require two sensible heads to make a successful marriage. 16.--This individual will look for an accomplished partner who will understand all his or her peculiarities. 17.--Rather given to flirting. 18.--Will not fall into love easily. 19.--This individual will be much esteemed by the opposite sex, more for his or her inner qualities than for those appearing on the surface. 20.--Will make a very charming partner. 21.--This person will make love a matter of fact affair and rob it of its romance. 22.--A person who is apt to delay marriage too long, being afraid of making a mistake. 23.--This person will expect the one he or she marries to be extremely Victorian. There must never be as much as a suspicion of flirting. 24.--He or she will put the home before everything else. 25.--Much liked and even spoiled by the opposite sex, it will be difficult for him or her to settle down comfortably to a married life. 26.--An individual who will never forget the first love. 27.--It is advisable to marry early to avoid entanglements. 28.--A person who will deny him or herself much in order to make his or her partner happy. 29.--Many mistakes before marriage, but a life of great comfort after. 30.--A great decision will have to be made. It will depend on which of two is the better to take. JULY 1.--This person is likely to choose a partner without taking into consideration all that he or she should. 2.--The course of early love may result in a certain amount of unhappiness. 3.--Likely to marry early, after having experienced several attachments. 4.--There will be more happiness after marriage than before. 5.--This individual will thank his or her lucky stars that someone else was not chosen for a partner. The "someone else" was thought by everybody to be the favorite. 6.--A very attractive lover, but a breaker of hearts. 7.--A married life with several ups and down, but none of them really serious. 8.--This individual belongs to the type of person who marries the girl or man he or she knows best. 9.--Marriage will open a new and more beautiful life for this person. 10.--It is doubtful if this person really wants to marry. 11.--An individual who prefers the excitement of flirtations to the settled life of marriage; that is until it is too late. 12.--Likely to seek a good marriage financially. 13.--A very happy marriage, if interfering relations can be kept at a distance. 14.--Marriage may not be all that is expected of it. 15.--A long courtship followed by a happy union. 16.--Given a partner of worthy character, this individual will bless the day of marriage. 17.--Will think more and more of his or her partner as time wears on. 18.--An individual whose matrimonial affairs will surprise his or her friends. 19.--Many passionate romances will be experienced before the fateful decision is made. 20.--An individual who will wish to be as romantic after the wedding as before. 21.--A very sympathetic lover. 22.--An individual who will show very little affection, but who will have, however, more than his or her share. A peculiarity of temperament will cause him or her to hide it. 23.--Will make an excellent partner. 24.--This individual has only to idolize his or her partner to make a perfect success of married life. 25.--As long as the partner does not wish to rule this person, marriage will be extremely successful. 26.--Great happiness will come of the union as long as both the partners retain their affections for the other. 27.--Many minor love affairs before the right one is experienced. 28.--An individual who is likely to marry someone of a very different age--either considerably older or younger. 29.--A very bright and attractive husband or wife. That is what this individual will be. 30.--A person who will be happy in marriage, as long as finances cause no troubles. 31.--There is little indication that this person troubles much about love matters. AUGUST 1.--Marriage likely to be rather late. 2.--Will be very generous towards his or her partner. 3.--The first love will never be forgotten by this individual. 4.--The course of true love will not run smoothly at first: later, it will mend. 5.--This person possesses a strong will and, as long as the partner bends to this will, all will be well. 6.--It will be advisable to go slowly. Any undue haste may result in a fiasco. 7.--This individual must put aside all the old loves, once the marriage ceremony has been performed. It will be dangerous to meet them again. 8.--This person will prove a great favorite with the opposite sex. He or she will be so successful that a good deal of caution is needed. 9.--The latter half of the married life will bring the most happiness. 10.--Marriage must be considered from all its angles before the important step is taken: otherwise, disappointments will be caused. 11.--Your generous nature will assure a happy married life. 12.--Several love affairs are indicated before the real one will be experienced. There should be no undue haste in the choosing. 13.--Your happiness in love affairs will not depend so much on you as on those with whom you associate. 14.--Do not become apprehensive if the right partner is slow in coming to you. A rather late marriage is indicated. 15.--There is every reason to think that this individual will choose the right partner and enjoy a happy married life. 16.--It is likely that this person will marry someone well-off. 17.--There is an indication that there may be a break in the engagement, but that the affair will be patched up to the satisfaction of both parties. 18.--Money matters are the only ones that are likely to cause any disagreements in the marriage life. Steer clear of these and all will be well. 19.--Marry before you have settled habits or it will be difficult to make the mutual concessions that marriage entails. 20.--There may be some unhappiness in the early part of your married career. 21.--This person is likely to be very passionate. 22.--Likely to marry late, owing to a desire for personal comforts. 23.--This person will be easily pleased with married life, and the union will be a very happy one if the partner is not of an exacting nature. 24.--Is very fond of the opposite sex. He or she will find some difficulty in deciding whom to marry. 25.--Somewhat fickle. He or she may cause the marriage partner some anxiety on this account. 26.--An individual who will see the utmost good in his or her partner. 27.--This person's marriage will be a proper sequel to the years of courtship. 28.--Married life should bring many joys and blessings. 29.--This person will find it difficult to be satisfied with the love of one person. 30.--This individual will have the power of making his or her partner think worlds of him or her. 31.--A person lacking passion; one who looks upon marriage as a business proposition. The man will marry for a housekeeper; the woman for a roof over her head. SEPTEMBER 1.--Will make an excellent husband or wife. 2.--Likely to expect too much of marriage. 3.--This individual may tire of marriage if the partner is not decidedly emotional and passionate. 4.--Greatest happiness is likely to come in the middle period of married life. In the early portion, you and your partner will not have learned to understand each other: in the late portion, there will be a tendency for you to go your own ways. 5.--There is a likelihood that secret romances will be continued after the knot has been tied. 6.--You are a little too independent and will not consider the feelings of your partner as much as you should. 7.--There are signs that you may neglect to make love to your partner after the wedding. Then the happiness of both will be jeopardized. 8.--You lack sufficient emotion to make marriage the success it ought to be. 9.--Your marriage may be too much of a business and not enough of a love affair. 10.--You are likely to be drawn to those who are not sufficiently attracted to you. It means that the chances are you will marry late. 11.--Capable of being very affectionate. 12.--Will make an admirable husband or wife. You will be blind to the faults of your partner. 13.--You will fall in love several times and have some difficulty in deciding whom you ought to marry. 14.--A person who is too sensitive in love affairs. Likely to experience some disappointments before marriage. 15.--You are an ardent lover, perhaps too ardent to make the happiest of marriages. 16.--A person likely to enter upon marriage without giving the matter all the consideration it deserves. 17.--Your knowledge of people enables you to judge accurately who will make the best partner to fit in with your ideals. 18.--An individual who has a strong will and who, therefore, can do much towards persuading the person of his or her choice to share life with him or her. 19.--Your love-making will be governed less by your affections than by your reason. 20.--Likely to marry late, as you do not feel your position good enough to share with a partner. 21.--You are likely to be attracted to two very different people at the same time. Your choice ought to be made in favor of the one who more approximates your own station of life. 22.--You can be a delightful companion and ought to make an excellent husband or wife. 23.--Your marriage will make a great difference to you, for the better. 24.--All your love affairs will not bring happiness, but your marriage will be a success. 25.--Probably you will marry a person with whom you fell in love at sight. 26.--Married life will bring considerable happiness, but there will be occasions when your vanity will be hurt and you will then be somewhat morose. 27.--You will usually treat your partner with considerable affection, but there are times when you will speak in a very hasty manner. 28.--You must be careful whom you marry, as you are not likely to be too sure of your own mind. 29.--Likely to have many strings to your bow. 30.--Be very certain that the attachments you form are worthy of you. OCTOBER 1.--You have a strong desire to create a good impression with the opposite sex. This desire may lead you into danger. 2.--An individual who will make an excellent partner except when he or she is in the wrong. On such occasions he or she will present a very unsympathetic nature. 3.--Marriage will mean everything to such individuals. They must be careful that the wedded state brings no disillusions. 4.--What unhappiness comes in married life will be due to friends who interfere. 5.--Home life will give you the existence you require: therefore you must avoid marriage with a gad-about. 6.--Your marriage will be eminently successful. 7.--You are an individual of somewhat fickle temperament; but you will settle down once you meet the right person. 8.--You are an excellent companion and will make numerous friends of the opposite sex. Choosing the right partner, in your case, will be difficult. 9.--An individual who will love intensely and who has the capacity for making an excellent partner in marriage. 10.--Marriage should be thoroughly successful if financial worries do not upset your calculations. 11.--An individual who will experience much pain as a result of unsuitable friendships. 12.--Likely to find it difficult to remain in love with one person for any length of time. 13.--Married life will bring considerable happiness, but lovemaking should be indulged in after the wedding as much as before. 14.--Your partner will appreciate little surprises, such as tokens of your affection, even after you are married. Do not forget this. 15.--You are liable to be too cold towards your partner. Recall the early days of your friendship. 16.--An individual who will treat married life in a too matter-of-fact way. 17.--Love is not life to you: but once you meet the right person, happiness will reign supreme. 18.--You will approach your love affairs in a very common-sense manner. Thus, you are not likely to make any mistake. 19.--A very worthy partner. 20.--The earlier years of married life will not be the most successful, though they will be the most exciting. 21.--Do not expect every comfort and joy after the wedding ceremony. Money may be a cause of difficulties. 22.--An individual who will experience some trouble in knowing his or her mind. 23.--Slow in acquiring affection; but once a friendship is formed, he or she will be in great earnest. 24.--A happy married life is almost certain. 25.--An individual who is likely to be a more practical than affectionate lover. 26.--Unduly shy in facing the business of a wedding. 27.--This person will have much deeper affections than are suggested by appearances. 28.--Family relations are not likely to make the path of matrimony any rosier. 29.--More love and affection will be expressed after marriage than before. 30.--Rather apt to rule his or her partner when things have settled down after the wedding. 31.--A lover who would satisfy any reasonable being. NOVEMBER 1.--There will be many surprises for this person. 2.--Great happiness will come of the union, as long as both the partners avoid trouble-making friendships. 3.--Harmless flirtations are hardly harmless, when indulged in by this person. 4.--There will be ups and downs in this person's married life, but the "ups" will exceed the "downs." 5.--This person will not be rebuffed. If a man, he will not take "no" for an answer. 6.--An attractive person with the opposite sex, but likely to cool down a great deal after marriage. 7.--There will be many love affairs, but it is doubtful if marriage will result with any of them. 8.--A person likely to make an admirable partner in marriage, if allowed to follow his or her own harmless way. 9.--Marriage will come early. 10.--A very affectionate lover and marriage partner. 11.--Of a practical nature, this person will know exactly how to steer clear of matrimonial troubles. 12.--Will make an admirable husband or wife. 13.--This person will love very deeply, perhaps too deeply, as it may lead to unfounded jealousy. 14.--It is doubtful if this individual wishes in his heart to marry. 15.--Somewhat fickle in love affairs. 16.--Married life will be less romantic than anticipated, but it will be more congenial and placid. 17.--Too fond of comforts and one's own company to embark on marriage lightly. 18.--This person will be conscious of the fact that he or she invariably falls in love with the wrong person. This will last until the age of 22 or 23 is reached. 19.--Marriage should turn out very well. 20.--A late and happy marriage is indicated. 21.--Likely to be very passionate. 22.--A person who is sure to have several love affairs. A feature of these is that some of them will be revivals of old ones. 23.--Marriage means everything to you and you are decidedly unsuited to living a lonely life. 24.--You are sentimental and emotional and will think highly of your partner. 25.--Do not rush into marriage without considering the matter very seriously. 26.--You have an ideal for whom you are searching. However, the ideal does not exist. There are plenty of good fish in the sea, nevertheless. 27.--A rather sudden wedding. 28.--You will be happy only as long as your partner gives you the upper hand. 29.--Marriage will be mixed. Much happiness, some sorrows. 30.--This person will have many love affairs, in fact he or she is the type that prefers a succession of such affairs to settling down to marriage. DECEMBER 1.--Somewhat headstrong, this person will want to rule the home. 2.--A very easygoing partner. Happy as long as his or her mate guides the ship through the troubled seas. 3.--Men born on this day often marry women older than themselves. 4.--Somewhat slow in deciding on marriage. 5.--Likely to find marriage more of a boon than anticipated. 6.--This person will, probably, marry someone whom nobody anticipated would be the individual. 7.--This individual should marry someone with totally different qualities and an entirely different outlook on life. 8.--Such people have a most compelling way with the opposite sex and they make good partners. 9.--Very fond of the opposite sex; a character that may easily experience difficulties. 10.--Will make a marriage in which the man plays the minor part. 11.--Marriage will be planned and carried out in a short space of time. The haste may be deplored later on. 12.--A person who will take marriage very seriously. 13.--This individual will play at lovemaking for a long time before treating it seriously. 14.--A person who will have numerous flirtations, then a period in which the other sex is more or less ignored, followed by a sudden and happy marriage. 15.--Liable to delay marriage too long, or until it cannot provide the blessings anticipated of it. 16.--Married life will bring many joys and blessings. 17.--Do not be cold and uncommunicative to your partner. Act as you did before the wedding. 18.--You will be slow in acquiring affection. Once a friendship is formed, however, it will be a very deep one. 19.--As long as your partner is not one given to "laying down the law," you will have a very happy existence. 20.--Be very careful that you do not fall in love with someone after marriage. 21.--Marriage will be supremely happy. 22.--You are somewhat fickle and will, probably, suffer in consequence. 23.--Your marriage is likely to have the effect of complicating your financial position. 24.--A person who will find married life of average happiness. 25.--Do not keep from your partner information that should rightly be shared. You are not confiding enough and this may very well cause unhappiness. 26.--Avoid extravagance in married life and all will be well. 27.--A kind and generous partner. 28.--Take little notice of what your friends tell you of your intended one. Be guided by your feelings alone. 29.--You will marry late and your only regret will be that you did not find your partner earlier. 30.--You and your partner will, largely, keep yourselves to yourselves. You will be all in all to each other, and it will prove a very happy existence. 31.--You will make an admirable husband or wife, especially if your partner is one of the "easy-going" type. MAKING USEFUL MASCOTS Anyone of a handy disposition can make mascots that will bring luck to him or herself, as well as to countless friends. In addition, they may be made for selling at bazaars or even for profit in shops. _HORSESHOES._--As a rule, it is best in this case to obtain a supply of old and worn horseshoes--any local farrier will be glad to sell them for a penny or two apiece--and to make them presentable. First, knock off the rust, and then wash them if necessary. It is not a bad plan to beg some old nails from the farrier, to slip one or two in the holes, here and there of each shoe, and to twist them round with pliers so that they cannot fall out. Then give the shoes a coat of paint--either aluminum or stove-black. When dry, thread a strip of ribbon of your lucky color through a hole on either side of the shoe, so that the shoe can be easily hung up. But, please do be careful to arrange the ribbon so that the shoe can only be hung tips upwards. Failing a supply of worn shoes, the best idea is to cut horseshoes from a sheet of thick cardboard. There is an illustration on p. 6 which will give you an idea of the correct shape to aim at. When the shoes are cut, paint them with black or silver ink, and tie with ribbon, as already suggested. _SWASTIKAS._--Large swastikas are best cut out of thick cardboard, as suggested in the previous paragraph for horseshoes, but small ones, suitable for wearing, are not difficult to cut out of sheet metal, if a triangular file is at hand for cleaning up the corners and edges. When worn, Swastikas are usually hung diamond-wise. Therefore, it is necessary to drill a small hole in one of the corners of the shape. A coat of gold paint or transparent lacquer will add to the appearance of the finish. _SCARABS._--When scarabs are to be made, the shape with the closed wings will be found much the simpler to construct. They can be made out of large oval buttons. If the buttons are flat, it is advisable to give them a domed surface by applying a suitable layer of plastic wood. This is a putty-like substance which dries rapidly and which can be moulded to the required shape with the fingers. When the plastic wood is dry and hard, smooth the surface with fine glass-paper and ornament it with oil paints. A dull light blue serves best for the groundwork, and the pattern can be added with a small brush, using grey or black paint. In this way, some very realistic scarabs can be made easily. _CADUCEUS OR STAFF OF MERCURY._--This lucky device is very difficult to make in the form of a model. However, the same purpose can be served by a picture. Draw the outline in pencil (see p. 9), give it a wash of silver color and line in the pattern with India ink. A picture, made in this way, about twelve inches high, on a white card, would look very attractive when framed. _ARROWHEADS._--Those of us who have an eye for geology will have no difficulty in picking up flints, shaped like arrowheads (see p. 8), along the sides of country roads. Failing these, we can get some slips of granite, and, with hammer and chisel, shape them as shown on the page mentioned. The next thing is to obtain some gilt wire, and to make slings to support the arrowheads. These can then be hung up or worn, according to their size. _TETS._--These mallet-shaped mascots can be made readily by cutting small strips of wood to serve as handles, and then moulding the heads in plastic wood. When the latter has dried hard, all the surfaces are coated with some bright colored paint, and, after that, additional bands of color are added to serve as ornamentation (see p. 8). _BLACK CATS AND OTHER DOLL MASCOTS._--Any woman or girl who is good at needlework can make cats and doll-shaped mascots fairly readily. The first thing is to cut a paper pattern of the parts, using newspaper for the purpose. Usually, it is advisable to make the pattern in no more than two parts; one for the left side, the other for the right, or one for the front, the other for the back, according to the way the creature is to be executed. If this is done, it must be recognized that each part should be considerably larger than the animal is to appear, since although the pattern looks as though it need only serve for the front or back, or sides, it really has to supply the width as well. When the paper pattern has been suitably shaped, cut out the stuff to agree with it, allowing an edging for turning in. Use black velvet or black fur cloth, unless some color is desired. Then, place the two pieces together, face to face, stitch round most of the edges; follow by turning the outside in and stuff the interior through the gap of stitches. Old but soft rags do for the stuffing. When nice and evenly plump, stitch up the gap, taking care to fold in the seams. The last stage is to ornament the creature and form its features. Buttons serve for eyes, stitches of red wool or silk make the mouth and nose, and whiskers are supplied by hairs taken from a broom. A band of ribbon, tied in a bow, round the neck, completes the mascot. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including inconsistent hyphenation, obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. Where intent was unclear, possible errors were left as printed. In some otherwise alphabetical lists, individual words are out of alphabetical order. These are left as printed. Likewise, some lettered lists have letters missing or out of order. These were left as printed. 
955	----	THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ by L. FRANK BAUM Affectionately Dedicated to my young friend Sumner Hamilton Britton of Chicago Prologue Through the kindness of Dorothy Gale of Kansas, afterward Princess Dorothy of Oz, an humble writer in the United States of America was once appointed Royal Historian of Oz, with the privilege of writing the chronicle of that wonderful fairyland. But after making six books about the adventures of those interesting but queer people who live in the Land of Oz, the Historian learned with sorrow that by an edict of the Supreme Ruler, Ozma of Oz, her country would thereafter be rendered invisible to all who lived outside its borders and that all communication with Oz would, in the future, be cut off. The children who had learned to look for the books about Oz and who loved the stories about the gay and happy people inhabiting that favored country, were as sorry as their Historian that there would be no more books of Oz stories. They wrote many letters asking if the Historian did not know of some adventures to write about that had happened before the Land of Oz was shut out from all the rest of the world. But he did not know of any. Finally one of the children inquired why we couldn't hear from Princess Dorothy by wireless telegraph, which would enable her to communicate to the Historian whatever happened in the far-off Land of Oz without his seeing her, or even knowing just where Oz is. That seemed a good idea; so the Historian rigged up a high tower in his back yard, and took lessons in wireless telegraphy until he understood it, and then began to call "Princess Dorothy of Oz" by sending messages into the air. Now, it wasn't likely that Dorothy would be looking for wireless messages or would heed the call; but one thing the Historian was sure of, and that was that the powerful Sorceress, Glinda, would know what he was doing and that he desired to communicate with Dorothy. For Glinda has a big book in which is recorded every event that takes place anywhere in the world, just the moment that it happens, and so of course the book would tell her about the wireless message. And that was the way Dorothy heard that the Historian wanted to speak with her, and there was a Shaggy Man in the Land of Oz who knew how to telegraph a wireless reply. The result was that the Historian begged so hard to be told the latest news of Oz, so that he could write it down for the children to read, that Dorothy asked permission of Ozma and Ozma graciously consented. That is why, after two long years of waiting, another Oz story is now presented to the children of America. This would not have been possible had not some clever man invented the "wireless" and an equally clever child suggested the idea of reaching the mysterious Land of Oz by its means. L. Frank Baum. "OZCOT" at Hollywood in California LIST OF CHAPTERS 1 - Ojo and Unc Nunkie 2 - The Crooked Magician 3 - The Patchwork Girl 4 - The Glass Cat 5 - A Terrible Accident 6 - The Journey 7 - The Troublesome Phonograph 8 - The Foolish Owl and the Wise Donkey 9 - They Meet the Woozy 10 - Shaggy Man to the Rescue 11 - A Good Friend 12 - The Giant Porcupine 13 - Scraps and the Scarecrow 14 - Ojo Breaks the Law 15 - Ozma's Prisoner 16 - Princess Dorothy 17 - Ozma and Her Friends 18 - Ojo is Forgiven 19 - Trouble with the Tottenhots 20 - The Captive Yoop 21 - Hip Hopper the Champion 22 - The Joking Horners 23 - Peace is Declared 24 - Ojo Finds the Dark Well 25 - They Bribe the Lazy Quadling 26 - The Trick River 27 - The Tin Woodman Objects 28 - The Wonderful Wizard of Oz The Patchwork Girl of Oz Chapter One Ojo and Unc Nunkie "Where's the butter, Unc Nunkie?" asked Ojo. Unc looked out of the window and stroked his long beard. Then he turned to the Munchkin boy and shook his head. "Isn't," said he. "Isn't any butter? That's too bad, Unc. Where's the jam then?" inquired Ojo, standing on a stool so he could look through all the shelves of the cupboard. But Unc Nunkie shook his head again. "Gone," he said. "No jam, either? And no cake--no jelly--no apples--nothing but bread?" "All," said Unc, again stroking his beard as he gazed from the window. The little boy brought the stool and sat beside his uncle, munching the dry bread slowly and seeming in deep thought. "Nothing grows in our yard but the bread tree," he mused, "and there are only two more loaves on that tree; and they're not ripe yet. Tell me, Unc; why are we so poor?" The old Munchkin turned and looked at Ojo. He had kindly eyes, but he hadn't smiled or laughed in so long that the boy had forgotten that Unc Nunkie could look any other way than solemn. And Unc never spoke any more words than he was obliged to, so his little nephew, who lived alone with him, had learned to understand a great deal from one word. "Why are we so poor, Unc?" repeated the boy. "Not," said the old Munchkin. "I think we are," declared Ojo. "What have we got?" "House," said Unc Nunkie. "I know; but everyone in the Land of Oz has a place to live. What else, Unc?" "Bread." "I'm eating the last loaf that's ripe. There; I've put aside your share, Unc. It's on the table, so you can eat it when you get hungry. But when that is gone, what shall we eat, Unc?" The old man shifted in his chair but merely shook his head. "Of course," said Ojo, who was obliged to talk because his uncle would not, "no one starves in the Land of Oz, either. There is plenty for everyone, you know; only, if it isn't just where you happen to be, you must go where it is." The aged Munchkin wriggled again and stared at his small nephew as if disturbed by his argument. "By to-morrow morning," the boy went on, "we must go where there is something to eat, or we shall grow very hungry and become very unhappy." "Where?" asked Unc. "Where shall we go? I don't know, I'm sure," replied Ojo. "But you must know, Unc. You must have traveled, in your time, because you're so old. I don't remember it, because ever since I could remember anything we've lived right here in this lonesome, round house, with a little garden back of it and the thick woods all around. All I've ever seen of the great Land of Oz, Unc dear, is the view of that mountain over at the south, where they say the Hammerheads live--who won't let anybody go by them--and that mountain at the north, where they say nobody lives." "One," declared Unc, correcting him. "Oh, yes; one family lives there, I've heard. That's the Crooked Magician, who is named Dr. Pipt, and his wife Margolotte. One year you told me about them; I think it took you a whole year, Unc, to say as much as I've just said about the Crooked Magician and his wife. They live high up on the mountain, and the good Munchkin Country, where the fruits and flowers grow, is just the other side. It's funny you and I should live here all alone, in the middle of the forest, isn't it?" "Yes," said Unc. "Then let's go away and visit the Munchkin Country and its jolly, good-natured people. I'd love to get a sight of something besides woods, Unc Nunkie." "Too little," said Unc. "Why, I'm not so little as I used to be," answered the boy earnestly. "I think I can walk as far and as fast through the woods as you can, Unc. And now that nothing grows in our back yard that is good to eat, we must go where there is food." Unc Nunkie made no reply for a time. Then he shut down the window and turned his chair to face the room, for the sun was sinking behind the tree-tops and it was growing cool. By and by Ojo lighted the fire and the logs blazed freely in the broad fireplace. The two sat in the firelight a long time--the old, white-bearded Munchkin and the little boy. Both were thinking. When it grew quite dark outside, Ojo said: "Eat your bread, Unc, and then we will go to bed." But Unc Nunkie did not eat the bread; neither did he go directly to bed. Long after his little nephew was sound asleep in the corner of the room the old man sat by the fire, thinking. Chapter Two The Crooked Magician Just at dawn next morning Unc Nunkie laid his hand tenderly on Ojo's head and awakened him. "Come," he said. Ojo dressed. He wore blue silk stockings, blue knee pants with gold buckles, a blue ruffled waist and a jacket of bright blue braided with gold. His shoes were of blue leather and turned up at the toes, which were pointed. His hat had a peaked crown and a flat brim, and around the brim was a row of tiny golden bells that tinkled when he moved. This was the native costume of those who inhabited the Munchkin Country of the Land of Oz, so Unc Nunkie's dress was much like that of his nephew. Instead of shoes, the old man wore boots with turnover tops and his blue coat had wide cuffs of gold braid. The boy noticed that his uncle had not eaten the bread, and supposed the old man had not been hungry. Ojo was hungry, though; so he divided the piece of bread upon the table and ate his half for breakfast, washing it down with fresh, cool water from the brook. Unc put the other piece of bread in his jacket pocket, after which he again said, as he walked out through the doorway: "Come." Ojo was well pleased. He was dreadfully tired of living all alone in the woods and wanted to travel and see people. For a long time he had wished to explore the beautiful Land of Oz in which they lived. When they were outside, Unc simply latched the door and started up the path. No one would disturb their little house, even if anyone came so far into the thick forest while they were gone. At the foot of the mountain that separated the Country of the Munchkins from the Country of the Gillikins, the path divided. One way led to the left and the other to the right--straight up the mountain. Unc Nunkie took this right-hand path and Ojo followed without asking why. He knew it would take them to the house of the Crooked Magician, whom he had never seen but who was their nearest neighbor. All the morning they trudged up the mountain path and at noon Unc and Ojo sat on a fallen tree-trunk and ate the last of the bread which the old Munchkin had placed in his pocket. Then they started on again and two hours later came in sight of the house of Dr. Pipt. It was a big house, round, as were all the Munchkin houses, and painted blue, which is the distinctive color of the Munchkin Country of Oz. There was a pretty garden around the house, where blue trees and blue flowers grew in abundance and in one place were beds of blue cabbages, blue carrots and blue lettuce, all of which were delicious to eat. In Dr. Pipt's garden grew bun-trees, cake-trees, cream-puff bushes, blue buttercups which yielded excellent blue butter and a row of chocolate-caramel plants. Paths of blue gravel divided the vegetable and flower beds and a wider path led up to the front door. The place was in a clearing on the mountain, but a little way off was the grim forest, which completely surrounded it. Unc knocked at the door of the house and a chubby, pleasant-faced woman, dressed all in blue, opened it and greeted the visitors with a smile. "Ah," said Ojo; "you must be Dame Margolotte, the good wife of Dr. Pipt." "I am, my dear, and all strangers are welcome to my home." "May we see the famous Magician, Madam?" "He is very busy just now," she said, shaking her head doubtfully. "But come in and let me give you something to eat, for you must have traveled far in order to get our lonely place." "We have," replied Ojo, as he and Unc entered the house. "We have come from a far lonelier place than this." "A lonelier place! And in the Munchkin Country?" she exclaimed. "Then it must be somewhere in the Blue Forest." "It is, good Dame Margolotte." "Dear me!" she said, looking at the man, "you must be Unc Nunkie, known as the Silent One." Then she looked at the boy. "And you must be Ojo the Unlucky," she added. "Yes," said Unc. "I never knew I was called the Unlucky," said Ojo, soberly; "but it is really a good name for me." "Well," remarked the woman, as she bustled around the room and set the table and brought food from the cupboard, "you were unlucky to live all alone in that dismal forest, which is much worse than the forest around here; but perhaps your luck will change, now you are away from it. If, during your travels, you can manage to lose that 'Un' at the beginning of your name 'Unlucky,' you will then become Ojo the Lucky, which will be a great improvement." "How can I lose that 'Un,' Dame Margolotte?" "I do not know how, but you must keep the matter in mind and perhaps the chance will come to you," she replied. Ojo had never eaten such a fine meal in all his life. There was a savory stew, smoking hot, a dish of blue peas, a bowl of sweet milk of a delicate blue tint and a blue pudding with blue plums in it. When the visitors had eaten heartily of this fare the woman said to them: "Do you wish to see Dr. Pipt on business or for pleasure?" Unc shook his head. "We are traveling," replied Ojo, "and we stopped at your house just to rest and refresh ourselves. I do not think Unc Nunkie cares very much to see the famous Crooked Magician; but for my part I am curious to look at such a great man." The woman seemed thoughtful. "I remember that Unc Nunkie and my husband used to be friends, many years ago," she said, "so perhaps they will be glad to meet again. The Magician is very busy, as I said, but if you will promise not to disturb him you may come into his workshop and watch him prepare a wonderful charm." "Thank you," replied the boy, much pleased. "I would like to do that." She led the way to a great domed hall at the back of the house, which was the Magician's workshop. There was a row of windows extending nearly around the sides of the circular room, which rendered the place very light, and there was a back door in addition to the one leading to the front part of the house. Before the row of windows a broad seat was built and there were some chairs and benches in the room besides. At one end stood a great fireplace, in which a blue log was blazing with a blue flame, and over the fire hung four kettles in a row, all bubbling and steaming at a great rate. The Magician was stirring all four of these kettles at the same time, two with his hands and two with his feet, to the latter, wooden ladles being strapped, for this man was so very crooked that his legs were as handy as his arms. Unc Nunkie came forward to greet his old friend, but not being able to shake either his hands or his feet, which were all occupied in stirring, he patted the Magician's bald head and asked: "What?" "Ah, it's the Silent One," remarked Dr. Pipt, without looking up, "and he wants to know what I'm making. Well, when it is quite finished this compound will be the wonderful Powder of Life, which no one knows how to make but myself. Whenever it is sprinkled on anything, that thing will at once come to life, no matter what it is. It takes me several years to make this magic Powder, but at this moment I am pleased to say it is nearly done. You see, I am making it for my good wife Margolotte, who wants to use some of it for a purpose of her own. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Unc Nunkie, and after I've finished my task I will talk to you." "You must know," said Margolotte, when they were all seated together on the broad window-seat, "that my husband foolishly gave away all the Powder of Life he first made to old Mombi the Witch, who used to live in the Country of the Gillikins, to the north of here. Mombi gave to Dr. Pipt a Powder of Perpetual Youth in exchange for his Powder of Life, but she cheated him wickedly, for the Powder of Youth was no good and could work no magic at all." "Perhaps the Powder of Life couldn't either," said Ojo. "Yes; it is perfection," she declared. "The first lot we tested on our Glass Cat, which not only began to live but has lived ever since. She's somewhere around the house now." "A Glass Cat!" exclaimed Ojo, astonished. "Yes; she makes a very pleasant companion, but admires herself a little more than is considered modest, and she positively refuses to catch mice," explained Margolotte. "My husband made the cat some pink brains, but they proved to be too high-bred and particular for a cat, so she thinks it is undignified in her to catch mice. Also she has a pretty blood-red heart, but it is made of stone--a ruby, I think--and so is rather hard and unfeeling. I think the next Glass Cat the Magician makes will have neither brains nor heart, for then it will not object to catching mice and may prove of some use to us." "What did old Mombi the Witch do with the Powder of Life your husband gave her?" asked the boy. "She brought Jack Pumpkinhead to life, for one thing," was the reply. "I suppose you've heard of Jack Pumpkinhead. He is now living near the Emerald City and is a great favorite with the Princess Ozma, who rules all the Land of Oz." "No; I've never heard of him," remarked Ojo. "I'm afraid I don't know much about the Land of Oz. You see, I've lived all my life with Unc Nunkie, the Silent One, and there was no one to tell me anything." "That is one reason you are Ojo the Unlucky," said the woman, in a sympathetic tone. "The more one knows, the luckier he is, for knowledge is the greatest gift in life." "But tell me, please, what you intend to do with this new lot of the Powder of Life, which Dr. Pipt is making. He said his wife wanted it for some especial purpose." "So I do," she answered. "I want it to bring my Patchwork Girl to life." "Oh! A Patchwork Girl? What is that?" Ojo asked, for this seemed even more strange and unusual than a Glass Cat. "I think I must show you my Patchwork Girl," said Margolotte, laughing at the boy's astonishment, "for she is rather difficult to explain. But first I will tell you that for many years I have longed for a servant to help me with the housework and to cook the meals and wash the dishes. No servant will come here because the place is so lonely and out-of-the-way, so my clever husband, the Crooked Magician, proposed that I make a girl out of some sort of material and he would make her live by sprinkling over her the Powder of Life. This seemed an excellent suggestion and at once Dr. Pipt set to work to make a new batch of his magic powder. He has been at it a long, long while, and so I have had plenty of time to make the girl. Yet that task was not so easy as you may suppose. At first I couldn't think what to make her of, but finally in searching through a chest I came across an old patchwork quilt, which my grandmother once made when she was young." "What is a patchwork quilt?" asked Ojo. "A bed-quilt made of patches of different kinds and colors of cloth, all neatly sewed together. The patches are of all shapes and sizes, so a patchwork quilt is a very pretty and gorgeous thing to look at. Sometimes it is called a 'crazy-quilt,' because the patches and colors are so mixed up. We never have used my grandmother's many-colored patchwork quilt, handsome as it is, for we Munchkins do not care for any color other than blue, so it has been packed away in the chest for about a hundred years. When I found it, I said to myself that it would do nicely for my servant girl, for when she was brought to life she would not be proud nor haughty, as the Glass Cat is, for such a dreadful mixture of colors would discourage her from trying to be as dignified as the blue Munchkins are." "Is blue the only respectable color, then?" inquired Ojo. "Yes, for a Munchkin. All our country is blue, you know. But in other parts of Oz the people favor different colors. At the Emerald City, where our Princess Ozma lives, green is the popular color. But all Munchkins prefer blue to anything else and when my housework girl is brought to life she will find herself to be of so many unpopular colors that she'll never dare be rebellious or impudent, as servants are sometimes liable to be when they are made the same way their mistresses are." Unc Nunkie nodded approval. "Good i-dea," he said; and that was a long speech for Unc Nunkie because it was two words. "So I cut up the quilt," continued Margolotte, "and made from it a very well-shaped girl, which I stuffed with cotton-wadding. I will show you what a good job I did," and she went to a tall cupboard and threw open the doors. Then back she came, lugging in her arms the Patchwork Girl, which she set upon the bench and propped up so that the figure would not tumble over. Chapter Three The Patchwork Girl Ojo examined this curious contrivance with wonder. The Patchwork Girl was taller than he, when she stood upright, and her body was plump and rounded because it had been so neatly stuffed with cotton. Margolotte had first made the girl's form from the patchwork quilt and then she had dressed it with a patchwork skirt and an apron with pockets in it--using the same gay material throughout. Upon the feet she had sewn a pair of red leather shoes with pointed toes. All the fingers and thumbs of the girl's hands had been carefully formed and stuffed and stitched at the edges, with gold plates at the ends to serve as finger-nails. "She will have to work, when she comes to life," said Margolotte. The head of the Patchwork Girl was the most curious part of her. While she waited for her husband to finish making his Powder of Life the woman had found ample time to complete the head as her fancy dictated, and she realized that a good servant's head must be properly constructed. The hair was of brown yarn and hung down on her neck in several neat braids. Her eyes were two silver suspender-buttons cut from a pair of the Magician's old trousers, and they were sewed on with black threads, which formed the pupils of the eyes. Margolotte had puzzled over the ears for some time, for these were important if the servant was to hear distinctly, but finally she had made them out of thin plates of gold and attached them in place by means of stitches through tiny holes bored in the metal. Gold is the most common metal in the Land of Oz and is used for many purposes because it is soft and pliable. The woman had cut a slit for the Patchwork Girl's mouth and sewn two rows of white pearls in it for teeth, using a strip of scarlet plush for a tongue. This mouth Ojo considered very artistic and lifelike, and Margolotte was pleased when the boy praised it. There were almost too many patches on the face of the girl for her to be considered strictly beautiful, for one cheek was yellow and the other red, her chin blue, her forehead purple and the center, where her nose had been formed and padded, a bright yellow. "You ought to have had her face all pink," suggested the boy. "I suppose so; but I had no pink cloth," replied the woman. "Still, I cannot see as it matters much, for I wish my Patchwork Girl to be useful rather than ornamental. If I get tired looking at her patched face I can whitewash it." "Has she any brains?" asked Ojo. "No; I forgot all about the brains!" exclaimed the woman. "I am glad you reminded me of them, for it is not too late to supply them, by any means. Until she is brought to life I can do anything I please with this girl. But I must be careful not to give her too much brains, and those she has must be such as are fitted to the station she is to occupy in life. In other words, her brains mustn't be very good." "Wrong," said Unc Nunkie. "No; I am sure I am right about that," returned the woman. "He means," explained Ojo, "that unless your servant has good brains she won't know how to obey you properly, nor do the things you ask her to do." "Well, that may be true," agreed Margolotte; "but, on the contrary, a servant with too much brains is sure to become independent and high-and-mighty and feel above her work. This is a very delicate task, as I said, and I must take care to give the girl just the right quantity of the right sort of brains. I want her to know just enough, but not too much." With this she went to another cupboard which was filled with shelves. All the shelves were lined with blue glass bottles, neatly labeled by the Magician to show what they contained. One whole shelf was marked: "Brain Furniture," and the bottles on this shelf were labeled as follows: "Obedience," "Cleverness," "Judgment," "Courage," "Ingenuity," "Amiability," "Learning," "Truth," "Poesy," "Self Reliance." "Let me see," said Margolotte; "of those qualities she must have 'Obedience' first of all," and she took down the bottle bearing that label and poured from it upon a dish several grains of the contents. "'Amiability' is also good and 'Truth.'" She poured into the dish a quantity from each of these bottles. "I think that will do," she continued, "for the other qualities are not needed in a servant." Unc Nunkie, who with Ojo stood beside her, touched the bottle marked "Cleverness." "Little," said he. "A little 'Cleverness'? Well, perhaps you are right, sir," said she, and was about to take down the bottle when the Crooked Magician suddenly called to her excitedly from the fireplace. "Quick, Margolotte! Come and help me." She ran to her husband's side at once and helped him lift the four kettles from the fire. Their contents had all boiled away, leaving in the bottom of each kettle a few grains of fine white powder. Very carefully the Magician removed this powder, placing it all together in a golden dish, where he mixed it with a golden spoon. When the mixture was complete there was scarcely a handful, all told. "That," said Dr. Pipt, in a pleased and triumphant tone, "is the wonderful Powder of Life, which I alone in the world know how to make. It has taken me nearly six years to prepare these precious grains of dust, but the little heap on that dish is worth the price of a kingdom and many a king would give all he has to possess it. When it has become cooled I will place it in a small bottle; but meantime I must watch it carefully, lest a gust of wind blow it away or scatter it." Unc Nunkie, Margolotte and the Magician all stood looking at the marvelous Powder, but Ojo was more interested just then in the Patchwork Girl's brains. Thinking it both unfair and unkind to deprive her of any good qualities that were handy, the boy took down every bottle on the shelf and poured some of the contents in Margolotte's dish. No one saw him do this, for all were looking at the Powder of Life; but soon the woman remembered what she had been doing, and came back to the cupboard. "Let's see," she remarked; "I was about to give my girl a little 'Cleverness,' which is the Doctor's substitute for 'Intelligence'--a quality he has not yet learned how to manufacture." Taking down the bottle of "Cleverness" she added some of the powder to the heap on the dish. Ojo became a bit uneasy at this, for he had already put quite a lot of the "Cleverness" powder in the dish; but he dared not interfere and so he comforted himself with the thought that one cannot have too much cleverness. Margolotte now carried the dish of brains to the bench. Ripping the seam of the patch on the girl's forehead, she placed the powder within the head and then sewed up the seam as neatly and securely as before. "My girl is all ready for your Powder of Life, my dear," she said to her husband. But the Magician replied: "This powder must not be used before to-morrow morning; but I think it is now cool enough to be bottled." He selected a small gold bottle with a pepper-box top, so that the powder might be sprinkled on any object through the small holes. Very carefully he placed the Powder of Life in the gold bottle and then locked it up in a drawer of his cabinet. "At last," said he, rubbing his hands together gleefully, "I have ample leisure for a good talk with my old friend Unc Nunkie. So let us sit down cosily and enjoy ourselves. After stirring those four kettles for six years I am glad to have a little rest." "You will have to do most of the talking," said Ojo, "for Unc is called the Silent One and uses few words." "I know; but that renders your uncle a most agreeable companion and gossip," declared Dr. Pipt. "Most people talk too much, so it is a relief to find one who talks too little." Ojo looked at the Magician with much awe and curiosity. "Don't you find it very annoying to be so crooked?" he asked. "No; I am quite proud of my person," was the reply. "I suppose I am the only Crooked Magician in all the world. Some others are accused of being crooked, but I am the only genuine." He was really very crooked and Ojo wondered how he managed to do so many things with such a twisted body. When he sat down upon a crooked chair that had been made to fit him, one knee was under his chin and the other near the small of his back; but he was a cheerful man and his face bore a pleasant and agreeable expression. "I am not allowed to perform magic, except for my own amusement," he told his visitors, as he lighted a pipe with a crooked stem and began to smoke. "Too many people were working magic in the Land of Oz, and so our lovely Princess Ozma put a stop to it. I think she was quite right. There were several wicked Witches who caused a lot of trouble; but now they are all out of business and only the great Sorceress, Glinda the Good, is permitted to practice her arts, which never harm anybody. The Wizard of Oz, who used to be a humbug and knew no magic at all, has been taking lessons of Glinda, and I'm told he is getting to be a pretty good Wizard; but he is merely the assistant of the great Sorceress. I've the right to make a servant girl for my wife, you know, or a Glass Cat to catch our mice--which she refuses to do--but I am forbidden to work magic for others, or to use it as a profession." "Magic must be a very interesting study," said Ojo. "It truly is," asserted the Magician. "In my time I've performed some magical feats that were worthy of the skill of Glinda the Good. For instance, there's the Powder of Life, and my Liquid of Petrifaction, which is contained in that bottle on the shelf yonder--over the window." "What does the Liquid of Petrifaction do?" inquired the boy. "Turns everything it touches to solid marble. It's an invention of my own, and I find it very useful. Once two of those dreadful Kalidahs, with bodies like bears and heads like tigers, came here from the forest to attack us; but I sprinkled some of that Liquid on them and instantly they turned to marble. I now use them as ornamental statuary in my garden. This table looks to you like wood, and once it really was wood; but I sprinkled a few drops of the Liquid of Petrifaction on it and now it is marble. It will never break nor wear out." "Fine!" said Unc Nunkie, wagging his head and stroking his long gray beard. "Dear me; what a chatterbox you're getting to be, Unc," remarked the Magician, who was pleased with the compliment. But just then there came a scratching at the back door and a shrill voice cried: "Let me in! Hurry up, can't you? Let me in!" Margolotte got up and went to the door. "Ask like a good cat, then," she said. "Mee-ee-ow-w-w! There; does that suit your royal highness?" asked the voice, in scornful accents. "Yes; that's proper cat talk," declared the woman, and opened the door. At once a cat entered, came to the center of the room and stopped short at the sight of strangers. Ojo and Unc Nunkie both stared at it with wide open eyes, for surely no such curious creature had ever existed before--even in the Land of Oz. Chapter Four The Glass Cat The cat was made of glass, so clear and transparent that you could see through it as easily as through a window. In the top of its head, however, was a mass of delicate pink balls which looked like jewels, and it had a heart made of a blood-red ruby. The eyes were two large emeralds, but aside from these colors all the rest of the animal was clear glass, and it had a spun-glass tail that was really beautiful. "Well, Doc Pipt, do you mean to introduce us, or not?" demanded the cat, in a tone of annoyance. "Seems to me you are forgetting your manners." "Excuse me," returned the Magician. "This is Unc Nunkie, the descendant of the former kings of the Munchkins, before this country became a part of the Land of Oz." "He needs a haircut," observed the cat, washing its face. "True," replied Unc, with a low chuckle of amusement. "But he has lived alone in the heart of the forest for many years," the Magician explained; "and, although that is a barbarous country, there are no barbers there." "Who is the dwarf?" asked the cat. "That is not a dwarf, but a boy," answered the Magician. "You have never seen a boy before. He is now small because he is young. With more years he will grow big and become as tall as Unc Nunkie." "Oh. Is that magic?" the glass animal inquired. "Yes; but it is Nature's magic, which is more wonderful than any art known to man. For instance, my magic made you, and made you live; and it was a poor job because you are useless and a bother to me; but I can't make you grow. You will always be the same size--and the same saucy, inconsiderate Glass Cat, with pink brains and a hard ruby heart." "No one can regret more than I the fact that you made me," asserted the cat, crouching upon the floor and slowly swaying its spun-glass tail from side to side. "Your world is a very uninteresting place. I've wandered through your gardens and in the forest until I'm tired of it all, and when I come into the house the conversation of your fat wife and of yourself bores me dreadfully." "That is because I gave you different brains from those we ourselves possess--and much too good for a cat," returned Dr. Pipt. "Can't you take 'em out, then, and replace 'em with pebbles, so that I won't feel above my station in life?" asked the cat, pleadingly. "Perhaps so. I'll try it, after I've brought the Patchwork Girl to life," he said. The cat walked up to the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined and looked at her attentively. "Are you going to make that dreadful thing live?" she asked. The Magician nodded. "It is intended to be my wife's servant maid," he said. "When she is alive she will do all our work and mind the house. But you are not to order her around, Bungle, as you do us. You must treat the Patchwork Girl respectfully." "I won't. I couldn't respect such a bundle of scraps under any circumstances." "If you don't, there will be more scraps than you will like," cried Margolotte, angrily. "Why didn't you make her pretty to look at?" asked the cat. "You made me pretty--very pretty, indeed--and I love to watch my pink brains roll around when they're working, and to see my precious red heart beat." She went to a long mirror, as she said this, and stood before it, looking at herself with an air of much pride. "But that poor patched thing will hate herself, when she's once alive," continued the cat. "If I were you I'd use her for a mop, and make another servant that is prettier." "You have a perverted taste," snapped Margolotte, much annoyed at this frank criticism. "I think the Patchwork Girl is beautiful, considering what she's made of. Even the rainbow hasn't as many colors, and you must admit that the rainbow is a pretty thing." The Glass Cat yawned and stretched herself upon the floor. "Have your own way," she said. "I'm sorry for the Patchwork Girl, that's all." Ojo and Unc Nunkie slept that night in the Magician's house, and the boy was glad to stay because he was anxious to see the Patchwork Girl brought to life. The Glass Cat was also a wonderful creature to little Ojo, who had never seen or known anything of magic before, although he had lived in the Fairyland of Oz ever since he was born. Back there in the woods nothing unusual ever happened. Unc Nunkie, who might have been King of the Munchkins, had not his people united with all the other countries of Oz in acknowledging Ozma as their sole ruler, had retired into this forgotten forest nook with his baby nephew and they had lived all alone there. Only that the neglected garden had failed to grow food for them, they would always have lived in the solitary Blue Forest; but now they had started out to mingle with other people, and the first place they came to proved so interesting that Ojo could scarcely sleep a wink all night. Margolotte was an excellent cook and gave them a fine breakfast. While they were all engaged in eating, the good woman said: "This is the last meal I shall have to cook for some time, for right after breakfast Dr. Pipt has promised to bring my new servant to life. I shall let her wash the breakfast dishes and sweep and dust the house. What a relief it will be!" "It will, indeed, relieve you of much drudgery," said the Magician. "By the way, Margolotte, I thought I saw you getting some brains from the cupboard, while I was busy with my kettles. What qualities have you given your new servant?" "Only those that an humble servant requires," she answered. "I do not wish her to feel above her station, as the Glass Cat does. That would make her discontented and unhappy, for of course she must always be a servant." Ojo was somewhat disturbed as he listened to this, and the boy began to fear he had done wrong in adding all those different qualities of brains to the lot Margolotte had prepared for the servant. But it was too late now for regret, since all the brains were securely sewn up inside the Patchwork Girl's head. He might have confessed what he had done and thus allowed Margolotte and her husband to change the brains; but he was afraid of incurring their anger. He believed that Unc had seen him add to the brains, and Unc had not said a word against it; but then, Unc never did say anything unless it was absolutely necessary. As soon as breakfast was over they all went into the Magician's big workshop, where the Glass Cat was lying before the mirror and the Patchwork Girl lay limp and lifeless upon the bench. "Now, then," said Dr. Pipt, in a brisk tone, "we shall perform one of the greatest feats of magic possible to man, even in this marvelous Land of Oz. In no other country could it be done at all. I think we ought to have a little music while the Patchwork Girl comes to life. It is pleasant to reflect that the first sounds her golden ears will hear will be delicious music." As he spoke he went to a phonograph, which screwed fast to a small table, and wound up the spring of the instrument and adjusted the big gold horn. "The music my servant will usually hear," remarked Margolotte, "will be my orders to do her work. But I see no harm in allowing her to listen to this unseen band while she wakens to her first realization of life. My orders will beat the band, afterward." The phonograph was now playing a stirring march tune and the Magician unlocked his cabinet and took out the gold bottle containing the Powder of Life. They all bent over the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte stood behind, near the windows, Ojo at one side and the Magician in front, where he would have freedom to sprinkle the powder. The Glass Cat came near, too, curious to watch the important scene. "All ready?" asked Dr. Pipt. "All is ready," answered his wife. So the Magician leaned over and shook from the bottle some grains of the wonderful Powder, and they fell directly on the Patchwork Girl's head and arms. Chapter Five A Terrible Accident "It will take a few minutes for this powder to do its work," remarked the Magician, sprinkling the body up and down with much care. But suddenly the Patchwork Girl threw up one arm, which knocked the bottle of powder from the crooked man's hand and sent it flying across the room. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte were so startled that they both leaped backward and bumped together, and Unc's head joggled the shelf above them and upset the bottle containing the Liquid of Petrifaction. The Magician uttered such a wild cry that Ojo jumped away and the Patchwork Girl sprang after him and clasped her stuffed arms around him in terror. The Glass Cat snarled and hid under the table, and so it was that when the powerful Liquid of Petrifaction was spilled it fell only upon the wife of the Magician and the uncle of Ojo. With these two the charm worked promptly. They stood motionless and stiff as marble statues, in exactly the positions they were in when the Liquid struck them. Ojo pushed the Patchwork Girl away and ran to Unc Nunkie, filled with a terrible fear for the only friend and protector he had ever known. When he grasped Unc's hand it was cold and hard. Even the long gray beard was solid marble. The Crooked Magician was dancing around the room in a frenzy of despair, calling upon his wife to forgive him, to speak to him, to come to life again! The Patchwork Girl, quickly recovering from her fright, now came nearer and looked from one to another of the people with deep interest. Then she looked at herself and laughed. Noticing the mirror, she stood before it and examined her extraordinary features with amazement--her button eyes, pearl bead teeth and puffy nose. Then, addressing her reflection in the glass, she exclaimed: "Whee, but there's a gaudy dame! Makes a paint-box blush with shame. Razzle-dazzle, fizzle-fazzle! Howdy-do, Miss What's-your-name?" She bowed, and the reflection bowed. Then she laughed again, long and merrily, and the Glass Cat crept out from under the table and said: "I don't blame you for laughing at yourself. Aren't you horrid?" "Horrid?" she replied. "Why, I'm thoroughly delightful. I'm an Original, if you please, and therefore incomparable. Of all the comic, absurd, rare and amusing creatures the world contains, I must be the supreme freak. Who but poor Margolotte could have managed to invent such an unreasonable being as I? But I'm glad--I'm awfully glad!--that I'm just what I am, and nothing else." "Be quiet, will you?" cried the frantic Magician; "be quiet and let me think! If I don't think I shall go mad." "Think ahead," said the Patchwork Girl, seating herself in a chair. "Think all you want to. I don't mind." "Gee! but I'm tired playing that tune," called the phonograph, speaking through its horn in a brazen, scratchy voice. "If you don't mind, Pipt, old boy, I'll cut it out and take a rest." The Magician looked gloomily at the music-machine. "What dreadful luck!" he wailed, despondently. "The Powder of Life must have fallen on the phonograph." He went up to it and found that the gold bottle that contained the precious powder had dropped upon the stand and scattered its life-giving grains over the machine. The phonograph was very much alive, and began dancing a jig with the legs of the table to which it was attached, and this dance so annoyed Dr. Pipt that he kicked the thing into a corner and pushed a bench against it, to hold it quiet. "You were bad enough before," said the Magician, resentfully; "but a live phonograph is enough to drive every sane person in the Land of Oz stark crazy." "No insults, please," answered the phonograph in a surly tone. "You did it, my boy; don't blame me." "You've bungled everything, Dr. Pipt," added the Glass Cat, contemptuously. "Except me," said the Patchwork Girl, jumping up to whirl merrily around the room. "I think," said Ojo, almost ready to cry through grief over Unc Nunkie's sad fate, "it must all be my fault, in some way. I'm called Ojo the Unlucky, you know." "That's nonsense, kiddie," retorted the Patchwork Girl cheerfully. "No one can be unlucky who has the intelligence to direct his own actions. The unlucky ones are those who beg for a chance to think, like poor Dr. Pipt here. What's the row about, anyway, Mr. Magic-maker?" "The Liquid of Petrifaction has accidentally fallen upon my dear wife and Unc Nunkie and turned them into marble," he sadly replied. "Well, why don't you sprinkle some of that powder on them and bring them to life again?" asked the Patchwork Girl. The Magician gave a jump. "Why, I hadn't thought of that!" he joyfully cried, and grabbed up the golden bottle, with which he ran to Margolotte. Said the Patchwork Girl: "Higgledy, piggledy, dee-- What fools magicians be! His head's so thick He can't think quick, So he takes advice from me." Standing upon the bench, for he was so crooked he could not reach the top of his wife's head in any other way, Dr. Pipt began shaking the bottle. But not a grain of powder came out. He pulled off the cover, glanced within, and then threw the bottle from him with a wail of despair. "Gone--gone! Every bit gone," he cried. "Wasted on that miserable phonograph when it might have saved my dear wife!" Then the Magician bowed his head on his crooked arms and began to cry. Ojo was sorry for him. He went up to the sorrowful man and said softly: "You can make more Powder of Life, Dr. Pipt." "Yes; but it will take me six years--six long, weary years of stirring four kettles with both feet and both hands," was the agonized reply. "Six years! while poor Margolotte stands watching me as a marble image." "Can't anything else be done?" asked the Patchwork Girl. The Magician shook his head. Then he seemed to remember something and looked up. "There is one other compound that would destroy the magic spell of the Liquid of Petrifaction and restore my wife and Unc Nunkie to life," said he. "It may be hard to find the things I need to make this magic compound, but if they were found I could do in an instant what will otherwise take six long, weary years of stirring kettles with both hands and both feet." "All right; let's find the things, then," suggested the Patchwork Girl. "That seems a lot more sensible than those stirring times with the kettles." "That's the idea, Scraps," said the Glass Cat, approvingly. "I'm glad to find you have decent brains. Mine are exceptionally good. You can see 'em work; they're pink." "Scraps?" repeated the girl. "Did you call me 'Scraps'? Is that my name?" "I--I believe my poor wife had intended to name you 'Angeline,'" said the Magician. "But I like 'Scraps' best," she replied with a laugh. "It fits me better, for my patchwork is all scraps, and nothing else. Thank you for naming me, Miss Cat. Have you any name of your own?" "I have a foolish name that Margolotte once gave me, but which is quite undignified for one of my importance," answered the cat. "She called me 'Bungle.'" "Yes," sighed the Magician; "you were a sad bungle, taken all in all. I was wrong to make you as I did, for a more useless, conceited and brittle thing never before existed." "I'm not so brittle as you think," retorted the cat. "I've been alive a good many years, for Dr. Pipt experimented on me with the first magic Powder of Life he ever made, and so far I've never broken or cracked or chipped any part of me." "You seem to have a chip on your shoulder," laughed the Patchwork Girl, and the cat went to the mirror to see. "Tell me," pleaded Ojo, speaking to the Crooked Magician, "what must we find to make the compound that will save Unc Nunkie?" "First," was the reply, "I must have a six-leaved clover. That can only be found in the green country around the Emerald City, and six-leaved clovers are very scarce, even there." "I'll find it for you," promised Ojo. "The next thing," continued the Magician, "is the left wing of a yellow butterfly. That color can only be found in the yellow country of the Winkies, West of the Emerald City." "I'll find it," declared Ojo. "Is that all?" "Oh, no; I'll get my Book of Recipes and see what comes next." Saying this, the Magician unlocked a drawer of his cabinet and drew out a small book covered with blue leather. Looking through the pages he found the recipe he wanted and said: "I must have a gill of water from a dark well." "What kind of a well is that, sir?" asked the boy. "One where the light of day never penetrates. The water must be put in a gold bottle and brought to me without any light ever reaching it." "I'll get the water from the dark well," said Ojo. "Then I must have three hairs from the tip of a Woozy's tail, and a drop of oil from a live man's body." Ojo looked grave at this. "What is a Woozy, please?" he inquired. "Some sort of an animal. I've never seen one, so I can't describe it," replied the Magician. "If I can find a Woozy, I'll get the hairs from its tail," said Ojo. "But is there ever any oil in a man's body?" The Magician looked in the book again, to make sure. "That's what the recipe calls for," he replied, "and of course we must get everything that is called for, or the charm won't work. The book doesn't say 'blood'; it says 'oil,' and there must be oil somewhere in a live man's body or the book wouldn't ask for it." "All right," returned Ojo, trying not to feel discouraged; "I'll try to find it." The Magician looked at the little Munchkin boy in a doubtful way and said: "All this will mean a long journey for you; perhaps several long journeys; for you must search through several of the different countries of Oz in order to get the things I need." "I know it, sir; but I must do my best to save Unc Nunkie." "And also my poor wife Margolotte. If you save one you will save the other, for both stand there together and the same compound will restore them both to life. Do the best you can, Ojo, and while you are gone I shall begin the six years job of making a new batch of the Powder of Life. Then, if you should unluckily fail to secure any one of the things needed, I will have lost no time. But if you succeed you must return here as quickly as you can, and that will save me much tiresome stirring of four kettles with both feet and both hands." "I will start on my journey at once, sir," said the boy. "And I will go with you," declared the Patchwork Girl. "No, no!" exclaimed the Magician. "You have no right to leave this house. You are only a servant and have not been discharged." Scraps, who had been dancing up and down the room, stopped and looked at him. "What is a servant?" she asked. "One who serves. A--a sort of slave," he explained. "Very well," said the Patchwork Girl, "I'm going to serve you and your wife by helping Ojo find the things you need. You need a lot, you know, such as are not easily found." "It is true," sighed Dr. Pipt. "I am well aware that Ojo has undertaken a serious task." Scraps laughed, and resuming her dance she said: "Here's a job for a boy of brains: A drop of oil from a live man's veins; A six-leaved clover; three nice hairs From a Woozy's tail, the book declares Are needed for the magic spell, And water from a pitch-dark well. The yellow wing of a butterfly To find must Ojo also try, And if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; But if he doesn't get 'em, Unc Will always stand a marble chunk." The Magician looked at her thoughtfully. "Poor Margolotte must have given you some of the quality of poesy, by mistake," he said. "And, if that is true, I didn't make a very good article when I prepared it, or else you got an overdose or an underdose. However, I believe I shall let you go with Ojo, for my poor wife will not need your services until she is restored to life. Also I think you may be able to help the boy, for your head seems to contain some thoughts I did not expect to find in it. But be very careful of yourself, for you're a souvenir of my dear Margolotte. Try not to get ripped, or your stuffing may fall out. One of your eyes seems loose, and you may have to sew it on tighter. If you talk too much you'll wear out your scarlet plush tongue, which ought to have been hemmed on the edges. And remember you belong to me and must return here as soon as your mission is accomplished." "I'm going with Scraps and Ojo," announced the Glass Cat. "You can't," said the Magician. "Why not?" "You'd get broken in no time, and you couldn't be a bit of use to the boy and the Patchwork Girl." "I beg to differ with you," returned the cat, in a haughty tone. "Three heads are better than two, and my pink brains are beautiful. You can see 'em work." "Well, go along," said the Magician, irritably. "You're only an annoyance, anyhow, and I'm glad to get rid of you." "Thank you for nothing, then," answered the cat, stiffly. Dr. Pipt took a small basket from a cupboard and packed several things in it. Then he handed it to Ojo. "Here is some food and a bundle of charms," he said. "It is all I can give you, but I am sure you will find friends on your journey who will assist you in your search. Take care of the Patchwork Girl and bring her safely back, for she ought to prove useful to my wife. As for the Glass Cat--properly named Bungle--if she bothers you I now give you my permission to break her in two, for she is not respectful and does not obey me. I made a mistake in giving her the pink brains, you see." Then Ojo went to Unc Nunkie and kissed the old man's marble face very tenderly. "I'm going to try to save you, Unc," he said, just as if the marble image could hear him; and then he shook the crooked hand of the Crooked Magician, who was already busy hanging the four kettles in the fireplace, and picking up his basket left the house. The Patchwork Girl followed him, and after them came the Glass Cat. Chapter Six The Journey Ojo had never traveled before and so he only knew that the path down the mountainside led into the open Munchkin Country, where large numbers of people dwelt. Scraps was quite new and not supposed to know anything of the Land of Oz, while the Glass Cat admitted she had never wandered very far away from the Magician's house. There was only one path before them, at the beginning, so they could not miss their way, and for a time they walked through the thick forest in silent thought, each one impressed with the importance of the adventure they had undertaken. Suddenly the Patchwork Girl laughed. It was funny to see her laugh, because her cheeks wrinkled up, her nose tipped, her silver button eyes twinkled and her mouth curled at the corners in a comical way. "Has something pleased you?" asked Ojo, who was feeling solemn and joyless through thinking upon his uncle's sad fate. "Yes," she answered. "Your world pleases me, for it's a queer world, and life in it is queerer still. Here am I, made from an old bedquilt and intended to be a slave to Margolotte, rendered free as air by an accident that none of you could foresee. I am enjoying life and seeing the world, while the woman who made me is standing helpless as a block of wood. If that isn't funny enough to laugh at, I don't know what is." "You're not seeing much of the world yet, my poor, innocent Scraps," remarked the Cat. "The world doesn't consist wholly of the trees that are on all sides of us." "But they're part of it; and aren't they pretty trees?" returned Scraps, bobbing her head until her brown yarn curls fluttered in the breeze. "Growing between them I can see lovely ferns and wild-flowers, and soft green mosses. If the rest of your world is half as beautiful I shall be glad I'm alive." "I don't know what the rest of the world is like, I'm sure," said the cat; "but I mean to find out." "I have never been out of the forest," Ojo added; "but to me the trees are gloomy and sad and the wild-flowers seem lonesome. It must be nicer where there are no trees and there is room for lots of people to live together." "I wonder if any of the people we shall meet will be as splendid as I am," said the Patchwork Girl. "All I have seen, so far, have pale, colorless skins and clothes as blue as the country they live in, while I am of many gorgeous colors--face and body and clothes. That is why I am bright and contented, Ojo, while you are blue and sad." "I think I made a mistake in giving you so many sorts of brains," observed the boy. "Perhaps, as the Magician said, you have an overdose, and they may not agree with you." "What had you to do with my brains?" asked Scraps. "A lot," replied Ojo. "Old Margolotte meant to give you only a few--just enough to keep you going--but when she wasn't looking I added a good many more, of the best kinds I could find in the Magician's cupboard." "Thanks," said the girl, dancing along the path ahead of Ojo and then dancing back to his side. "If a few brains are good, many brains must be better." "But they ought to be evenly balanced," said the boy, "and I had no time to be careful. From the way you're acting, I guess the dose was badly mixed." "Scraps hasn't enough brains to hurt her, so don't worry," remarked the cat, which was trotting along in a very dainty and graceful manner. "The only brains worth considering are mine, which are pink. You can see 'em work." After walking a long time they came to a little brook that trickled across the path, and here Ojo sat down to rest and eat something from his basket. He found that the Magician had given him part of a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese. He broke off some of the bread and was surprised to find the loaf just as large as it was before. It was the same way with the cheese: however much he broke off from the slice, it remained exactly the same size. "Ah," said he, nodding wisely; "that's magic. Dr. Pipt has enchanted the bread and the cheese, so it will last me all through my journey, however much I eat." "Why do you put those things into your mouth?" asked Scraps, gazing at him in astonishment. "Do you need more stuffing? Then why don't you use cotton, such as I am stuffed with?" "I don't need that kind," said Ojo. "But a mouth is to talk with, isn't it?" "It is also to eat with," replied the boy. "If I didn't put food into my mouth, and eat it, I would get hungry and starve. "Ah, I didn't know that," she said. "Give me some." Ojo handed her a bit of the bread and she put it in her mouth. "What next?" she asked, scarcely able to speak. "Chew it and swallow it," said the boy. Scraps tried that. Her pearl teeth were unable to chew the bread and beyond her mouth there was no opening. Being unable to swallow she threw away the bread and laughed. "I must get hungry and starve, for I can't eat," she said. "Neither can I," announced the cat; "but I'm not fool enough to try. Can't you understand that you and I are superior people and not made like these poor humans?" "Why should I understand that, or anything else?" asked the girl. "Don't bother my head by asking conundrums, I beg of you. Just let me discover myself in my own way." With this she began amusing herself by leaping across the brook and back again. "Be careful, or you'll fall in the water," warned Ojo. "Never mind." "You'd better. If you get wet you'll be soggy and can't walk. Your colors might run, too," he said. "Don't my colors run whenever I run?" she asked. "Not in the way I mean. If they get wet, the reds and greens and yellows and purples of your patches might run into each other and become just a blur--no color at all, you know." "Then," said the Patchwork Girl, "I'll be careful, for if I spoiled my splendid colors I would cease to be beautiful." "Pah!" sneered the Glass Cat, "such colors are not beautiful; they're ugly, and in bad taste. Please notice that my body has no color at all. I'm transparent, except for my exquisite red heart and my lovely pink brains--you can see 'em work." "Shoo--shoo--shoo!" cried Scraps, dancing around and laughing. "And your horrid green eyes, Miss Bungle! You can't see your eyes, but we can, and I notice you're very proud of what little color you have. Shoo, Miss Bungle, shoo--shoo--shoo! If you were all colors and many colors, as I am, you'd be too stuck up for anything." She leaped over the cat and back again, and the startled Bungle crept close to a tree to escape her. This made Scraps laugh more heartily than ever, and she said: "Whoop-te-doodle-doo! The cat has lost her shoe. Her tootsie's bare, but she don't care, So what's the odds to you?" "Dear me, Ojo," said the cat; "don't you think the creature is a little bit crazy?" "It may be," he answered, with a puzzled look. "If she continues her insults I'll scratch off her suspender-button eyes," declared the cat. "Don't quarrel, please," pleaded the boy, rising to resume the journey. "Let us be good comrades and as happy and cheerful as possible, for we are likely to meet with plenty of trouble on our way." It was nearly sundown when they came to the edge of the forest and saw spread out before them a delightful landscape. There were broad blue fields stretching for miles over the valley, which was dotted everywhere with pretty, blue domed houses, none of which, however, was very near to the place where they stood. Just at the point where the path left the forest stood a tiny house covered with leaves from the trees, and before this stood a Munchkin man with an axe in his hand. He seemed very much surprised when Ojo and Scraps and the Glass Cat came out of the woods, but as the Patchwork Girl approached nearer he sat down upon a bench and laughed so hard that he could not speak for a long time. This man was a woodchopper and lived all alone in the little house. He had bushy blue whiskers and merry blue eyes and his blue clothes were quite old and worn. "Mercy me!" exclaimed the woodchopper, when at last he could stop laughing. "Who would think such a funny harlequin lived in the Land of Oz? Where did you come from, Crazy-quilt?" "Do you mean me?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Of course," he replied. "You misjudge my ancestry. I'm not a crazy-quilt; I'm patchwork," she said. "There's no difference," he replied, beginning to laugh again. "When my old grandmother sews such things together she calls it a crazy-quilt; but I never thought such a jumble could come to life." "It was the Magic Powder that did it," explained Ojo. "Oh, then you have come from the Crooked Magician on the mountain. I might have known it, for--Well, I declare! here's a glass cat. But the Magician will get in trouble for this; it's against the law for anyone to work magic except Glinda the Good and the royal Wizard of Oz. If you people--or things--or glass spectacles--or crazy-quilts--or whatever you are, go near the Emerald City, you'll be arrested." "We're going there, anyhow," declared Scraps, sitting upon the bench and swinging her stuffed legs. "If any of us takes a rest, We'll be arrested sure, And get no restitution 'Cause the rest we must endure." "I see," said the woodchopper, nodding; "you're as crazy as the crazy-quilt you're made of." "She really is crazy," remarked the Glass Cat. "But that isn't to be wondered at when you remember how many different things she's made of. For my part, I'm made of pure glass--except my jewel heart and my pretty pink brains. Did you notice my brains, stranger? You can see 'em work." "So I can," replied the woodchopper; "but I can't see that they accomplish much. A glass cat is a useless sort of thing, but a Patchwork Girl is really useful. She makes me laugh, and laughter is the best thing in life. There was once a woodchopper, a friend of mine, who was made all of tin, and I used to laugh every time I saw him." "A tin woodchopper?" said Ojo. "That is strange." "My friend wasn't always tin," said the man, "but he was careless with his axe, and used to chop himself very badly. Whenever he lost an arm or a leg he had it replaced with tin; so after a while he was all tin." "And could he chop wood then?" asked the boy. "He could if he didn't rust his tin joints. But one day he met Dorothy in the forest and went with her to the Emerald City, where he made his fortune. He is now one of the favorites of Princess Ozma, and she has made him the Emperor of the Winkies--the Country where all is yellow." "Who is Dorothy?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "A little maid who used to live in Kansas, but is now a Princess of Oz. She's Ozma's best friend, they say, and lives with her in the royal palace." "Is Dorothy made of tin?" inquired Ojo. "Is she patchwork, like me?" inquired Scraps. "No," said the man; "Dorothy is flesh, just as I am. I know of only one tin person, and that is Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman; and there will never be but one Patchwork Girl, for any magician that sees you will refuse to make another one like you." "I suppose we shall see the Tin Woodman, for we are going to the Country of the Winkies," said the boy. "What for?" asked the woodchopper. "To get the left wing of a yellow butterfly." "It is a long journey," declared the man, "and you will go through lonely parts of Oz and cross rivers and traverse dark forests before you get there." "Suits me all right," said Scraps. "I'll get a chance to see the country." "You're crazy, girl. Better crawl into a rag-bag and hide there; or give yourself to some little girl to play with. Those who travel are likely to meet trouble; that's why I stay at home." The woodchopper then invited them all to stay the night at his little hut, but they were anxious to get on and so left him and continued along the path, which was broader, now, and more distinct. They expected to reach some other house before it grew dark, but the twilight was brief and Ojo soon began to fear they had made a mistake in leaving the woodchopper. "I can scarcely see the path," he said at last. "Can you see it, Scraps?" "No," replied the Patchwork Girl, who was holding fast to the boy's arm so he could guide her. "I can see," declared the Glass Cat. "My eyes are better than yours, and my pink brains--" "Never mind your pink brains, please," said Ojo hastily; "just run ahead and show us the way. Wait a minute and I'll tie a string to you; for then you can lead us." He got a string from his pocket and tied it around the cat's neck, and after that the creature guided them along the path. They had proceeded in this way for about an hour when a twinkling blue light appeared ahead of them. "Good! there's a house at last," cried Ojo. "When we reach it the good people will surely welcome us and give us a night's lodging." But however far they walked the light seemed to get no nearer, so by and by the cat stopped short, saying: "I think the light is traveling, too, and we shall never be able to catch up with it. But here is a house by the roadside, so why go farther?" "Where is the house, Bungle?" "Just here beside us, Scraps." Ojo was now able to see a small house near the pathway. It was dark and silent, but the boy was tired and wanted to rest, so he went up to the door and knocked. "Who is there?" cried a voice from within. "I am Ojo the Unlucky, and with me are Miss Scraps Patchwork and the Glass Cat," he replied. "What do you want?" asked the Voice. "A place to sleep," said Ojo. "Come in, then; but don't make any noise, and you must go directly to bed," returned the Voice. Ojo unlatched the door and entered. It was very dark inside and he could see nothing at all. But the cat exclaimed: "Why, there's no one here!" "There must be," said the boy. "Some one spoke to me." "I can see everything in the room," replied the cat, "and no one is present but ourselves. But here are three beds, all made up, so we may as well go to sleep." "What is sleep?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "It's what you do when you go to bed," said Ojo. "But why do you go to bed?" persisted the Patchwork Girl. "Here, here! You are making altogether too much noise," cried the Voice they had heard before. "Keep quiet, strangers, and go to bed." The cat, which could see in the dark, looked sharply around for the owner of the Voice, but could discover no one, although the Voice had seemed close beside them. She arched her back a little and seemed afraid. Then she whispered to Ojo: "Come!" and led him to a bed. With his hands the boy felt of the bed and found it was big and soft, with feather pillows and plenty of blankets. So he took off his shoes and hat and crept into the bed. Then the cat led Scraps to another bed and the Patchwork Girl was puzzled to know what to do with it. "Lie down and keep quiet," whispered the cat, warningly. "Can't I sing?" asked Scraps. "No." "Can't I whistle?" asked Scraps. "No." "Can't I dance till morning, if I want to?" asked Scraps. "You must keep quiet," said the cat, in a soft voice. "I don't want to," replied the Patchwork Girl, speaking as loudly as usual. "What right have you to order me around? If I want to talk, or yell, or whistle--" Before she could say anything more an unseen hand seized her firmly and threw her out of the door, which closed behind her with a sharp slam. She found herself bumping and rolling in the road and when she got up and tried to open the door of the house again she found it locked. "What has happened to Scraps?" asked Ojo. "Never mind. Let's go to sleep, or something will happen to us," answered the Glass Cat. So Ojo snuggled down in his bed and fell asleep, and he was so tired that he never wakened until broad daylight. Chapter Seven The Troublesome Phonograph When the boy opened his eyes next morning he looked carefully around the room. These small Munchkin houses seldom had more than one room in them. That in which Ojo now found himself had three beds, set all in a row on one side of it. The Glass Cat lay asleep on one bed, Ojo was in the second, and the third was neatly made up and smoothed for the day. On the other side of the room was a round table on which breakfast was already placed, smoking hot. Only one chair was drawn up to the table, where a place was set for one person. No one seemed to be in the room except the boy and Bungle. Ojo got up and put on his shoes. Finding a toilet stand at the head of his bed he washed his face and hands and brushed his hair. Then he went to the table and said: "I wonder if this is my breakfast?" "Eat it!" commanded a Voice at his side, so near that Ojo jumped. But no person could he see. He was hungry, and the breakfast looked good; so he sat down and ate all he wanted. Then, rising, he took his hat and wakened the Glass Cat. "Come on, Bungle," said he; "we must go." He cast another glance about the room and, speaking to the air, he said: "Whoever lives here has been kind to me, and I'm much obliged." There was no answer, so he took his basket and went out the door, the cat following him. In the middle of the path sat the Patchwork Girl, playing with pebbles she had picked up. "Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I thought you were never coming out. It has been daylight a long time." "What did you do all night?" asked the boy. "Sat here and watched the stars and the moon," she replied. "They're interesting. I never saw them before, you know." "Of course not," said Ojo. "You were crazy to act so badly and get thrown outdoors," remarked Bungle, as they renewed their journey. "That's all right," said Scraps. "If I hadn't been thrown out I wouldn't have seen the stars, nor the big gray wolf." "What wolf?" inquired Ojo. "The one that came to the door of the house three times during the night." "I don't see why that should be," said the boy, thoughtfully; "there was plenty to eat in that house, for I had a fine breakfast, and I slept in a nice bed." "Don't you feel tired?" asked the Patchwork Girl, noticing that the boy yawned. "Why, yes; I'm as tired as I was last night; and yet I slept very well." "And aren't you hungry?" "It's strange," replied Ojo. "I had a good breakfast, and yet I think I'll now eat some of my crackers and cheese." Scraps danced up and down the path. Then she sang: "Kizzle-kazzle-kore; The wolf is at the door, There's nothing to eat but a bone without meat, And a bill from the grocery store." "What does that mean?" asked Ojo. "Don't ask me," replied Scraps. "I say what comes into my head, but of course I know nothing of a grocery store or bones without meat or--very much else." "No," said the cat; "she's stark, staring, raving crazy, and her brains can't be pink, for they don't work properly." "Bother the brains!" cried Scraps. "Who cares for 'em, anyhow? Have you noticed how beautiful my patches are in this sunlight?" Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps pattering along the path behind them and all three turned to see what was coming. To their astonishment they beheld a small round table running as fast as its four spindle legs could carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a phonograph with a big gold horn. "Hold on!" shouted the phonograph. "Wait for me!" "Goodness me; it's that music thing which the Crooked Magician scattered the Powder of Life over," said Ojo. "So it is," returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of voice; and then, as the phonograph overtook them, the Glass Cat added sternly: "What are you doing here, anyhow?" "I've run away," said the music thing. "After you left, old Dr. Pipt and I had a dreadful quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces if I didn't keep quiet. Of course I wouldn't do that, because a talking-machine is supposed to talk and make a noise--and sometimes music. So I slipped out of the house while the Magician was stirring his four kettles and I've been running after you all night. Now that I've found such pleasant company, I can talk and play tunes all I want to." Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their party. At first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought decided him not to make friends. "We are traveling on important business," he declared, "and you'll excuse me if I say we can't be bothered." "How very impolite!" exclaimed the phonograph. "I'm sorry; but it's true," said the boy. "You'll have to go somewhere else." "This is very unkind treatment, I must say," whined the phonograph, in an injured tone. "Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended to amuse people." "It isn't you we hate, especially," observed the Glass Cat; "it's your dreadful music. When I lived in the same room with you I was much annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and grumbles and clicks and scratches so it spoils the music, and your machinery rumbles so that the racket drowns every tune you attempt." "That isn't my fault; it's the fault of my records. I must admit that I haven't a clear record," answered the machine. "Just the same, you'll have to go away," said Ojo. "Wait a minute," cried Scraps. "This music thing interests me. I remember to have heard music when I first came to life, and I would like to hear it again. What is your name, my poor abused phonograph?" "Victor Columbia Edison," it answered. "Well, I shall call you 'Vic' for short," said the Patchwork Girl. "Go ahead and play something." "It'll drive you crazy," warned the cat. "I'm crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel out the music, Vic." "The only record I have with me," explained the phonograph, "is one the Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It's a highly classical composition." "A what?" inquired Scraps. "It is classical music, and is considered the best and most puzzling ever manufactured. You're supposed to like it, whether you do or not, and if you don't, the proper thing is to look as if you did. Understand?" "Not in the least," said Scraps. "Then, listen!" At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and Scraps began to laugh. "Cut it out, Vic," she said. "That's enough." But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo seized the crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However, the moment the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine again and began winding it up. And still the music played. "Let's run!" cried Scraps, and they all started and ran down the path as fast as they could go. But the phonograph was right behind them and could run and play at the same time. It called out, reproachfully: "What's the matter? Don't you love classical music?" "No, Vic," said Scraps, halting. "We will passical the classical and preserve what joy we have left. I haven't any nerves, thank goodness, but your music makes my cotton shrink." "Then turn over my record. There's a rag-time tune on the other side," said the machine. "What's rag-time?" "The opposite of classical." "All right," said Scraps, and turned over the record. The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble of sounds which proved so bewildering that after a moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron into the gold horn and cried: "Stop--stop! That's the other extreme. It's extremely bad!" Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on. "If you don't shut off that music I'll smash your record," threatened Ojo. The music stopped, at that, and the machine turned its horn from one to another and said with great indignation: "What's the matter now? Is it possible you can't appreciate rag-time?" "Scraps ought to, being rags herself," said the cat; "but I simply can't stand it; it makes my whiskers curl." "It is, indeed, dreadful!" exclaimed Ojo, with a shudder. "It's enough to drive a crazy lady mad," murmured the Patchwork Girl. "I'll tell you what, Vic," she added as she smoothed out her apron and put it on again, "for some reason or other you've missed your guess. You're not a concert; you're a nuisance." "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," asserted the phonograph sadly. "Then we're not savages. I advise you to go home and beg the Magician's pardon." "Never! He'd smash me." "That's what we shall do, if you stay here," Ojo declared. "Run along, Vic, and bother some one else," advised Scraps. "Find some one who is real wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In that way you can do some good in the world." The music thing turned silently away and trotted down a side path, toward a distant Munchkin village. "Is that the way we go?" asked Bungle anxiously. "No," said Ojo; "I think we shall keep straight ahead, for this path is the widest and best. When we come to some house we will inquire the way to the Emerald City." Chapter Eight The Foolish Owl and the Wise Donkey On they went, and half an hour's steady walking brought them to a house somewhat better than the two they had already passed. It stood close to the roadside and over the door was a sign that read: "Miss Foolish Owl and Mr. Wise Donkey: Public Advisers." When Ojo read this sign aloud Scraps said laughingly: "Well, here is a place to get all the advice we want, maybe more than we need. Let's go in." The boy knocked at the door. "Come in!" called a deep bass voice. So they opened the door and entered the house, where a little light-brown donkey, dressed in a blue apron and a blue cap, was engaged in dusting the furniture with a blue cloth. On a shelf over the window sat a great blue owl with a blue sunbonnet on her head, blinking her big round eyes at the visitors. "Good morning," said the donkey, in his deep voice, which seemed bigger than he was. "Did you come to us for advice?" "Why, we came, anyhow," replied Scraps, "and now we are here we may as well have some advice. It's free, isn't it?" "Certainly," said the donkey. "Advice doesn't cost anything--unless you follow it. Permit me to say, by the way, that you are the queerest lot of travelers that ever came to my shop. Judging you merely by appearances, I think you'd better talk to the Foolish Owl yonder." They turned to look at the bird, which fluttered its wings and stared back at them with its big eyes. "Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot!" cried the owl. "Fiddle-cum-foo, Howdy-do? Riddle-cum, tiddle-cum, Too-ra-la-loo!" "That beats your poetry, Scraps," said Ojo. "It's just nonsense!" declared the Glass Cat. "But it's good advice for the foolish," said the donkey, admiringly. "Listen to my partner, and you can't go wrong." Said the owl in a grumbling voice: "Patchwork Girl has come to life; No one's sweetheart, no one's wife; Lacking sense and loving fun, She'll be snubbed by everyone." "Quite a compliment! Quite a compliment, I declare," exclaimed the donkey, turning to look at Scraps. "You are certainly a wonder, my dear, and I fancy you'd make a splendid pincushion. If you belonged to me, I'd wear smoked glasses when I looked at you." "Why?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Because you are so gay and gaudy." "It is my beauty that dazzles you," she asserted. "You Munchkin people all strut around in your stupid blue color, while I--" "You are wrong in calling me a Munchkin," interrupted the donkey, "for I was born in the Land of Mo and came to visit the Land of Oz on the day it was shut off from all the rest of the world. So here I am obliged to stay, and I confess it is a very pleasant country to live in." "Hoot-ti-toot!" cried the owl; "Ojo's searching for a charm, 'Cause Unc Nunkie's come to harm. Charms are scarce; they're hard to get; Ojo's got a job, you bet!" "Is the owl so very foolish?" asked the boy. "Extremely so," replied the donkey. "Notice what vulgar expressions she uses. But I admire the owl for the reason that she is positively foolish. Owls are supposed to be so very wise, generally, that a foolish one is unusual, and you perhaps know that anything or anyone unusual is sure to be interesting to the wise." The owl flapped its wings again, muttering these words: "It's hard to be a glassy cat-- No cat can be more hard than that; She's so transparent, every act Is clear to us, and that's a fact." "Have you noticed my pink brains?" inquired Bungle, proudly. "You can see 'em work." "Not in the daytime," said the donkey. "She can't see very well by day, poor thing. But her advice is excellent. I advise you all to follow it." "The owl hasn't given us any advice, as yet," the boy declared. "No? Then what do you call all those sweet poems?" "Just foolishness," replied Ojo. "Scraps does the same thing." "Foolishness! Of course! To be sure! The Foolish Owl must be foolish or she wouldn't be the Foolish Owl. You are very complimentary to my partner, indeed," asserted the donkey, rubbing his front hoofs together as if highly pleased. "The sign says that you are wise," remarked Scraps to the donkey. "I wish you would prove it." "With great pleasure," returned the beast. "Put me to the test, my dear Patches, and I'll prove my wisdom in the wink of an eye." "What is the best way to get to the Emerald City?" asked Ojo. "Walk," said the donkey. "I know; but what road shall I take?" was the boy's next question. "The road of yellow bricks, of course. It leads directly to the Emerald City." "And how shall we find the road of yellow bricks?" "By keeping along the path you have been following. You'll come to the yellow bricks pretty soon, and you'll know them when you see them because they're the only yellow things in the blue country." "Thank you," said the boy. "At last you have told me something." "Is that the extent of your wisdom?" asked Scraps. "No," replied the donkey; "I know many other things, but they wouldn't interest you. So I'll give you a last word of advice: move on, for the sooner you do that the sooner you'll get to the Emerald City of Oz." "Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot-ti-too!" screeched the owl; "Off you go! fast or slow, Where you're going you don't know. Patches, Bungle, Munchkin lad, Facing fortunes good and bad, Meeting dangers grave and sad, Sometimes worried, sometimes glad-- Where you're going you don't know, Nor do I, but off you go!" "Sounds like a hint, to me," said the Patchwork Girl. "Then let's take it and go," replied Ojo. They said good-bye to the Wise Donkey and the Foolish Owl and at once resumed their journey. Chapter Nine They Meet the Woozy "There seem to be very few houses around here, after all," remarked Ojo, after they had walked for a time in silence. "Never mind," said Scraps; "we are not looking for houses, but rather the road of yellow bricks. Won't it be funny to run across something yellow in this dismal blue country?" "There are worse colors than yellow in this country," asserted the Glass Cat, in a spiteful tone. "Oh; do you mean the pink pebbles you call your brains, and your red heart and green eyes?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "No; I mean you, if you must know it," growled the cat. "You're jealous!" laughed Scraps. "You'd give your whiskers for a lovely variegated complexion like mine." "I wouldn't!" retorted the cat. "I've the clearest complexion in the world, and I don't employ a beauty-doctor, either." "I see you don't," said Scraps. "Please don't quarrel," begged Ojo. "This is an important journey, and quarreling makes me discouraged. To be brave, one must be cheerful, so I hope you will be as good-tempered as possible." They had traveled some distance when suddenly they faced a high fence which barred any further progress straight ahead. It ran directly across the road and enclosed a small forest of tall trees, set close together. When the group of adventurers peered through the bars of the fence they thought this forest looked more gloomy and forbidding than any they had ever seen before. They soon discovered that the path they had been following now made a bend and passed around the enclosure, but what made Ojo stop and look thoughtful was a sign painted on the fence which read: "BEWARE OF THE WOOZY!" "That means," he said, "that there's a Woozy inside that fence, and the Woozy must be a dangerous animal or they wouldn't tell people to beware of it." "Let's keep out, then," replied Scraps. "That path is outside the fence, and Mr. Woozy may have all his little forest to himself, for all we care." "But one of our errands is to find a Woozy," Ojo explained. "The Magician wants me to get three hairs from the end of a Woozy's tail." "Let's go on and find some other Woozy," suggested the cat. "This one is ugly and dangerous, or they wouldn't cage him up. Maybe we shall find another that is tame and gentle." "Perhaps there isn't any other, at all," answered Ojo. "The sign doesn't say: 'Beware a Woozy'; it says: 'Beware the Woozy,' which may mean there's only one in all the Land of Oz." "Then," said Scraps, "suppose we go in and find him? Very likely if we ask him politely to let us pull three hairs out of the tip of his tail he won't hurt us." "It would hurt him, I'm sure, and that would make him cross," said the cat. "You needn't worry, Bungle," remarked the Patchwork Girl; "for if there is danger you can climb a tree. Ojo and I are not afraid; are we, Ojo?" "I am, a little," the boy admitted; "but this danger must be faced, if we intend to save poor Unc Nunkie. How shall we get over the fence?" "Climb," answered Scraps, and at once she began climbing up the rows of bars. Ojo followed and found it more easy than he had expected. When they got to the top of the fence they began to get down on the other side and soon were in the forest. The Glass Cat, being small, crept between the lower bars and joined them. Here there was no path of any sort, so they entered the woods, the boy leading the way, and wandered through the trees until they were nearly in the center of the forest. They now came upon a clear space in which stood a rocky cave. So far they had met no living creature, but when Ojo saw the cave he knew it must be the den of the Woozy. It is hard to face any savage beast without a sinking of the heart, but still more terrifying is it to face an unknown beast, which you have never seen even a picture of. So there is little wonder that the pulses of the Munchkin boy beat fast as he and his companions stood facing the cave. The opening was perfectly square, and about big enough to admit a goat. "I guess the Woozy is asleep," said Scraps. "Shall I throw in a stone, to waken him?" "No; please don't," answered Ojo, his voice trembling a little. "I'm in no hurry." But he had not long to wait, for the Woozy heard the sound of voices and came trotting out of his cave. As this is the only Woozy that has ever lived, either in the Land of Oz or out of it, I must describe it to you. The creature was all squares and flat surfaces and edges. Its head was an exact square, like one of the building-blocks a child plays with; therefore it had no ears, but heard sounds through two openings in the upper corners. Its nose, being in the center of a square surface, was flat, while the mouth was formed by the opening of the lower edge of the block. The body of the Woozy was much larger than its head, but was likewise block-shaped--being twice as long as it was wide and high. The tail was square and stubby and perfectly straight, and the four legs were made in the same way, each being four-sided. The animal was covered with a thick, smooth skin and had no hair at all except at the extreme end of its tail, where there grew exactly three stiff, stubby hairs. The beast was dark blue in color and his face was not fierce nor ferocious in expression, but rather good-humored and droll. Seeing the strangers, the Woozy folded his hind legs as if they had been hinged and sat down to look his visitors over. "Well, well," he exclaimed; "what a queer lot you are! At first I thought some of those miserable Munchkin farmers had come to annoy me, but I am relieved to find you in their stead. It is plain to me that you are a remarkable group--as remarkable in your way as I am in mine--and so you are welcome to my domain. Nice place, isn't it? But lonesome--dreadfully lonesome." "Why did they shut you up here?" asked Scraps, who was regarding the queer, square creature with much curiosity. "Because I eat up all the honey-bees which the Munchkin farmers who live around here keep to make them honey." "Are you fond of eating honey-bees?" inquired the boy. "Very. They are really delicious. But the farmers did not like to lose their bees and so they tried to destroy me. Of course they couldn't do that." "Why not?" "My skin is so thick and tough that nothing can get through it to hurt me. So, finding they could not destroy me, they drove me into this forest and built a fence around me. Unkind, wasn't it?" "But what do you eat now?" asked Ojo. "Nothing at all. I've tried the leaves from the trees and the mosses and creeping vines, but they don't seem to suit my taste. So, there being no honey-bees here, I've eaten nothing for years. "You must be awfully hungry," said the boy. "I've got some bread and cheese in my basket. Would you like that kind of food?" "Give me a nibble and I will try it; then I can tell you better whether it is grateful to my appetite," returned the Woozy. So the boy opened his basket and broke a piece off the loaf of bread. He tossed it toward the Woozy, who cleverly caught it in his mouth and ate it in a twinkling. "That's rather good," declared the animal. "Any more?" "Try some cheese," said Ojo, and threw down a piece. The Woozy ate that, too, and smacked its long, thin lips. "That's mighty good!" it exclaimed. "Any more?" "Plenty," replied Ojo. So he sat down on a Stump and fed the Woozy bread and cheese for a long time; for, no matter how much the boy broke off, the loaf and the slice remained just as big. "That'll do," said the Woozy, at last; "I'm quite full. I hope the strange food won't give me indigestion." "I hope not," said Ojo. "It's what I eat." "Well, I must say I'm much obliged, and I'm glad you came," announced the beast. "Is there anything I can do in return for your kindness?" "Yes," said Ojo earnestly, "you have it in your power to do me a great favor, if you will." "What is it?" asked the Woozy. "Name the favor and I will grant it." "I--I want three hairs from the tip of your tail," said Ojo, with some hesitation. "Three hairs! Why, that's all I have--on my tail or anywhere else," exclaimed the beast. "I know; but I want them very much." "They are my sole ornaments, my prettiest feature," said the Woozy, uneasily. "If I give up those three hairs I--I'm just a blockhead." "Yet I must have them," insisted the boy, firmly, and he then told the Woozy all about the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and how the three hairs were to be a part of the magic charm that would restore them to life. The beast listened with attention and when Ojo had finished the recital it said, with a sigh: "I always keep my word, for I pride myself on being square. So you may have the three hairs, and welcome. I think, under such circumstances, it would be selfish in me to refuse you." "Thank you! Thank you very much," cried the boy, joyfully. "May I pull out the hairs now?" "Any time you like," answered the Woozy. So Ojo went up to the queer creature and taking hold of one of the hairs began to pull. He pulled harder. He pulled with all his might; but the hair remained fast. "What's the trouble?" asked the Woozy, which Ojo had dragged here and there all around the clearing in his endeavor to pull out the hair. "It won't come," said the boy, panting. "I was afraid of that," declared the beast. "You'll have to pull harder." "I'll help you," exclaimed Scraps, coming to the boy's side. "You pull the hair, and I'll pull you, and together we ought to get it out easily." "Wait a jiffy," called the Woozy, and then it went to a tree and hugged it with its front paws, so that its body couldn't be dragged around by the pull. "All ready, now. Go ahead!" Ojo grasped the hair with both hands and pulled with all his strength, while Scraps seized the boy around his waist and added her strength to his. But the hair wouldn't budge. Instead, it slipped out of Ojo's hands and he and Scraps both rolled upon the ground in a heap and never stopped until they bumped against the rocky cave. "Give it up," advised the Glass Cat, as the boy arose and assisted the Patchwork Girl to her feet. "A dozen strong men couldn't pull out those hairs. I believe they're clinched on the under side of the Woozy's thick skin." "Then what shall I do?" asked the boy, despairingly. "If on our return I fail to take these three hairs to the Crooked Magician, the other things I have come to seek will be of no use at all, and we cannot restore Unc Nunkie and Margolotte to life." "They're goners, I guess," said the Patchwork Girl. "Never mind," added the cat. "I can't see that old Unc and Margolotte are worth all this trouble, anyhow." But Ojo did not feel that way. He was so disheartened that he sat down upon a stump and began to cry. The Woozy looked at the boy thoughtfully. "Why don't you take me with you?" asked the beast. "Then, when at last you get to the Magician's house, he can surely find some way to pull out those three hairs." Ojo was overjoyed at this suggestion. "That's it!" he cried, wiping away the tears and springing to his feet with a smile. "If I take the three hairs to the Magician, it won't matter if they are still in your body." "It can't matter in the least," agreed the Woozy. "Come on, then," said the boy, picking up his basket; "let us start at once. I have several other things to find, you know." But the Glass Cat gave a little laugh and inquired in her scornful way: "How do you intend to get the beast out of this forest?" That puzzled them all for a time. "Let us go to the fence, and then we may find a way," suggested Scraps. So they walked through the forest to the fence, reaching it at a point exactly opposite that where they had entered the enclosure. "How did you get in?" asked the Woozy. "We climbed over," answered Ojo. "I can't do that," said the beast. "I'm a very swift runner, for I can overtake a honey-bee as it flies; and I can jump very high, which is the reason they made such a tall fence to keep me in. But I can't climb at all, and I'm too big to squeeze between the bars of the fence." Ojo tried to think what to do. "Can you dig?" he asked. "No," answered the Woozy, "for I have no claws. My feet are quite flat on the bottom of them. Nor can I gnaw away the boards, as I have no teeth." "You're not such a terrible creature, after all," remarked Scraps. "You haven't heard me growl, or you wouldn't say that," declared the Woozy. "When I growl, the sound echoes like thunder all through the valleys and woodlands, and children tremble with fear, and women cover their heads with their aprons, and big men run and hide. I suppose there is nothing in the world so terrible to listen to as the growl of a Woozy." "Please don't growl, then," begged Ojo, earnestly. "There is no danger of my growling, for I am not angry. Only when angry do I utter my fearful, ear-splitting, soul-shuddering growl. Also, when I am angry, my eyes flash fire, whether I growl or not." "Real fire?" asked Ojo. "Of course, real fire. Do you suppose they'd flash imitation fire?" inquired the Woozy, in an injured tone. "In that case, I've solved the riddle," cried Scraps, dancing with glee. "Those fence-boards are made of wood, and if the Woozy stands close to the fence and lets his eyes flash fire, they might set fire to the fence and burn it up. Then he could walk away with us easily, being free." "Ah, I have never thought of that plan, or I would have been free long ago," said the Woozy. "But I cannot flash fire from my eyes unless I am very angry." "Can't you get angry 'bout something, please?" asked Ojo. "I'll try. You just say 'Krizzle-Kroo' to me." "Will that make you angry?" inquired the boy. "Terribly angry." "What does it mean?" asked Scraps. "I don't know; that's what makes me so angry," replied the Woozy. He then stood close to the fence, with his head near one of the boards, and Scraps called out "Krizzle-Kroo!" Then Ojo said "Krizzle-Kroo!" and the Glass Cat said "Krizzle-Kroo!" The Woozy began to tremble with anger and small sparks darted from his eyes. Seeing this, they all cried "Krizzle-Kroo!" together, and that made the beast's eyes flash fire so fiercely that the fence-board caught the sparks and began to smoke. Then it burst into flame, and the Woozy stepped back and said triumphantly: "Aha! That did the business, all right. It was a happy thought for you to yell all together, for that made me as angry as I have ever been. Fine sparks, weren't they?" "Reg'lar fireworks," replied Scraps, admiringly. In a few moments the board had burned to a distance of several feet, leaving an opening big enough for them all to pass through. Ojo broke some branches from a tree and with them whipped the fire until it was extinguished. "We don't want to burn the whole fence down," said he, "for the flames would attract the attention of the Munchkin farmers, who would then come and capture the Woozy again. I guess they'll be rather surprised when they find he's escaped." "So they will," declared the Woozy, chuckling gleefully. "When they find I'm gone the farmers will be badly scared, for they'll expect me to eat up their honey-bees, as I did before." "That reminds me," said the boy, "that you must promise not to eat honey-bees while you are in our company." "None at all?" "Not a bee. You would get us all into trouble, and we can't afford to have any more trouble than is necessary. I'll feed you all the bread and cheese you want, and that must satisfy you." "All right; I'll promise," said the Woozy, cheerfully. "And when I promise anything you can depend on it, 'cause I'm square." "I don't see what difference that makes," observed the Patchwork Girl, as they found the path and continued their journey. "The shape doesn't make a thing honest, does it?" "Of course it does," returned the Woozy, very decidedly. "No one could trust that Crooked Magician, for instance, just because he is crooked; but a square Woozy couldn't do anything crooked if he wanted to." "I am neither square nor crooked," said Scraps, looking down at her plump body. "No; you're round, so you're liable to do anything," asserted the Woozy. "Do not blame me, Miss Gorgeous, if I regard you with suspicion. Many a satin ribbon has a cotton back." Scraps didn't understand this, but she had an uneasy misgiving that she had a cotton back herself. It would settle down, at times, and make her squat and dumpy, and then she had to roll herself in the road until her body stretched out again. Chapter Ten Shaggy Man to the Rescue They had not gone very far before Bungle, who had run on ahead, came bounding back to say that the road of yellow bricks was just before them. At once they hurried forward to see what this famous road looked like. It was a broad road, but not straight, for it wandered over hill and dale and picked out the easiest places to go. All its length and breadth was paved with smooth bricks of a bright yellow color, so it was smooth and level except in a few places where the bricks had crumbled or been removed, leaving holes that might cause the unwary to stumble. "I wonder," said Ojo, looking up and down the road, "which way to go." "Where are you bound for?" asked the Woozy. "The Emerald City," he replied. "Then go west," said the Woozy. "I know this road pretty well, for I've chased many a honey-bee over it." "Have you ever been to the Emerald City?" asked Scraps. "No. I am very shy by nature, as you may have noticed, so I haven't mingled much in society." "Are you afraid of men?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "Me? With my heart-rending growl--my horrible, shudderful growl? I should say not. I am not afraid of anything," declared the Woozy. "I wish I could say the same," sighed Ojo. "I don't think we need be afraid when we get to the Emerald City, for Unc Nunkie has told me that Ozma, our girl Ruler, is very lovely and kind, and tries to help everyone who is in trouble. But they say there are many dangers lurking on the road to the great Fairy City, and so we must be very careful." "I hope nothing will break me," said the Glass Cat, in a nervous voice. "I'm a little brittle, you know, and can't stand many hard knocks." "If anything should fade the colors of my lovely patches it would break my heart," said the Patchwork Girl. "I'm not sure you have a heart," Ojo reminded her. "Then it would break my cotton," persisted Scraps. "Do you think they are all fast colors, Ojo?" she asked anxiously. "They seem fast enough when you run," he replied; and then, looking ahead of them, he exclaimed: "Oh, what lovely trees!" They were certainly pretty to look upon and the travelers hurried forward to observe them more closely. "Why, they are not trees at all," said Scraps; "they are just monstrous plants." That is what they really were: masses of great broad leaves which rose from the ground far into the air, until they towered twice as high as the top of the Patchwork Girl's head, who was a little taller than Ojo. The plants formed rows on both sides of the road and from each plant rose a dozen or more of the big broad leaves, which swayed continually from side to side, although no wind was blowing. But the most curious thing about the swaying leaves was their color. They seemed to have a general groundwork of blue, but here and there other colors glinted at times through the blue--gorgeous yellows, turning to pink, purple, orange and scarlet, mingled with more sober browns and grays--each appearing as a blotch or stripe anywhere on a leaf and then disappearing, to be replaced by some other color of a different shape. The changeful coloring of the great leaves was very beautiful, but it was bewildering, as well, and the novelty of the scene drew our travelers close to the line of plants, where they stood watching them with rapt interest. Suddenly a leaf bent lower than usual and touched the Patchwork Girl. Swiftly it enveloped her in its embrace, covering her completely in its thick folds, and then it swayed back upon its stem. "Why, she's gone!" gasped Ojo, in amazement, and listening carefully he thought he could hear the muffled screams of Scraps coming from the center of the folded leaf. But, before he could think what he ought to do to save her, another leaf bent down and captured the Glass Cat, rolling around the little creature until she was completely hidden, and then straightening up again upon its stem. "Look out," cried the Woozy. "Run! Run fast, or you are lost." Ojo turned and saw the Woozy running swiftly up the road. But the last leaf of the row of plants seized the beast even as he ran and instantly he disappeared from sight. The boy had no chance to escape. Half a dozen of the great leaves were bending toward him from different directions and as he stood hesitating one of them clutched him in its embrace. In a flash he was in the dark. Then he felt himself gently lifted until he was swaying in the air, with the folds of the leaf hugging him on all sides. At first he struggled hard to escape, crying out in anger: "Let me go! Let me go!" But neither struggles nor protests had any effect whatever. The leaf held him firmly and he was a prisoner. Then Ojo quieted himself and tried to think. Despair fell upon him when he remembered that all his little party had been captured, even as he was, and there was none to save them. "I might have expected it," he sobbed, miserably. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky, and something dreadful was sure to happen to me." He pushed against the leaf that held him and found it to be soft, but thick and firm. It was like a great bandage all around him and he found it difficult to move his body or limbs in order to change their position. The minutes passed and became hours. Ojo wondered how long one could live in such a condition and if the leaf would gradually sap his strength and even his life, in order to feed itself. The little Munchkin boy had never heard of any person dying in the Land of Oz, but he knew one could suffer a great deal of pain. His greatest fear at this time was that he would always remain imprisoned in the beautiful leaf and never see the light of day again. No sound came to him through the leaf; all around was intense silence. Ojo wondered if Scraps had stopped screaming, or if the folds of the leaf prevented his hearing her. By and by he thought he heard a whistle, as of some one whistling a tune. Yes; it really must be some one whistling, he decided, for he could follow the strains of a pretty Munchkin melody that Unc Nunkie used to sing to him. The sounds were low and sweet and, although they reached Ojo's ears very faintly, they were clear and harmonious. Could the leaf whistle, Ojo wondered? Nearer and nearer came the sounds and then they seemed to be just the other side of the leaf that was hugging him. Suddenly the whole leaf toppled and fell, carrying the boy with it, and while he sprawled at full length the folds slowly relaxed and set him free. He scrambled quickly to his feet and found that a strange man was standing before him--a man so curious in appearance that the boy stared with round eyes. He was a big man, with shaggy whiskers, shaggy eyebrows, shaggy hair--but kindly blue eyes that were gentle as those of a cow. On his head was a green velvet hat with a jeweled band, which was all shaggy around the brim. Rich but shaggy laces were at his throat; a coat with shaggy edges was decorated with diamond buttons; the velvet breeches had jeweled buckles at the knees and shags all around the bottoms. On his breast hung a medallion bearing a picture of Princess Dorothy of Oz, and in his hand, as he stood looking at Ojo, was a sharp knife shaped like a dagger. "Oh!" exclaimed Ojo, greatly astonished at the sight of this stranger; and then he added: "Who has saved me, sir?" "Can't you see?" replied the other, with a smile; "I'm the Shaggy Man." "Yes; I can see that," said the boy, nodding. "Was it you who rescued me from the leaf?" "None other, you may be sure. But take care, or I shall have to rescue you again." Ojo gave a jump, for he saw several broad leaves leaning toward him; but the Shaggy Man began to whistle again, and at the sound the leaves all straightened up on their stems and kept still. The man now took Ojo's arm and led him up the road, past the last of the great plants, and not till he was safely beyond their reach did he cease his whistling. "You see, the music charms 'em," said he. "Singing or whistling--it doesn't matter which--makes 'em behave, and nothing else will. I always whistle as I go by 'em and so they always let me alone. To-day as I went by, whistling, I saw a leaf curled and knew there must be something inside it. I cut down the leaf with my knife and--out you popped. Lucky I passed by, wasn't it?" "You were very kind," said Ojo, "and I thank you. Will you please rescue my companions, also?" "What companions?" asked the Shaggy Man. "The leaves grabbed them all," said the boy. "There's a Patchwork Girl and--" "A what?" "A girl made of patchwork, you know. She's alive and her name is Scraps. And there's a Glass Cat--" "Glass?" asked the Shaggy Man. "All glass." "And alive?" "Yes," said Ojo; "she has pink brains. And there's a Woozy--" "What's a Woozy?" inquired the Shaggy Man. "Why, I--I--can't describe it," answered the boy, greatly perplexed. "But it's a queer animal with three hairs on the tip of its tail that won't come out and--" "What won't come out?" asked the Shaggy Man; "the tail?" "The hairs won't come out. But you'll see the Woozy, if you'll please rescue it, and then you'll know just what it is." "Of course," said the Shaggy Man, nodding his shaggy head. And then he walked back among the plants, still whistling, and found the three leaves which were curled around Ojo's traveling companions. The first leaf he cut down released Scraps, and on seeing her the Shaggy Man threw back his shaggy head, opened wide his mouth and laughed so shaggily and yet so merrily that Scraps liked him at once. Then he took off his hat and made her a low bow, saying: "My dear, you're a wonder. I must introduce you to my friend the Scarecrow." When he cut down the second leaf he rescued the Glass Cat, and Bungle was so frightened that she scampered away like a streak and soon had joined Ojo, when she sat beside him panting and trembling. The last plant of all the row had captured the Woozy, and a big bunch in the center of the curled leaf showed plainly where he was. With his sharp knife the Shaggy Man sliced off the stem of the leaf and as it fell and unfolded out trotted the Woozy and escaped beyond the reach of any more of the dangerous plants. Chapter Eleven A Good Friend Soon the entire party was gathered on the road of yellow bricks, quite beyond the reach of the beautiful but treacherous plants. The Shaggy Man, staring first at one and then at the other, seemed greatly pleased and interested. "I've seen queer things since I came to the Land of Oz," said he, "but never anything queerer than this band of adventurers. Let us sit down a while, and have a talk and get acquainted." "Haven't you always lived in the Land of Oz?" asked the Munchkin boy. "No; I used to live in the big, outside world. But I came here once with Dorothy, and Ozma let me stay." "How do you like Oz?" asked Scraps. "Isn't the country and the climate grand?" "It's the finest country in all the world, even if it is a fairyland, and I'm happy every minute I live in it," said the Shaggy Man. "But tell me something about yourselves." So Ojo related the story of his visit to the house of the Crooked Magician, and how he met there the Glass Cat, and how the Patchwork Girl was brought to life and of the terrible accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte. Then he told how he had set out to find the five different things which the Magician needed to make a charm that would restore the marble figures to life, one requirement being three hairs from a Woozy's tail. "We found the Woozy," explained the boy, "and he agreed to give us the three hairs; but we couldn't pull them out. So we had to bring the Woozy along with us." "I see," returned the Shaggy Man, who had listened with interest to the story. "But perhaps I, who am big and strong, can pull those three hairs from the Woozy's tail." "Try it, if you like," said the Woozy. So the Shaggy Man tried it, but pull as hard as he could he failed to get the hairs out of the Woozy's tail. So he sat down again and wiped his shaggy face with a shaggy silk handkerchief and said: "It doesn't matter. If you can keep the Woozy until you get the rest of the things you need, you can take the beast and his three hairs to the Crooked Magician and let him find a way to extract 'em. What are the other things you are to find?" "One," said Ojo, "is a six-leaved clover." "You ought to find that in the fields around the Emerald City," said the Shaggy Man. "There is a Law against picking six-leaved clovers, but I think I can get Ozma to let you have one." "Thank you," replied Ojo. "The next thing is the left wing of a yellow butterfly." "For that you must go to the Winkie Country," the Shaggy Man declared. "I've never noticed any butterflies there, but that is the yellow country of Oz and it's ruled by a good friend of mine, the Tin Woodman." "Oh, I've heard of him!" exclaimed Ojo. "He must be a wonderful man." "So he is, and his heart is wonderfully kind. I'm sure the Tin Woodman will do all in his power to help you to save your Unc Nunkie and poor Margolotte." "The next thing I must find," said the Munchkin boy, "is a gill of water from a dark well." "Indeed! Well, that is more difficult," said the Shaggy Man, scratching his left ear in a puzzled way. "I've never heard of a dark well; have you?" "No," said Ojo. "Do you know where one may be found?" inquired the Shaggy Man. "I can't imagine," said Ojo. "Then we must ask the Scarecrow." "The Scarecrow! But surely, sir, a scarecrow can't know anything." "Most scarecrows don't, I admit," answered the Shaggy Man. "But this Scarecrow of whom I speak is very intelligent. He claims to possess the best brains in all Oz." "Better than mine?" asked Scraps. "Better than mine?" echoed the Glass Cat. "Mine are pink, and you can see 'em work." "Well, you can't see the Scarecrow's brains work, but they do a lot of clever thinking," asserted the Shaggy Man. "If anyone knows where a dark well is, it's my friend the Scarecrow." "Where does he live?" inquired Ojo. "He has a splendid castle in the Winkie Country, near to the palace of his friend the Tin Woodman, and he is often to be found in the Emerald City, where he visits Dorothy at the royal palace." "Then we will ask him about the dark well," said Ojo. "But what else does this Crooked Magician want?" asked the Shaggy Man. "A drop of oil from a live man's body." "Oh; but there isn't such a thing." "That is what I thought," replied Ojo; "but the Crooked Magician said it wouldn't be called for by the recipe if it couldn't be found, and therefore I must search until I find it." "I wish you good luck," said the Shaggy Man, shaking his head doubtfully; "but I imagine you'll have a hard job getting a drop of oil from a live man's body. There's blood in a body, but no oil." "There's cotton in mine," said Scraps, dancing a little jig. "I don't doubt it," returned the Shaggy Man admiringly. "You're a regular comforter and as sweet as patchwork can be. All you lack is dignity." "I hate dignity," cried Scraps, kicking a pebble high in the air and then trying to catch it as it fell. "Half the fools and all the wise folks are dignified, and I'm neither the one nor the other." "She's just crazy," explained the Glass Cat. The Shaggy Man laughed. "She's delightful, in her way," he said. "I'm sure Dorothy will be pleased with her, and the Scarecrow will dote on her. Did you say you were traveling toward the Emerald City?" "Yes," replied Ojo. "I thought that the best place to go, at first, because the six-leaved clover may be found there." "I'll go with you," said the Shaggy Man, "and show you the way." "Thank you," exclaimed Ojo. "I hope it won't put you out any." "No," said the other, "I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I've been a rover all my life, and although Ozma has given me a suite of beautiful rooms in her palace I still get the wandering fever once in a while and start out to roam the country over. I've been away from the Emerald City several weeks, this time, and now that I've met you and your friends I'm sure it will interest me to accompany you to the great city of Oz and introduce you to my friends." "That will be very nice," said the boy, gratefully. "I hope your friends are not dignified," observed Scraps. "Some are, and some are not," he answered; "but I never criticise my friends. If they are really true friends, they may be anything they like, for all of me." "There's some sense in that," said Scraps, nodding her queer head in approval. "Come on, and let's get to the Emerald City as soon as possible." With this she ran up the path, skipping and dancing, and then turned to await them. "It is quite a distance from here to the Emerald City," remarked the Shaggy Man, "so we shall not get there to-day, nor to-morrow. Therefore let us take the jaunt in an easy manner. I'm an old traveler and have found that I never gain anything by being in a hurry. 'Take it easy' is my motto. If you can't take it easy, take it as easy as you can." After walking some distance over the road of yellow bricks Ojo said he was hungry and would stop to eat some bread and cheese. He offered a portion of the food to the Shaggy Man, who thanked him but refused it. "When I start out on my travels," said he, "I carry along enough square meals to last me several weeks. Think I'll indulge in one now, as long as we're stopping anyway." Saying this, he took a bottle from his pocket and shook from it a tablet about the size of one of Ojo's finger-nails. "That," announced the Shaggy Man, "is a square meal, in condensed form. Invention of the great Professor Woggle-Bug, of the Royal College of Athletics. It contains soup, fish, roast meat, salad, apple-dumplings, ice cream and chocolate-drops, all boiled down to this small size, so it can be conveniently carried and swallowed when you are hungry and need a square meal." "I'm square," said the Woozy. "Give me one, please." So the Shaggy Man gave the Woozy a tablet from his bottle and the beast ate it in a twinkling. "You have now had a six course dinner," declared the Shaggy Man. "Pshaw!" said the Woozy, ungratefully, "I want to taste something. There's no fun in that sort of eating." "One should only eat to sustain life," replied the Shaggy Man, "and that tablet is equal to a peck of other food." "I don't care for it. I want something I can chew and taste," grumbled the Woozy. "You are quite wrong, my poor beast," said the Shaggy Man in a tone of pity. "Think how tired your jaws would get chewing a square meal like this, if it were not condensed to the size of a small tablet--which you can swallow in a jiffy." "Chewing isn't tiresome; it's fun," maintained the Woozy. "I always chew the honey-bees when I catch them. Give me some bread and cheese, Ojo." "No, no! You've already eaten a big dinner!" protested the Shaggy Man. "May be," answered the Woozy; "but I guess I'll fool myself by munching some bread and cheese. I may not be hungry, having eaten all those things you gave me, but I consider this eating business a matter of taste, and I like to realize what's going into me." Ojo gave the beast what he wanted, but the Shaggy Man shook his shaggy head reproachfully and said there was no animal so obstinate or hard to convince as a Woozy. At this moment a patter of footsteps was heard, and looking up they saw the live phonograph standing before them. It seemed to have passed through many adventures since Ojo and his comrades last saw the machine, for the varnish of its wooden case was all marred and dented and scratched in a way that gave it an aged and disreputable appearance. "Dear me!" exclaimed Ojo, staring hard. "What has happened to you?" "Nothing much," replied the phonograph in a sad and depressed voice. "I've had enough things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock a department store and furnish half a dozen bargain-counters." "Are you so broken up that you can't play?" asked Scraps. "No; I still am able to grind out delicious music. Just now I've a record on tap that is really superb," said the phonograph, growing more cheerful. "That is too bad," remarked Ojo. "We've no objection to you as a machine, you know; but as a music-maker we hate you." "Then why was I ever invented?" demanded the machine, in a tone of indignant protest. They looked at one another inquiringly, but no one could answer such a puzzling question. Finally the Shaggy Man said: "I'd like to hear the phonograph play." Ojo sighed. "We've been very happy since we met you, sir," he said. "I know. But a little misery, at times, makes one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony, what is this record like, which you say you have on tap?" "It's a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands the common people have gone wild over it." "Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then it's dangerous." "Wild with joy, I mean," explained the phonograph. "Listen. This song will prove a rare treat to you, I know. It made the author rich--for an author. It is called 'My Lulu.'" Then the phonograph began to play. A strain of odd, jerky sounds was followed by these words, sung by a man through his nose with great vigor of expression: "Ah wants mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu; Ah wants mah loo-loo, loo-loo, loo-loo, Lu! Ah loves mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu, There ain't nobody else loves loo-loo, Lu!" "Here--shut that off!" cried the Shaggy Man, springing to his feet. "What do you mean by such impertinence?" "It's the latest popular song," declared the phonograph, speaking in a sulky tone of voice. "A popular song?" "Yes. One that the feeble-minded can remember the words of and those ignorant of music can whistle or sing. That makes a popular song popular, and the time is coming when it will take the place of all other songs." "That time won't come to us, just yet," said the Shaggy Man, sternly: "I'm something of a singer myself, and I don't intend to be throttled by any Lulus like your coal-black one. I shall take you all apart, Mr. Phony, and scatter your pieces far and wide over the country, as a matter of kindness to the people you might meet if allowed to run around loose. Having performed this painful duty I shall--" But before he could say more the phonograph turned and dashed up the road as fast as its four table-legs could carry it, and soon it had entirely disappeared from their view. The Shaggy Man sat down again and seemed well pleased. "Some one else will save me the trouble of scattering that phonograph," said he; "for it is not possible that such a music-maker can last long in the Land of Oz. When you are rested, friends, let us go on our way." During the afternoon the travelers found themselves in a lonely and uninhabited part of the country. Even the fields were no longer cultivated and the country began to resemble a wilderness. The road of yellow bricks seemed to have been neglected and became uneven and more difficult to walk upon. Scrubby under-brush grew on either side of the way, while huge rocks were scattered around in abundance. But this did not deter Ojo and his friends from trudging on, and they beguiled the journey with jokes and cheerful conversation. Toward evening they reached a crystal spring which gushed from a tall rock by the roadside and near this spring stood a deserted cabin. Said the Shaggy Man, halting here: "We may as well pass the night here, where there is shelter for our heads and good water to drink. Road beyond here is pretty bad; worst we shall have to travel; so let's wait until morning before we tackle it." They agreed to this and Ojo found some brushwood in the cabin and made a fire on the hearth. The fire delighted Scraps, who danced before it until Ojo warned her she might set fire to herself and burn up. After that the Patchwork Girl kept at a respectful distance from the darting flames, but the Woozy lay down before the fire like a big dog and seemed to enjoy its warmth. For supper the Shaggy Man ate one of his tablets, but Ojo stuck to his bread and cheese as the most satisfying food. He also gave a portion to the Woozy. When darkness came on and they sat in a circle on the cabin floor, facing the firelight--there being no furniture of any sort in the place--Ojo said to the Shaggy Man: "Won't you tell us a story?" "I'm not good at stories," was the reply; "but I sing like a bird." "Raven, or crow?" asked the Glass Cat. "Like a song bird. I'll prove it. I'll sing a song I composed myself. Don't tell anyone I'm a poet; they might want me to write a book. Don't tell 'em I can sing, or they'd want me to make records for that awful phonograph. Haven't time to be a public benefactor, so I'll just sing you this little song for your own amusement." They were glad enough to be entertained, and listened with interest while the Shaggy Man chanted the following verses to a tune that was not unpleasant: "I'll sing a song of Ozland, where wondrous creatures dwell And fruits and flowers and shady bowers abound in every dell, Where magic is a science and where no one shows surprise If some amazing thing takes place before his very eyes. Our Ruler's a bewitching girl whom fairies love to please; She's always kept her magic sceptre to enforce decrees To make her people happy, for her heart is kind and true And to aid the needy and distressed is what she longs to do. And then there's Princess Dorothy, as sweet as any rose, A lass from Kansas, where they don't grow fairies, I suppose; And there's the brainy Scarecrow, with a body stuffed with straw, Who utters words of wisdom rare that fill us all with awe. I'll not forget Nick Chopper, the Woodman made of Tin, Whose tender heart thinks killing time is quite a dreadful sin, Nor old Professor Woggle-Bug, who's highly magnified And looks so big to everyone that he is filled with pride. Jack Pumpkinhead's a dear old chum who might be called a chump, But won renown by riding round upon a magic Gump; The Sawhorse is a splendid steed and though he's made of wood He does as many thrilling stunts as any meat horse could. And now I'll introduce a beast that ev'ryone adores-- The Cowardly Lion shakes with fear 'most ev'ry time he roars, And yet he does the bravest things that any lion might, Because he knows that cowardice is not considered right. There's Tik-Tok--he's a clockwork man and quite a funny sight-- He talks and walks mechanically, when he's wound up tight; And we've a Hungry Tiger who would babies love to eat But never does because we feed him other kinds of meat. It's hard to name all of the freaks this noble Land's acquired; 'Twould make my song so very long that you would soon be tired; But give attention while I mention one wise Yellow Hen And Nine fine Tiny Piglets living in a golden pen. Just search the whole world over--sail the seas from coast to coast-- No other nation in creation queerer folk can boast; And now our rare museum will include a Cat of Glass, A Woozy, and--last but not least--a crazy Patchwork Lass." Ojo was so pleased with this song that he applauded the singer by clapping his hands, and Scraps followed suit by clapping her padded fingers together, although they made no noise. The cat pounded on the floor with her glass paws--gently, so as not to break them--and the Woozy, which had been asleep, woke up to ask what the row was about. "I seldom sing in public, for fear they might want me to start an opera company," remarked the Shaggy Man, who was pleased to know his effort was appreciated. "Voice, just now, is a little out of training; rusty, perhaps." "Tell me," said the Patchwork Girl earnestly, "do all those queer people you mention really live in the Land of Oz?" "Every one of 'em. I even forgot one thing: Dorothy's Pink Kitten." "For goodness sake!" exclaimed Bungle, sitting up and looking interested. "A Pink Kitten? How absurd! Is it glass?" "No; just ordinary kitten." "Then it can't amount to much. I have pink brains, and you can see 'em work." "Dorothy's kitten is all pink--brains and all--except blue eyes. Name's Eureka. Great favorite at the royal palace," said the Shaggy Man, yawning. The Glass Cat seemed annoyed. "Do you think a pink kitten--common meat--is as pretty as I am?" she asked. "Can't say. Tastes differ, you know," replied the Shaggy Man, yawning again. "But here's a pointer that may be of service to you: make friends with Eureka and you'll be solid at the palace." "I'm solid now; solid glass." "You don't understand," rejoined the Shaggy Man, sleepily. "Anyhow, make friends with the Pink Kitten and you'll be all right. If the Pink Kitten despises you, look out for breakers." "Would anyone at the royal palace break a Glass Cat?" "Might. You never can tell. Advise you to purr soft and look humble--if you can. And now I'm going to bed." Bungle considered the Shaggy Man's advice so carefully that her pink brains were busy long after the others of the party were fast asleep. Chapter Twelve The Giant Porcupine Next morning they started out bright and early to follow the road of yellow bricks toward the Emerald City. The little Munchkin boy was beginning to feel tired from the long walk, and he had a great many things to think of and consider besides the events of the journey. At the wonderful Emerald City, which he would presently reach, were so many strange and curious people that he was half afraid of meeting them and wondered if they would prove friendly and kind. Above all else, he could not drive from his mind the important errand on which he had come, and he was determined to devote every energy to finding the things that were necessary to prepare the magic recipe. He believed that until dear Unc Nunkie was restored to life he could feel no joy in anything, and often he wished that Unc could be with him, to see all the astonishing things Ojo was seeing. But alas Unc Nunkie was now a marble statue in the house of the Crooked Magician and Ojo must not falter in his efforts to save him. The country through which they were passing was still rocky and deserted, with here and there a bush or a tree to break the dreary landscape. Ojo noticed one tree, especially, because it had such long, silky leaves and was so beautiful in shape. As he approached it he studied the tree earnestly, wondering if any fruit grew on it or if it bore pretty flowers. Suddenly he became aware that he had been looking at that tree a long time--at least for five minutes--and it had remained in the same position, although the boy had continued to walk steadily on. So he stopped short, and when he stopped, the tree and all the landscape, as well as his companions, moved on before him and left him far behind. Ojo uttered such a cry of astonishment that it aroused the Shaggy Man, who also halted. The others then stopped, too, and walked back to the boy. "What's wrong?" asked the Shaggy Man. "Why, we're not moving forward a bit, no matter how fast we walk," declared Ojo. "Now that we have stopped, we are moving backward! Can't you see? Just notice that rock." Scraps looked down at her feet and said: "The yellow bricks are not moving." "But the whole road is," answered Ojo. "True; quite true," agreed the Shaggy Man. "I know all about the tricks of this road, but I have been thinking of something else and didn't realize where we were." "It will carry us back to where we started from," predicted Ojo, beginning to be nervous. "No," replied the Shaggy Man; "it won't do that, for I know a trick to beat this tricky road. I've traveled this way before, you know. Turn around, all of you, and walk backward." "What good will that do?" asked the cat. "You'll find out, if you obey me," said the Shaggy Man. So they all turned their backs to the direction in which they wished to go and began walking backward. In an instant Ojo noticed they were gaining ground and as they proceeded in this curious way they soon passed the tree which had first attracted his attention to their difficulty. "How long must we keep this up, Shags?" asked Scraps, who was constantly tripping and tumbling down, only to get up again with a laugh at her mishap. "Just a little way farther," replied the Shaggy Man. A few minutes later he called to them to turn about quickly and step forward, and as they obeyed the order they found themselves treading solid ground. "That task is well over," observed the Shaggy Man. "It's a little tiresome to walk backward, but that is the only way to pass this part of the road, which has a trick of sliding back and carrying with it anyone who is walking upon it." With new courage and energy they now trudged forward and after a time came to a place where the road cut through a low hill, leaving high banks on either side of it. They were traveling along this cut, talking together, when the Shaggy Man seized Scraps with one arm and Ojo with another and shouted: "Stop!" "What's wrong now?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "See there!" answered the Shaggy Man, pointing with his finger. Directly in the center of the road lay a motionless object that bristled all over with sharp quills, which resembled arrows. The body was as big as a ten-bushel-basket, but the projecting quills made it appear to be four times bigger. "Well, what of it?" asked Scraps. "That is Chiss, who causes a lot of trouble along this road," was the reply. "Chiss! What is Chiss? "I think it is merely an overgrown porcupine, but here in Oz they consider Chiss an evil spirit. He's different from a reg'lar porcupine, because he can throw his quills in any direction, which an American porcupine cannot do. That's what makes old Chiss so dangerous. If we get too near, he'll fire those quills at us and hurt us badly." "Then we will be foolish to get too near," said Scraps. "I'm not afraid," declared the Woozy. "The Chiss is cowardly, I'm sure, and if it ever heard my awful, terrible, frightful growl, it would be scared stiff." "Oh; can you growl?" asked the Shaggy Man. "That is the only ferocious thing about me," asserted the Woozy with evident pride. "My growl makes an earthquake blush and the thunder ashamed of itself. If I growled at that creature you call Chiss, it would immediately think the world had cracked in two and bumped against the sun and moon, and that would cause the monster to run as far and as fast as its legs could carry it." "In that case," said the Shaggy Man, "you are now able to do us all a great favor. Please growl." "But you forget," returned the Woozy; "my tremendous growl would also frighten you, and if you happen to have heart disease you might expire." "True; but we must take that risk," decided the Shaggy Man, bravely. "Being warned of what is to occur we must try to bear the terrific noise of your growl; but Chiss won't expect it, and it will scare him away." The Woozy hesitated. "I'm fond of you all, and I hate to shock you," it said. "Never mind," said Ojo. "You may be made deaf." "If so, we will forgive you." "Very well, then," said the Woozy in a determined voice, and advanced a few steps toward the giant porcupine. Pausing to look back, it asked: "All ready?" "All ready!" they answered. "Then cover up your ears and brace yourselves firmly. Now, then--look out!" The Woozy turned toward Chiss, opened wide its mouth and said: "Quee-ee-ee-eek." "Go ahead and growl," said Scraps. "Why, I--I did growl!" retorted the Woozy, who seemed much astonished. "What, that little squeak?" she cried. "It is the most awful growl that ever was heard, on land or sea, in caverns or in the sky," protested the Woozy. "I wonder you stood the shock so well. Didn't you feel the ground tremble? I suppose Chiss is now quite dead with fright." The Shaggy Man laughed merrily. "Poor Wooz!" said he; "your growl wouldn't scare a fly." The Woozy seemed to be humiliated and surprised. It hung its head a moment, as if in shame or sorrow, but then it said with renewed confidence: "Anyhow, my eyes can flash fire; and good fire, too; good enough to set fire to a fence!" "That is true," declared Scraps; "I saw it done myself. But your ferocious growl isn't as loud as the tick of a beetle--or one of Ojo's snores when he's fast asleep." "Perhaps," said the Woozy, humbly, "I have been mistaken about my growl. It has always sounded very fearful to me, but that may have been because it was so close to my ears." "Never mind," Ojo said soothingly; "it is a great talent to be able to flash fire from your eyes. No one else can do that." As they stood hesitating what to do Chiss stirred and suddenly a shower of quills came flying toward them, almost filling the air, they were so many. Scraps realized in an instant that they had gone too near to Chiss for safety, so she sprang in front of Ojo and shielded him from the darts, which stuck their points into her own body until she resembled one of those targets they shoot arrows at in archery games. The Shaggy Man dropped flat on his face to avoid the shower, but one quill struck him in the leg and went far in. As for the Glass Cat, the quills rattled off her body without making even a scratch, and the skin of the Woozy was so thick and tough that he was not hurt at all. When the attack was over they all ran to the Shaggy Man, who was moaning and groaning, and Scraps promptly pulled the quill out of his leg. Then up he jumped and ran over to Chiss, putting his foot on the monster's neck and holding it a prisoner. The body of the great porcupine was now as smooth as leather, except for the holes where the quills had been, for it had shot every single quill in that one wicked shower. "Let me go!" it shouted angrily. "How dare you put your foot on Chiss?" "I'm going to do worse than that, old boy," replied the Shaggy Man. "You have annoyed travelers on this road long enough, and now I shall put an end to you." "You can't!" returned Chiss. "Nothing can kill me, as you know perfectly well." "Perhaps that is true," said the Shaggy Man in a tone of disappointment. "Seems to me I've been told before that you can't be killed. But if I let you go, what will you do?" "Pick up my quills again," said Chiss in a sulky voice. "And then shoot them at more travelers? No; that won't do. You must promise me to stop throwing quills at people." "I won't promise anything of the sort," declared Chiss. "Why not?" "Because it is my nature to throw quills, and every animal must do what Nature intends it to do. It isn't fair for you to blame me. If it were wrong for me to throw quills, then I wouldn't be made with quills to throw. The proper thing for you to do is to keep out of my way." "Why, there's some sense in that argument," admitted the Shaggy Man, thoughtfully; "but people who are strangers, and don't know you are here, won't be able to keep out of your way." "Tell you what," said Scraps, who was trying to pull the quills out of her own body, "let's gather up all the quills and take them away with us; then old Chiss won't have any left to throw at people." "Ah, that's a clever idea. You and Ojo must gather up the quills while I hold Chiss a prisoner; for, if I let him go, he will get some of his quills and be able to throw them again." So Scraps and Ojo picked up all the quills and tied them in a bundle so they might easily be carried. After this the Shaggy Man released Chiss and let him go, knowing that he was harmless to injure anyone. "It's the meanest trick I ever heard of," muttered the porcupine gloomily. "How would you like it, Shaggy Man, if I took all your shags away from you?" "If I threw my shags and hurt people, you would be welcome to capture them," was the reply. Then they walked on and left Chiss standing in the road sullen and disconsolate. The Shaggy Man limped as he walked, for his wound still hurt him, and Scraps was much annoyed because the quills had left a number of small holes in her patches. When they came to a flat stone by the roadside the Shaggy Man sat down to rest, and then Ojo opened his basket and took out the bundle of charms the Crooked Magician had given him. "I am Ojo the Unlucky," he said, "or we would never have met that dreadful porcupine. But I will see if I can find anything among these charms which will cure your leg." Soon he discovered that one of the charms was labelled: "For flesh wounds," and this the boy separated from the others. It was only a bit of dried root, taken from some unknown shrub, but the boy rubbed it upon the wound made by the quill and in a few moments the place was healed entirely and the Shaggy Man's leg was as good as ever. "Rub it on the holes in my patches," suggested Scraps, and Ojo tried it, but without any effect. "The charm you need is a needle and thread," said the Shaggy Man. "But do not worry, my dear; those holes do not look badly, at all." "They'll let in the air, and I don't want people to think I'm airy, or that I've been stuck up," said the Patchwork Girl. "You were certainly stuck up until we pulled out those quills," observed Ojo, with a laugh. So now they went on again and coming presently to a pond of muddy water they tied a heavy stone to the bundle of quills and sunk it to the bottom of the pond, to avoid carrying it farther. Chapter Thirteen Scraps and the Scarecrow From here on the country improved and the desert places began to give way to fertile spots; still no houses were yet to be seen near the road. There were some hills, with valleys between them, and on reaching the top of one of these hills the travelers found before them a high wall, running to the right and the left as far as their eyes could reach. Immediately in front of them, where the wall crossed the roadway, stood a gate having stout iron bars that extended from top to bottom. They found, on coming nearer, that this gate was locked with a great padlock, rusty through lack of use. "Well," said Scraps, "I guess we'll stop here." "It's a good guess," replied Ojo. "Our way is barred by this great wall and gate. It looks as if no one had passed through in many years." "Looks are deceiving," declared the Shaggy Man, laughing at their disappointed faces, "and this barrier is the most deceiving thing in all Oz." "It prevents our going any farther, anyhow," said Scraps. "There is no one to mind the gate and let people through, and we've no key to the padlock." "True," replied Ojo, going a little nearer to peep through the bars of the gate. "What shall we do, Shaggy Man? If we had wings we might fly over the wall, but we cannot climb it and unless we get to the Emerald City I won't be able to find the things to restore Unc Nunkie to life." "All very true," answered the Shaggy Man, quietly; "but I know this gate, having passed through it many times." "How?" they all eagerly inquired. "I'll show you how," said he. He stood Ojo in the middle of the road and placed Scraps just behind him, with her padded hands on his shoulders. After the Patchwork Girl came the Woozy, who held a part of her skirt in his mouth. Then, last of all, was the Glass Cat, holding fast to the Woozy's tail with her glass jaws. "Now," said the Shaggy Man, "you must all shut your eyes tight, and keep them shut until I tell you to open them." "I can't," objected Scraps. "My eyes are buttons, and they won't shut." So the Shaggy Man tied his red handkerchief over the Patchwork Girl's eyes and examined all the others to make sure they had their eyes fast shut and could see nothing. "What's the game, anyhow--blind-man's-buff?" asked Scraps. "Keep quiet!" commanded the Shaggy Man, sternly. "All ready? Then follow me." He took Ojo's hand and led him forward over the road of yellow bricks, toward the gate. Holding fast to one another they all followed in a row, expecting every minute to bump against the iron bars. The Shaggy Man also had his eyes closed, but marched straight ahead, nevertheless, and after he had taken one hundred steps, by actual count, he stopped and said: "Now you may open your eyes." They did so, and to their astonishment found the wall and the gateway far behind them, while in front the former Blue Country of the Munchkins had given way to green fields, with pretty farm-houses scattered among them. "That wall," explained the Shaggy Man, "is what is called an optical illusion. It is quite real while you have your eyes open, but if you are not looking at it the barrier doesn't exist at all. It's the same way with many other evils in life; they seem to exist, and yet it's all seeming and not true. You will notice that the wall--or what we thought was a wall--separates the Munchkin Country from the green country that surrounds the Emerald City, which lies exactly in the center of Oz. There are two roads of yellow bricks through the Munchkin Country, but the one we followed is the best of the two. Dorothy once traveled the other way, and met with more dangers than we did. But all our troubles are over for the present, as another day's journey will bring us to the great Emerald City." They were delighted to know this, and proceeded with new courage. In a couple of hours they stopped at a farmhouse, where the people were very hospitable and invited them to dinner. The farm folk regarded Scraps with much curiosity but no great astonishment, for they were accustomed to seeing extraordinary people in the Land of Oz. The woman of this house got her needle and thread and sewed up the holes made by the porcupine quills in the Patchwork Girl's body, after which Scraps was assured she looked as beautiful as ever. "You ought to have a hat to wear," remarked the woman, "for that would keep the sun from fading the colors of your face. I have some patches and scraps put away, and if you will wait two or three days I'll make you a lovely hat that will match the rest of you." "Never mind the hat," said Scraps, shaking her yarn braids; "it's a kind offer, but we can't stop. I can't see that my colors have faded a particle, as yet; can you?" "Not much," replied the woman. "You are still very gorgeous, in spite of your long journey." The children of the house wanted to keep the Glass Cat to play with, so Bungle was offered a good home if she would remain; but the cat was too much interested in Ojo's adventures and refused to stop. "Children are rough playmates," she remarked to the Shaggy Man, "and although this home is more pleasant than that of the Crooked Magician I fear I would soon be smashed to pieces by the boys and girls." After they had rested themselves they renewed their journey, finding the road now smooth and pleasant to walk upon and the country growing more beautiful the nearer they drew to the Emerald City. By and by Ojo began to walk on the green grass, looking carefully around him. "What are you trying to find?" asked Scraps. "A six-leaved clover," said he. "Don't do that!" exclaimed the Shaggy Man, earnestly. "It's against the Law to pick a six-leaved clover. You must wait until you get Ozma's consent." "She wouldn't know it," declared the boy. "Ozma knows many things," said the Shaggy Man. "In her room is a Magic Picture that shows any scene in the Land of Oz where strangers or travelers happen to be. She may be watching the picture of us even now, and noticing everything that we do." "Does she always watch the Magic Picture?" asked Ojo. "Not always, for she has many other things to do; but, as I said, she may be watching us this very minute." "I don't care," said Ojo, in an obstinate tone of voice; "Ozma's only a girl." The Shaggy Man looked at him in surprise. "You ought to care for Ozma," said he, "if you expect to save your uncle. For, if you displease our powerful Ruler, your journey will surely prove a failure; whereas, if you make a friend of Ozma, she will gladly assist you. As for her being a girl, that is another reason why you should obey her laws, if you are courteous and polite. Everyone in Oz loves Ozma and hates her enemies, for she is as just as she is powerful." Ojo sulked a while, but finally returned to the road and kept away from the green clover. The boy was moody and bad tempered for an hour or two afterward, because he could really see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover, if he found one, and in spite of what the Shaggy Man had said he considered Ozma's law to be unjust. They presently came to a beautiful grove of tall and stately trees, through which the road wound in sharp curves--first one way and then another. As they were walking through this grove they heard some one in the distance singing, and the sounds grew nearer and nearer until they could distinguish the words, although the bend in the road still hid the singer. The song was something like this: "Here's to the hale old bale of straw That's cut from the waving grain, The sweetest sight man ever saw In forest, dell or plain. It fills me with a crunkling joy A straw-stack to behold, For then I pad this lucky boy With strands of yellow gold." "Ah!" exclaimed the Shaggy Man; "here comes my friend the Scarecrow." "What, a live Scarecrow?" asked Ojo. "Yes; the one I told you of. He's a splendid fellow, and very intelligent. You'll like him, I'm sure." Just then the famous Scarecrow of Oz came around the bend in the road, riding astride a wooden Sawhorse which was so small that its rider's legs nearly touched the ground. The Scarecrow wore the blue dress of the Munchkins, in which country he was made, and on his head was set a peaked hat with a flat brim trimmed with tinkling bells. A rope was tied around his waist to hold him in shape, for he was stuffed with straw in every part of him except the top of his head, where at one time the Wizard of Oz had placed sawdust, mixed with needles and pins, to sharpen his wits. The head itself was merely a bag of cloth, fastened to the body at the neck, and on the front of this bag was painted the face--ears, eyes, nose and mouth. The Scarecrow's face was very interesting, for it bore a comical and yet winning expression, although one eye was a bit larger than the other and ears were not mates. The Munchkin farmer who had made the Scarecrow had neglected to sew him together with close stitches and therefore some of the straw with which he was stuffed was inclined to stick out between the seams. His hands consisted of padded white gloves, with the fingers long and rather limp, and on his feet he wore Munchkin boots of blue leather with broad turns at the tops of them. The Sawhorse was almost as curious as its rider. It had been rudely made, in the beginning, to saw logs upon, so that its body was a short length of a log, and its legs were stout branches fitted into four holes made in the body. The tail was formed by a small branch that had been left on the log, while the head was a gnarled bump on one end of the body. Two knots of wood formed the eyes, and the mouth was a gash chopped in the log. When the Sawhorse first came to life it had no ears at all, and so could not hear; but the boy who then owned him had whittled two ears out of bark and stuck them in the head, after which the Sawhorse heard very distinctly. This queer wooden horse was a great favorite with Princess Ozma, who had caused the bottoms of its legs to be shod with plates of gold, so the wood would not wear away. Its saddle was made of cloth-of-gold richly encrusted with precious gems. It had never worn a bridle. As the Scarecrow came in sight of the party of travelers, he reined in his wooden steed and dismounted, greeting the Shaggy Man with a smiling nod. Then he turned to stare at the Patchwork Girl in wonder, while she in turn stared at him. "Shags," he whispered, drawing the Shaggy Man aside, "pat me into shape, there's a good fellow!" While his friend punched and patted the Scarecrow's body, to smooth out the humps, Scraps turned to Ojo and whispered: "Roll me out, please; I've sagged down dreadfully from walking so much and men like to see a stately figure." She then fell upon the ground and the boy rolled her back and forth like a rolling-pin, until the cotton had filled all the spaces in her patchwork covering and the body had lengthened to its fullest extent. Scraps and the Scarecrow both finished their hasty toilets at the same time, and again they faced each other. "Allow me, Miss Patchwork," said the Shaggy Man, "to present my friend, the Right Royal Scarecrow of Oz. Scarecrow, this is Miss Scraps Patches; Scraps, this is the Scarecrow. Scarecrow--Scraps; Scraps--Scarecrow." They both bowed with much dignity. "Forgive me for staring so rudely," said the Scarecrow, "but you are the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever beheld." "That is a high compliment from one who is himself so beautiful," murmured Scraps, casting down her suspender-button eyes by lowering her head. "But, tell me, good sir, are you not a trifle lumpy?" "Yes, of course; that's my straw, you know. It bunches up, sometimes, in spite of all my efforts to keep it even. Doesn't your straw ever bunch?" "Oh, I'm stuffed with cotton," said Scraps. "It never bunches, but it's inclined to pack down and make me sag." "But cotton is a high-grade stuffing. I may say it is even more stylish, not to say aristocratic, than straw," said the Scarecrow politely. "Still, it is but proper that one so entrancingly lovely should have the best stuffing there is going. I--er--I'm so glad I've met you, Miss Scraps! Introduce us again, Shaggy." "Once is enough," replied the Shaggy Man, laughing at his friend's enthusiasm. "Then tell me where you found her, and--Dear me, what a queer cat! What are you made of--gelatine?" "Pure glass," answered the cat, proud to have attracted the Scarecrow's attention. "I am much more beautiful than the Patchwork Girl. I'm transparent, and Scraps isn't; I've pink brains--you can see 'em work; and I've a ruby heart, finely polished, while Scraps hasn't any heart at all." "No more have I," said the Scarecrow, shaking hands with Scraps, as if to congratulate her on the fact. "I've a friend, the Tin Woodman, who has a heart, but I find I get along pretty well without one. And so--Well, well! here's a little Munchkin boy, too. Shake hands, my little man. How are you?" Ojo placed his hand in the flabby stuffed glove that served the Scarecrow for a hand, and the Scarecrow pressed it so cordially that the straw in his glove crackled. Meantime, the Woozy had approached the Sawhorse and begun to sniff at it. The Sawhorse resented this familiarity and with a sudden kick pounded the Woozy squarely on its head with one gold-shod foot. "Take that, you monster!" it cried angrily. The Woozy never even winked. "To be sure," he said; "I'll take anything I have to. But don't make me angry, you wooden beast, or my eyes will flash fire and burn you up." The Sawhorse rolled its knot eyes wickedly and kicked again, but the Woozy trotted away and said to the Scarecrow: "What a sweet disposition that creature has! I advise you to chop it up for kindling-wood and use me to ride upon. My back is flat and you can't fall off." "I think the trouble is that you haven't been properly introduced," said the Scarecrow, regarding the Woozy with much wonder, for he had never seen such a queer animal before. "The Sawhorse is the favorite steed of Princess Ozma, the Ruler of the Land of Oz, and he lives in a stable decorated with pearls and emeralds, at the rear of the royal palace. He is swift as the wind, untiring, and is kind to his friends. All the people of Oz respect the Sawhorse highly, and when I visit Ozma she sometimes allows me to ride him--as I am doing to-day. Now you know what an important personage the Sawhorse is, and if some one--perhaps yourself--will tell me your name, your rank and station, and your history, it will give me pleasure to relate them to the Sawhorse. This will lead to mutual respect and friendship." The Woozy was somewhat abashed by this speech and did not know how to reply. But Ojo said: "This square beast is called the Woozy, and he isn't of much importance except that he has three hairs growing on the tip of his tail." The Scarecrow looked and saw that this was true. "But," said he, in a puzzled way, "what makes those three hairs important? The Shaggy Man has thousands of hairs, but no one has ever accused him of being important." So Ojo related the sad story of Unc Nunkie's transformation into a marble statue, and told how he had set out to find the things the Crooked Magician wanted, in order to make a charm that would restore his uncle to life. One of the requirements was three hairs from a Woozy's tail, but not being able to pull out the hairs they had been obliged to take the Woozy with them. The Scarecrow looked grave as he listened and he shook his head several times, as if in disapproval. "We must see Ozma about this matter," he said. "That Crooked Magician is breaking the Law by practicing magic without a license, and I'm not sure Ozma will allow him to restore your uncle to life." "Already I have warned the boy of that," declared the Shaggy Man. At this Ojo began to cry. "I want my Unc Nunkie!" he exclaimed. "I know how he can be restored to life, and I'm going to do it--Ozma or no Ozma! What right has this girl Ruler to keep my Unc Nunkie a statue forever?" "Don't worry about that just now," advised the Scarecrow. "Go on to the Emerald City, and when you reach it have the Shaggy Man take you to see Dorothy. Tell her your story and I'm sure she will help you. Dorothy is Ozma's best friend, and if you can win her to your side your uncle is pretty safe to live again." Then he turned to the Woozy and said: "I'm afraid you are not important enough to be introduced to the Sawhorse, after all." "I'm a better beast than he is," retorted the Woozy, indignantly. "My eyes can flash fire, and his can't." "Is this true?" inquired the Scarecrow, turning to the Munchkin boy. "Yes," said Ojo, and told how the Woozy had set fire to the fence. "Have you any other accomplishments?" asked the Scarecrow. "I have a most terrible growl--that is, sometimes," said the Woozy, as Scraps laughed merrily and the Shaggy Man smiled. But the Patchwork Girl's laugh made the Scarecrow forget all about the Woozy. He said to her: "What an admirable young lady you are, and what jolly good company! We must be better acquainted, for never before have I met a girl with such exquisite coloring or such natural, artless manners." "No wonder they call you the Wise Scarecrow," replied Scraps. "When you arrive at the Emerald City I will see you again," continued the Scarecrow. "Just now I am going to call upon an old friend--an ordinary young lady named Jinjur--who has promised to repaint my left ear for me. You may have noticed that the paint on my left ear has peeled off and faded, which affects my hearing on that side. Jinjur always fixes me up when I get weather-worn." "When do you expect to return to the Emerald City?" asked the Shaggy Man. "I'll be there this evening, for I'm anxious to have a long talk with Miss Scraps. How is it, Sawhorse; are you equal to a swift run?" "Anything that suits you suits me," returned the wooden horse. So the Scarecrow mounted to the jeweled saddle and waved his hat, when the Sawhorse darted away so swiftly that they were out of sight in an instant. Chapter Fourteen Ojo Breaks the Law "What a queer man," remarked the Munchkin boy, when the party had resumed its journey. "And so nice and polite," added Scraps, bobbing her head. "I think he is the handsomest man I've seen since I came to life." "Handsome is as handsome does," quoted the Shaggy Man; "but we must admit that no living scarecrow is handsomer. The chief merit of my friend is that he is a great thinker, and in Oz it is considered good policy to follow his advice." "I didn't notice any brains in his head," observed the Glass Cat. "You can't see 'em work, but they're there, all right," declared the Shaggy Man. "I hadn't much confidence in his brains myself, when first I came to Oz, for a humbug Wizard gave them to him; but I was soon convinced that the Scarecrow is really wise; and, unless his brains make him so, such wisdom is unaccountable." "Is the Wizard of Oz a humbug?" asked Ojo. "Not now. He was once, but he has reformed and now assists Glinda the Good, who is the Royal Sorceress of Oz and the only one licensed to practice magic or sorcery. Glinda has taught our old Wizard a good many clever things, so he is no longer a humbug." They walked a little while in silence and then Ojo said: "If Ozma forbids the Crooked Magician to restore Unc Nunkie to life, what shall I do?" The Shaggy Man shook his head. "In that case you can't do anything," he said. "But don't be discouraged yet. We will go to Princess Dorothy and tell her your troubles, and then we will let her talk to Ozma. Dorothy has the kindest little heart in the world, and she has been through so many troubles herself that she is sure to sympathize with you." "Is Dorothy the little girl who came here from Kansas?" asked the boy. "Yes. In Kansas she was Dorothy Gale. I used to know her there, and she brought me to the Land of Oz. But now Ozma has made her a Princess, and Dorothy's Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are here, too." Here the Shaggy Man uttered a long sigh, and then he continued: "It's a queer country, this Land of Oz; but I like it, nevertheless." "What is queer about it?" asked Scraps. "You, for instance," said he. "Did you see no girls as beautiful as I am in your own country?" she inquired. "None with the same gorgeous, variegated beauty," he confessed. "In America a girl stuffed with cotton wouldn't be alive, nor would anyone think of making a girl out of a patchwork quilt." "What a queer country America must be!" she exclaimed in great surprise. "The Scarecrow, whom you say is wise, told me I am the most beautiful creature he has ever seen." "I know; and perhaps you are--from a scarecrow point of view," replied the Shaggy Man; but why he smiled as he said it Scraps could not imagine. As they drew nearer to the Emerald City the travelers were filled with admiration for the splendid scenery they beheld. Handsome houses stood on both sides of the road and each had a green lawn before it as well as a pretty flower garden. "In another hour," said the Shaggy Man, "we shall come in sight of the walls of the Royal City." He was walking ahead, with Scraps, and behind them came the Woozy and the Glass Cat. Ojo had lagged behind, for in spite of the warnings he had received the boy's eyes were fastened on the clover that bordered the road of yellow bricks and he was eager to discover if such a thing as a six-leaved clover really existed. Suddenly he stopped short and bent over to examine the ground more closely. Yes; here at last was a clover with six spreading leaves. He counted them carefully, to make sure. In an instant his heart leaped with joy, for this was one of the important things he had come for--one of the things that would restore dear Unc Nunkie to life. He glanced ahead and saw that none of his companions was looking back. Neither were any other people about, for it was midway between two houses. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. "I might search for weeks and weeks, and never find another six-leaved clover," he told himself, and quickly plucking the stem from the plant he placed the prized clover in his basket, covering it with the other things he carried there. Then, trying to look as if nothing had happened, he hurried forward and overtook his comrades. The Emerald City, which is the most splendid as well as the most beautiful city in any fairyland, is surrounded by a high, thick wall of green marble, polished smooth and set with glistening emeralds. There are four gates, one facing the Munchkin Country, one facing the Country of the Winkies, one facing the Country of the Quadlings and one facing the Country of the Gillikins. The Emerald City lies directly in the center of these four important countries of Oz. The gates had bars of pure gold, and on either side of each gateway were built high towers, from which floated gay banners. Other towers were set at distances along the walls, which were broad enough for four people to walk abreast upon. This enclosure, all green and gold and glittering with precious gems, was indeed a wonderful sight to greet our travelers, who first observed it from the top of a little hill; but beyond the wall was the vast city it surrounded, and hundreds of jeweled spires, domes and minarets, flaunting flags and banners, reared their crests far above the towers of the gateways. In the center of the city our friends could see the tops of many magnificent trees, some nearly as tall as the spires of the buildings, and the Shaggy Man told them that these trees were in the royal gardens of Princess Ozma. They stood a long time on the hilltop, feasting their eyes on the splendor of the Emerald City. "Whee!" exclaimed Scraps, clasping her padded hands in ecstacy, "that'll do for me to live in, all right. No more of the Munchkin Country for these patches--and no more of the Crooked Magician!" "Why, you belong to Dr. Pipt," replied Ojo, looking at her in amazement. "You were made for a servant, Scraps, so you are personal property and not your own mistress." "Bother Dr. Pipt! If he wants me, let him come here and get me. I'll not go back to his den of my own accord; that's certain. Only one place in the Land of Oz is fit to live in, and that's the Emerald City. It's lovely! It's almost as beautiful as I am, Ojo." "In this country," remarked the Shaggy Man, "people live wherever our Ruler tells them to. It wouldn't do to have everyone live in the Emerald City, you know, for some must plow the land and raise grains and fruits and vegetables, while others chop wood in the forests, or fish in the rivers, or herd the sheep and the cattle." "Poor things!" said Scraps. "I'm not sure they are not happier than the city people," replied the Shaggy Man. "There's a freedom and independence in country life that not even the Emerald City can give one. I know that lots of the city people would like to get back to the land. The Scarecrow lives in the country, and so do the Tin Woodman and Jack Pumpkinhead; yet all three would be welcome to live in Ozma's palace if they cared to. Too much splendor becomes tiresome, you know. But, if we're to reach the Emerald City before sundown, we must hurry, for it is yet a long way off." The entrancing sight of the city had put new energy into them all and they hurried forward with lighter steps than before. There was much to interest them along the roadway, for the houses were now set more closely together and they met a good many people who were coming or going from one place or another. All these seemed happy-faced, pleasant people, who nodded graciously to the strangers as they passed, and exchanged words of greeting. At last they reached the great gateway, just as the sun was setting and adding its red glow to the glitter of the emeralds on the green walls and spires. Somewhere inside the city a band could be heard playing sweet music; a soft, subdued hum, as of many voices, reached their ears; from the neighboring yards came the low mooing of cows waiting to be milked. They were almost at the gate when the golden bars slid back and a tall soldier stepped out and faced them. Ojo thought he had never seen so tall a man before. The soldier wore a handsome green and gold uniform, with a tall hat in which was a waving plume, and he had a belt thickly encrusted with jewels. But the most peculiar thing about him was his long green beard, which fell far below his waist and perhaps made him seem taller than he really was. "Halt!" said the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, not in a stern voice but rather in a friendly tone. They halted before he spoke and stood looking at him. "Good evening, Colonel," said the Shaggy Man. "What's the news since I left? Anything important?" "Billina has hatched out thirteen new chickens," replied the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, "and they're the cutest little fluffy yellow balls you ever saw. The Yellow Hen is mighty proud of those children, I can tell you." "She has a right to be," agreed the Shaggy Man. "Let me see; that's about seven thousand chicks she has hatched out; isn't it, General?" "That, at least," was the reply. "You will have to visit Billina and congratulate her." "It will give me pleasure to do that," said the Shaggy Man. "But you will observe that I have brought some strangers home with me. I am going to take them to see Dorothy." "One moment, please," said the soldier, barring their way as they started to enter the gate. "I am on duty, and I have orders to execute. Is anyone in your party named Ojo the Unlucky?" "Why, that's me!" cried Ojo, astonished at hearing his name on the lips of a stranger. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers nodded. "I thought so," said he, "and I am sorry to announce that it is my painful duty to arrest you." "Arrest me!" exclaimed the boy. "What for?" "I haven't looked to see," answered the soldier. Then he drew a paper from his breast pocket and glanced at it. "Oh, yes; you are to be arrested for willfully breaking one of the Laws of Oz." "Breaking a law!" said Scraps. "Nonsense, Soldier; you're joking." "Not this time," returned the soldier, with a sigh. "My dear child--what are you, a rummage sale or a guess-me-quick?--in me you behold the Body-Guard of our gracious Ruler, Princess Ozma, as well as the Royal Army of Oz and the Police Force of the Emerald City." "And only one man!" exclaimed the Patchwork Girl. "Only one, and plenty enough. In my official positions I've had nothing to do for a good many years--so long that I began to fear I was absolutely useless--until to-day. An hour ago I was called to the presence of her Highness, Ozma of Oz, and told to arrest a boy named Ojo the Unlucky, who was journeying from the Munchkin Country to the Emerald City and would arrive in a short time. This command so astonished me that I nearly fainted, for it is the first time anyone has merited arrest since I can remember. You are rightly named Ojo the Unlucky, my poor boy, since you have broken a Law of Oz. "But you are wrong," said Scraps. "Ozma is wrong--you are all wrong--for Ojo has broken no Law." "Then he will soon be free again," replied the Soldier with the Green Whiskers. "Anyone accused of crime is given a fair trial by our Ruler and has every chance to prove his innocence. But just now Ozma's orders must be obeyed." With this he took from his pocket a pair of handcuffs made of gold and set with rubies and diamonds, and these he snapped over Ojo's wrists. Chapter Fifteen Ozma's Prisoner The boy was so bewildered by this calamity that he made no resistance at all. He knew very well he was guilty, but it surprised him that Ozma also knew it. He wondered how she had found out so soon that he had picked the six-leaved clover. He handed his basket to Scraps and said: "Keep that, until I get out of prison. If I never get out, take it to the Crooked Magician, to whom it belongs." The Shaggy Man had been gazing earnestly in the boy's face, uncertain whether to defend him or not; but something he read in Ojo's expression made him draw back and refuse to interfere to save him. The Shaggy Man was greatly surprised and grieved, but he knew that Ozma never made mistakes and so Ojo must really have broken the Law of Oz. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers now led them all through the gate and into a little room built in the wall. Here sat a jolly little man, richly dressed in green and having around his neck a heavy gold chain to which a number of great golden keys were attached. This was the Guardian of the Gate and at the moment they entered his room he was playing a tune upon a mouth-organ. "Listen!" he said, holding up his hand for silence. "I've just composed a tune called 'The Speckled Alligator.' It's in patch-time, which is much superior to rag-time, and I've composed it in honor of the Patchwork Girl, who has just arrived." "How did you know I had arrived?" asked Scraps, much interested. "It's my business to know who's coming, for I'm the Guardian of the Gate. Keep quiet while I play you 'The Speckled Alligator.'" It wasn't a very bad tune, nor a very good one, but all listened respectfully while he shut his eyes and swayed his head from side to side and blew the notes from the little instrument. When it was all over the Soldier with the Green Whiskers said: "Guardian, I have here a prisoner." "Good gracious! A prisoner?" cried the little man, jumping up from his chair. "Which one? Not the Shaggy Man?" "No; this boy." "Ah; I hope his fault is as small as himself," said the Guardian of the Gate. "But what can he have done, and what made him do it?" "Can't say," replied the soldier. "All I know is that he has broken the Law." "But no one ever does that!" "Then he must be innocent, and soon will be released. I hope you are right, Guardian. Just now I am ordered to take him to prison. Get me a prisoner's robe from your Official Wardrobe." The Guardian unlocked a closet and took from it a white robe, which the soldier threw over Ojo. It covered him from head to foot, but had two holes just in front of his eyes, so he could see where to go. In this attire the boy presented a very quaint appearance. As the Guardian unlocked a gate leading from his room into the streets of the Emerald City, the Shaggy Man said to Scraps: "I think I shall take you directly to Dorothy, as the Scarecrow advised, and the Glass Cat and the Woozy may come with us. Ojo must go to prison with the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, but he will be well treated and you need not worry about him." "What will they do with him?" asked Scraps. "That I cannot tell. Since I came to the Land of Oz no one has ever been arrested or imprisoned--until Ojo broke the Law." "Seems to me that girl Ruler of yours is making a big fuss over nothing," remarked Scraps, tossing her yarn hair out of her eyes with a jerk of her patched head. "I don't know what Ojo has done, but it couldn't be anything very bad, for you and I were with him all the time." The Shaggy Man made no reply to this speech and presently the Patchwork Girl forgot all about Ojo in her admiration of the wonderful city she had entered. They soon separated from the Munchkin boy, who was led by the Soldier with the Green Whiskers down a side street toward the prison. Ojo felt very miserable and greatly ashamed of himself, but he was beginning to grow angry because he was treated in such a disgraceful manner. Instead of entering the splendid Emerald City as a respectable traveler who was entitled to a welcome and to hospitality, he was being brought in as a criminal, handcuffed and in a robe that told all he met of his deep disgrace. Ojo was by nature gentle and affectionate and if he had disobeyed the Law of Oz it was to restore his dear Unc Nunkie to life. His fault was more thoughtless than wicked, but that did not alter the fact that he had committed a fault. At first he had felt sorrow and remorse, but the more he thought about the unjust treatment he had received--unjust merely because he considered it so--the more he resented his arrest, blaming Ozma for making foolish laws and then punishing folks who broke them. Only a six-leaved clover! A tiny green plant growing neglected and trampled under foot. What harm could there be in picking it? Ojo began to think Ozma must be a very bad and oppressive Ruler for such a lovely fairyland as Oz. The Shaggy Man said the people loved her; but how could they? The little Munchkin boy was so busy thinking these things--which many guilty prisoners have thought before him--that he scarcely noticed all the splendor of the city streets through which they passed. Whenever they met any of the happy, smiling people, the boy turned his head away in shame, although none knew who was beneath the robe. By and by they reached a house built just beside the great city wall, but in a quiet, retired place. It was a pretty house, neatly painted and with many windows. Before it was a garden filled with blooming flowers. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers led Ojo up the gravel path to the front door, on which he knocked. A woman opened the door and, seeing Ojo in his white robe, exclaimed: "Goodness me! A prisoner at last. But what a small one, Soldier." "The size doesn't matter, Tollydiggle, my dear. The fact remains that he is a prisoner," said the soldier. "And, this being the prison, and you the jailer, it is my duty to place the prisoner in your charge." "True. Come in, then, and I'll give you a receipt for him." They entered the house and passed through a hall to a large circular room, where the woman pulled the robe off from Ojo and looked at him with kindly interest. The boy, on his part, was gazing around him in amazement, for never had he dreamed of such a magnificent apartment as this in which he stood. The roof of the dome was of colored glass, worked into beautiful designs. The walls were paneled with plates of gold decorated with gems of great size and many colors, and upon the tiled floor were soft rugs delightful to walk upon. The furniture was framed in gold and upholstered in satin brocade and it consisted of easy chairs, divans and stools in great variety. Also there were several tables with mirror tops and cabinets filled with rare and curious things. In one place a case filled with books stood against the wall, and elsewhere Ojo saw a cupboard containing all sorts of games. "May I stay here a little while before I go to prison?" asked the boy, pleadingly. "Why, this is your prison," replied Tollydiggle, "and in me behold your jailor. Take off those handcuffs, Soldier, for it is impossible for anyone to escape from this house." "I know that very well," replied the soldier and at once unlocked the handcuffs and released the prisoner. The woman touched a button on the wall and lighted a big chandelier that hung suspended from the ceiling, for it was growing dark outside. Then she seated herself at a desk and asked: "What name?" "Ojo the Unlucky," answered the Soldier with the Green Whiskers. "Unlucky? Ah, that accounts for it," said she. "What crime?" "Breaking a Law of Oz." "All right. There's your receipt, Soldier; and now I'm responsible for the prisoner. I'm glad of it, for this is the first time I've ever had anything to do, in my official capacity," remarked the jailer, in a pleased tone. "It's the same with me, Tollydiggle," laughed the soldier. "But my task is finished and I must go and report to Ozma that I've done my duty like a faithful Police Force, a loyal Army and an honest Body-Guard--as I hope I am." Saying this, he nodded farewell to Tollydiggle and Ojo and went away. "Now, then," said the woman briskly, "I must get you some supper, for you are doubtless hungry. What would you prefer: planked whitefish, omelet with jelly or mutton-chops with gravy?" Ojo thought about it. Then he said: "I'll take the chops, if you please." "Very well; amuse yourself while I'm gone; I won't be long," and then she went out by a door and left the prisoner alone. Ojo was much astonished, for not only was this unlike any prison he had ever heard of, but he was being treated more as a guest than a criminal. There were many windows and they had no locks. There were three doors to the room and none were bolted. He cautiously opened one of the doors and found it led into a hallway. But he had no intention of trying to escape. If his jailor was willing to trust him in this way he would not betray her trust, and moreover a hot supper was being prepared for him and his prison was very pleasant and comfortable. So he took a book from the case and sat down in a big chair to look at the pictures. This amused him until the woman came in with a large tray and spread a cloth on one of the tables. Then she arranged his supper, which proved the most varied and delicious meal Ojo had ever eaten in his life. Tollydiggle sat near him while he ate, sewing on some fancy work she held in her lap. When he had finished she cleared the table and then read to him a story from one of the books. "Is this really a prison?" he asked, when she had finished reading. "Indeed it is," she replied. "It is the only prison in the Land of Oz." "And am I a prisoner?" "Bless the child! Of course." "Then why is the prison so fine, and why are you so kind to me?" he earnestly asked. Tollydiggle seemed surprised by the question, but she presently answered: "We consider a prisoner unfortunate. He is unfortunate in two ways--because he has done something wrong and because he is deprived of his liberty. Therefore we should treat him kindly, because of his misfortune, for otherwise he would become hard and bitter and would not be sorry he had done wrong. Ozma thinks that one who has committed a fault did so because he was not strong and brave; therefore she puts him in prison to make him strong and brave. When that is accomplished he is no longer a prisoner, but a good and loyal citizen and everyone is glad that he is now strong enough to resist doing wrong. You see, it is kindness that makes one strong and brave; and so we are kind to our prisoners." Ojo thought this over very carefully. "I had an idea," said he, "that prisoners were always treated harshly, to punish them." "That would be dreadful!" cried Tollydiggle. "Isn't one punished enough in knowing he has done wrong? Don't you wish, Ojo, with all your heart, that you had not been disobedient and broken a Law of Oz?" "I--I hate to be different from other people," he admitted. "Yes; one likes to be respected as highly as his neighbors are," said the woman. "When you are tried and found guilty, you will be obliged to make amends, in some way. I don't know just what Ozma will do to you, because this is the first time one of us has broken a Law; but you may be sure she will be just and merciful. Here in the Emerald City people are too happy and contented ever to do wrong; but perhaps you came from some faraway corner of our land, and having no love for Ozma carelessly broke one of her Laws." "Yes," said Ojo, "I've lived all my life in the heart of a lonely forest, where I saw no one but dear Unc Nunkie." "I thought so," said Tollydiggle. "But now we have talked enough, so let us play a game until bedtime." Chapter Sixteen Princess Dorothy Dorothy Gale was sitting in one of her rooms in the royal palace, while curled up at her feet was a little black dog with a shaggy coat and very bright eyes. She wore a plain white frock, without any jewels or other ornaments except an emerald-green hair-ribbon, for Dorothy was a simple little girl and had not been in the least spoiled by the magnificence surrounding her. Once the child had lived on the Kansas prairies, but she seemed marked for adventure, for she had made several trips to the Land of Oz before she came to live there for good. Her very best friend was the beautiful Ozma of Oz, who loved Dorothy so well that she kept her in her own palace, so as to be near her. The girl's Uncle Henry and Aunt Em--the only relatives she had in the world--had also been brought here by Ozma and given a pleasant home. Dorothy knew almost everybody in Oz, and it was she who had discovered the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion, as well as Tik-Tok the Clockwork Man. Her life was very pleasant now, and although she had been made a Princess of Oz by her friend Ozma she did not care much to be a Princess and remained as sweet as when she had been plain Dorothy Gale of Kansas. Dorothy was reading in a book this evening when Jellia Jamb, the favorite servant-maid of the palace, came to say that the Shaggy Man wanted to see her. "All right," said Dorothy; "tell him to come right up." "But he has some queer creatures with him--some of the queerest I've ever laid eyes on," reported Jellia. "Never mind; let 'em all come up," replied Dorothy. But when the door opened to admit not only the Shaggy Man, but Scraps, the Woozy and the Glass Cat, Dorothy jumped up and looked at her strange visitors in amazement. The Patchwork Girl was the most curious of all and Dorothy was uncertain at first whether Scraps was really alive or only a dream or a nightmare. Toto, her dog, slowly uncurled himself and going to the Patchwork Girl sniffed at her inquiringly; but soon he lay down again, as if to say he had no interest in such an irregular creation. "You're a new one to me," Dorothy said reflectively, addressing the Patchwork Girl. "I can't imagine where you've come from." "Who, me?" asked Scraps, looking around the pretty room instead of at the girl. "Oh, I came from a bed-quilt, I guess. That's what they say, anyhow. Some call it a crazy-quilt and some a patchwork quilt. But my name is Scraps--and now you know all about me." "Not quite all," returned Dorothy with a smile. "I wish you'd tell me how you came to be alive." "That's an easy job," said Scraps, sitting upon a big upholstered chair and making the springs bounce her up and down. "Margolotte wanted a slave, so she made me out of an old bed-quilt she didn't use. Cotton stuffing, suspender-button eyes, red velvet tongue, pearl beads for teeth. The Crooked Magician made a Powder of Life, sprinkled me with it and--here I am. Perhaps you've noticed my different colors. A very refined and educated gentleman named the Scarecrow, whom I met, told me I am the most beautiful creature in all Oz, and I believe it." "Oh! Have you met our Scarecrow, then?" asked Dorothy, a little puzzled to understand the brief history related. "Yes; isn't he jolly?" "The Scarecrow has many good qualities," replied Dorothy. "But I'm sorry to hear all this 'bout the Crooked Magician. Ozma'll be mad as hops when she hears he's been doing magic again. She told him not to." "He only practices magic for the benefit of his own family," explained Bungle, who was keeping at a respectful distance from the little black dog. "Dear me," said Dorothy; "I hadn't noticed you before. Are you glass, or what?" "I'm glass, and transparent, too, which is more than can be said of some folks," answered the cat. "Also I have some lovely pink brains; you can see 'em work." "Oh; is that so? Come over here and let me see." The Glass Cat hesitated, eyeing the dog. "Send that beast away and I will," she said. "Beast! Why, that's my dog Toto, an' he's the kindest dog in all the world. Toto knows a good many things, too; 'most as much as I do, I guess." "Why doesn't he say anything?" asked Bungle. "He can't talk, not being a fairy dog," explained Dorothy. "He's just a common United States dog; but that's a good deal; and I understand him, and he understands me, just as well as if he could talk." Toto, at this, got up and rubbed his head softly against Dorothy's hand, which she held out to him, and he looked up into her face as if he had understood every word she had said. "This cat, Toto," she said to him, "is made of glass, so you mustn't bother it, or chase it, any more than you do my Pink Kitten. It's prob'ly brittle and might break if it bumped against anything." "Woof!" said Toto, and that meant he understood. The Glass Cat was so proud of her pink brains that she ventured to come close to Dorothy, in order that the girl might "see 'em work." This was really interesting, but when Dorothy patted the cat she found the glass cold and hard and unresponsive, so she decided at once that Bungle would never do for a pet. "What do you know about the Crooked Magician who lives on the mountain?" asked Dorothy. "He made me," replied the cat; "so I know all about him. The Patchwork Girl is new--three or four days old--but I've lived with Dr. Pipt for years; and, though I don't much care for him, I will say that he has always refused to work magic for any of the people who come to his house. He thinks there's no harm in doing magic things for his own family, and he made me out of glass because the meat cats drink too much milk. He also made Scraps come to life so she could do the housework for his wife Margolotte." "Then why did you both leave him?" asked Dorothy. "I think you'd better let me explain that," interrupted the Shaggy Man, and then he told Dorothy all of Ojo's story and how Unc Nunkie and Margolotte had accidentally been turned to marble by the Liquid of Petrifaction. Then he related how the boy had started out in search of the things needed to make the magic charm, which would restore the unfortunates to life, and how he had found the Woozy and taken him along because he could not pull the three hairs out of its tail. Dorothy listened to all this with much interest, and thought that so far Ojo had acted very well. But when the Shaggy Man told her of the Munchkin boy's arrest by the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, because he was accused of wilfully breaking a Law of Oz, the little girl was greatly shocked. "What do you s'pose he's done?" she asked. "I fear he has picked a six-leaved clover," answered the Shaggy Man, sadly. "I did not see him do it, and I warned him that to do so was against the Law; but perhaps that is what he did, nevertheless." "I'm sorry 'bout that," said Dorothy gravely, "for now there will be no one to help his poor uncle and Margolotte 'cept this Patchwork Girl, the Woozy and the Glass Cat." "Don't mention it," said Scraps. "That's no affair of mine. Margolotte and Unc Nunkie are perfect strangers to me, for the moment I came to life they came to marble." "I see," remarked Dorothy with a sigh of regret; "the woman forgot to give you a heart." "I'm glad she did," retorted the Patchwork Girl. "A heart must be a great annoyance to one. It makes a person feel sad or sorry or devoted or sympathetic--all of which sensations interfere with one's happiness." "I have a heart," murmured the Glass Cat. "It's made of a ruby; but I don't imagine I shall let it bother me about helping Unc Nunkie and Margolotte." "That's a pretty hard heart of yours," said Dorothy. "And the Woozy, of course--" "Why, as for me," observed the Woozy, who was reclining on the floor with his legs doubled under him, so that he looked much like a square box, "I have never seen those unfortunate people you are speaking of, and yet I am sorry for them, having at times been unfortunate myself. When I was shut up in that forest I longed for some one to help me, and by and by Ojo came and did help me. So I'm willing to help his uncle. I'm only a stupid beast, Dorothy, but I can't help that, and if you'll tell me what to do to help Ojo and his uncle, I'll gladly do it." Dorothy walked over and patted the Woozy on his square head. "You're not pretty," she said, "but I like you. What are you able to do; anything 'special?" "I can make my eyes flash fire--real fire--when I'm angry. When anyone says: 'Krizzle-Kroo' to me I get angry, and then my eyes flash fire." "I don't see as fireworks could help Ojo's uncle," remarked Dorothy. "Can you do anything else?" "I--I thought I had a very terrifying growl," said the Woozy, with hesitation; "but perhaps I was mistaken." "Yes," said the Shaggy Man, "you were certainly wrong about that." Then he turned to Dorothy and added: "What will become of the Munchkin boy?" "I don't know," she said, shaking her head thoughtfully. "Ozma will see him 'bout it, of course, and then she'll punish him. But how, I don't know, 'cause no one ever has been punished in Oz since I knew anything about the place. Too bad, Shaggy Man, isn't it?" While they were talking Scraps had been roaming around the room and looking at all the pretty things it contained. She had carried Ojo's basket in her hand, until now, when she decided to see what was inside it. She found the bread and cheese, which she had no use for, and the bundle of charms, which were curious but quite a mystery to her. Then, turning these over, she came upon the six-leaved clover which the boy had plucked. Scraps was quick-witted, and although she had no heart she recognized the fact that Ojo was her first friend. She knew at once that because the boy had taken the clover he had been imprisoned, and she understood that Ojo had given her the basket so they would not find the clover in his possession and have proof of his crime. So, turning her head to see that no one noticed her, she took the clover from the basket and dropped it into a golden vase that stood on Dorothy's table. Then she came forward and said to Dorothy: "I wouldn't care to help Ojo's uncle, but I will help Ojo. He did not break the Law--no one can prove he did--and that green-whiskered soldier had no right to arrest him." "Ozma ordered the boy's arrest," said Dorothy, "and of course she knew what she was doing. But if you can prove Ojo is innocent they will set him free at once." "They'll have to prove him guilty, won't they?'' asked Scraps. "I s'pose so." "Well, they can't do that," declared the Patchwork Girl. As it was nearly time for Dorothy to dine with Ozma, which she did every evening, she rang for a servant and ordered the Woozy taken to a nice room and given plenty of such food as he liked best. "That's honey-bees," said the Woozy. "You can't eat honey-bees, but you'll be given something just as nice," Dorothy told him. Then she had the Glass Cat taken to another room for the night and the Patchwork Girl she kept in one of her own rooms, for she was much interested in the strange creature and wanted to talk with her again and try to understand her better. Chapter Seventeen Ozma and Her Friends The Shaggy Man had a room of his own in the royal palace, so there he went to change his shaggy suit of clothes for another just as shaggy but not so dusty from travel. He selected a costume of pea-green and pink satin and velvet, with embroidered shags on all the edges and iridescent pearls for ornaments. Then he bathed in an alabaster pool and brushed his shaggy hair and whiskers the wrong way to make them still more shaggy. This accomplished, and arrayed in his splendid shaggy garments, he went to Ozma's banquet hall and found the Scarecrow, the Wizard and Dorothy already assembled there. The Scarecrow had made a quick trip and returned to the Emerald City with his left ear freshly painted. A moment later, while they all stood in waiting, a servant threw open a door, the orchestra struck up a tune and Ozma of Oz entered. Much has been told and written concerning the beauty of person and character of this sweet girl Ruler of the Land of Oz--the richest, the happiest and most delightful fairyland of which we have any knowledge. Yet with all her queenly qualities Ozma was a real girl and enjoyed the things in life that other real girls enjoy. When she sat on her splendid emerald throne in the great Throne Room of her palace and made laws and settled disputes and tried to keep all her subjects happy and contented, she was as dignified and demure as any queen might be; but when she had thrown aside her jeweled robe of state and her sceptre, and had retired to her private apartments, the girl--joyous, light-hearted and free--replaced the sedate Ruler. In the banquet hall to-night were gathered only old and trusted friends, so here Ozma was herself--a mere girl. She greeted Dorothy with a kiss, the Shaggy Man with a smile, the little old Wizard with a friendly handshake and then she pressed the Scarecrow's stuffed arm and cried merrily: "What a lovely left ear! Why, it's a hundred times better than the old one." "I'm glad you like it," replied the Scarecrow, well pleased. "Jinjur did a neat job, didn't she? And my hearing is now perfect. Isn't it wonderful what a little paint will do, if it's properly applied?" "It really is wonderful," she agreed, as they all took their seats; "but the Sawhorse must have made his legs twinkle to have carried you so far in one day. I didn't expect you back before to-morrow, at the earliest." "Well," said the Scarecrow, "I met a charming girl on the road and wanted to see more of her, so I hurried back." Ozma laughed. "I know," she returned; "it's the Patchwork Girl. She is certainly bewildering, if not strictly beautiful." "Have you seen her, then?" the straw man eagerly asked. "Only in my Magic Picture, which shows me all scenes of interest in the Land of Oz." "I fear the picture didn't do her justice," said the Scarecrow. "It seemed to me that nothing could be more gorgeous," declared Ozma. "Whoever made that patchwork quilt, from which Scraps was formed, must have selected the gayest and brightest bits of cloth that ever were woven." "I am glad you like her," said the Scarecrow in a satisfied tone. Although the straw man did not eat, not being made so he could, he often dined with Ozma and her companions, merely for the pleasure of talking with them. He sat at the table and had a napkin and plate, but the servants knew better than to offer him food. After a little while he asked: "Where is the Patchwork Girl now?" "In my room," replied Dorothy. "I've taken a fancy to her; she's so queer and--and--uncommon." "She's half crazy, I think," added the Shaggy Man. "But she is so beautiful!" exclaimed the Scarecrow, as if that fact disarmed all criticism. They all laughed at his enthusiasm, but the Scarecrow was quite serious. Seeing that he was interested in Scraps they forbore to say anything against her. The little band of friends Ozma had gathered around her was so quaintly assorted that much care must be exercised to avoid hurting their feelings or making any one of them unhappy. It was this considerate kindness that held them close friends and enabled them to enjoy one another's society. Another thing they avoided was conversing on unpleasant subjects, and for that reason Ojo and his troubles were not mentioned during the dinner. The Shaggy Man, however, related his adventures with the monstrous plants which had seized and enfolded the travelers, and told how he had robbed Chiss, the giant porcupine, of the quills which it was accustomed to throw at people. Both Dorothy and Ozma were pleased with this exploit and thought it served Chiss right. Then they talked of the Woozy, which was the most remarkable animal any of them had ever before seen--except, perhaps, the live Sawhorse. Ozma had never known that her dominions contained such a thing as a Woozy, there being but one in existence and this being confined in his forest for many years. Dorothy said she believed the Woozy was a good beast, honest and faithful; but she added that she did not care much for the Glass Cat. "Still," said the Shaggy Man, "the Glass Cat is very pretty and if she were not so conceited over her pink brains no one would object to her as a companion." The Wizard had been eating silently until now, when he looked up and remarked: "That Powder of Life which is made by the Crooked Magician is really a wonderful thing. But Dr. Pipt does not know its true value and he uses it in the most foolish ways." "I must see about that," said Ozma, gravely. Then she smiled again and continued in a lighter tone: "It was Dr. Pipt's famous Powder of Life that enabled me to become the Ruler of Oz." "I've never heard that story," said the Shaggy Man, looking at Ozma questioningly. "Well, when I was a baby girl I was stolen by an old Witch named Mombi and transformed into a boy," began the girl Ruler. "I did not know who I was and when I grew big enough to work, the Witch made me wait upon her and carry wood for the fire and hoe in the garden. One day she came back from a journey bringing some of the Powder of Life, which Dr. Pipt had given her. I had made a pumpkin-headed man and set it up in her path to frighten her, for I was fond of fun and hated the Witch. But she knew what the figure was and to test her Powder of Life she sprinkled some of it on the man I had made. It came to life and is now our dear friend Jack Pumpkinhead. That night I ran away with Jack to escape punishment, and I took old Mombi's Powder of Life with me. During our journey we came upon a wooden Sawhorse standing by the road and I used the magic powder to bring it to life. The Sawhorse has been with me ever since. When I got to the Emerald City the good Sorceress, Glinda, knew who I was and restored me to my proper person, when I became the rightful Ruler of this land. So you see had not old Mombi brought home the Powder of Life I might never have run away from her and become Ozma of Oz, nor would we have had Jack Pumpkinhead and the Sawhorse to comfort and amuse us." That story interested the Shaggy Man very much, as well as the others, who had often heard it before. The dinner being now concluded, they all went to Ozma's drawing-room, where they passed a pleasant evening before it came time to retire. Chapter Eighteen Ojo is Forgiven The next morning the Soldier with the Green Whiskers went to the prison and took Ojo away to the royal palace, where he was summoned to appear before the girl Ruler for judgment. Again the soldier put upon the boy the jeweled handcuffs and white prisoner's robe with the peaked top and holes for the eyes. Ojo was so ashamed, both of his disgrace and the fault he had committed, that he was glad to be covered up in this way, so that people could not see him or know who he was. He followed the Soldier with the Green Whiskers very willingly, anxious that his fate might be decided as soon as possible. The inhabitants of the Emerald City were polite people and never jeered at the unfortunate; but it was so long since they had seen a prisoner that they cast many curious looks toward the boy and many of them hurried away to the royal palace to be present during the trial. When Ojo was escorted into the great Throne Room of the palace he found hundreds of people assembled there. In the magnificent emerald throne, which sparkled with countless jewels, sat Ozma of Oz in her Robe of State, which was embroidered with emeralds and pearls. On her right, but a little lower, was Dorothy, and on her left the Scarecrow. Still lower, but nearly in front of Ozma, sat the wonderful Wizard of Oz and on a small table beside him was the golden vase from Dorothy's room, into which Scraps had dropped the stolen clover. At Ozma's feet crouched two enormous beasts, each the largest and most powerful of its kind. Although these beasts were quite free, no one present was alarmed by them; for the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger were well known and respected in the Emerald City and they always guarded the Ruler when she held high court in the Throne Room. There was still another beast present, but this one Dorothy held in her arms, for it was her constant companion, the little dog Toto. Toto knew the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger and often played and romped with them, for they were good friends. Seated on ivory chairs before Ozma, with a clear space between them and the throne, were many of the nobility of the Emerald City, lords and ladies in beautiful costumes, and officials of the kingdom in the royal uniforms of Oz. Behind these courtiers were others of less importance, filling the great hall to the very doors. At the same moment that the Soldier with the Green Whiskers arrived with Ojo, the Shaggy Man entered from a side door, escorting the Patchwork Girl, the Woozy and the Glass Cat. All these came to the vacant space before the throne and stood facing the Ruler. "Hullo, Ojo," said Scraps; "how are you?" "All right," he replied; but the scene awed the boy and his voice trembled a little with fear. Nothing could awe the Patchwork Girl, and although the Woozy was somewhat uneasy in these splendid surroundings the Glass Cat was delighted with the sumptuousness of the court and the impressiveness of the occasion--pretty big words but quite expressive. At a sign from Ozma the soldier removed Ojo's white robe and the boy stood face to face with the girl who was to decide his punishment. He saw at a glance how lovely and sweet she was, and his heart gave a bound of joy, for he hoped she would be merciful. Ozma sat looking at the prisoner a long time. Then she said gently: "One of the Laws of Oz forbids anyone to pick a six-leaved clover. You are accused of having broken this Law, even after you had been warned not to do so." Ojo hung his head and while he hesitated how to reply the Patchwork Girl stepped forward and spoke for him. "All this fuss is about nothing at all," she said, facing Ozma unabashed. "You can't prove he picked the six-leaved clover, so you've no right to accuse him of it. Search him, if you like, but you won't find the clover; look in his basket and you'll find it's not there. He hasn't got it, so I demand that you set this poor Munchkin boy free." The people of Oz listened to this defiance in amazement and wondered at the queer Patchwork Girl who dared talk so boldly to their Ruler. But Ozma sat silent and motionless and it was the little Wizard who answered Scraps. "So the clover hasn't been picked, eh?" he said. "I think it has. I think the boy hid it in his basket, and then gave the basket to you. I also think you dropped the clover into this vase, which stood in Princess Dorothy's room, hoping to get rid of it so it would not prove the boy guilty. You're a stranger here, Miss Patches, and so you don't know that nothing can be hidden from our powerful Ruler's Magic Picture--nor from the watchful eyes of the humble Wizard of Oz. Look, all of you!" With these words he waved his hands toward the vase on the table, which Scraps now noticed for the first time. From the mouth of the vase a plant sprouted, slowly growing before their eyes until it became a beautiful bush, and on the topmost branch appeared the six-leaved clover which Ojo had unfortunately picked. The Patchwork Girl looked at the clover and said: "Oh, so you've found it. Very well; prove he picked it, if you can." Ozma turned to Ojo. "Did you pick the six-leaved clover?" she asked. "Yes," he replied. "I knew it was against the Law, but I wanted to save Unc Nunkie and I was afraid if I asked your consent to pick it you would refuse me." "What caused you to think that?" asked the Ruler. "Why, it seemed to me a foolish law, unjust and unreasonable. Even now I can see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover. And I--I had not seen the Emerald City, then, nor you, and I thought a girl who would make such a silly Law would not be likely to help anyone in trouble." Ozma regarded him musingly, her chin resting upon her hand; but she was not angry. On the contrary she smiled a little at her thoughts and then grew sober again. "I suppose a good many laws seem foolish to those people who do not understand them," she said; "but no law is ever made without some purpose, and that purpose is usually to protect all the people and guard their welfare. As you are a stranger, I will explain this Law which to you seems so foolish. Years ago there were many Witches and Magicians in the Land of Oz, and one of the things they often used in making their magic charms and transformations was a six-leaved clover. These Witches and Magicians caused so much trouble among my people, often using their powers for evil rather than good, that I decided to forbid anyone to practice magic or sorcery except Glinda the Good and her assistant, the Wizard of Oz, both of whom I can trust to use their arts only to benefit my people and to make them happier. Since I issued that Law the Land of Oz has been far more peaceful and quiet; but I learned that some of the Witches and Magicians were still practicing magic on the sly and using the six-leaved clovers to make their potions and charms. Therefore I made another Law forbidding anyone from plucking a six-leaved clover or from gathering other plants and herbs which the Witches boil in their kettles to work magic with. That has almost put an end to wicked sorcery in our land, so you see the Law was not a foolish one, but wise and just; and, in any event, it is wrong to disobey a Law." Ojo knew she was right and felt greatly mortified to realize he had acted and spoken so ridiculously. But he raised his head and looked Ozma in the face, saying: "I am sorry I have acted wrongly and broken your Law. I did it to save Unc Nunkie, and thought I would not be found out. But I am guilty of this act and whatever punishment you think I deserve I will suffer willingly." Ozma smiled more brightly, then, and nodded graciously. "You are forgiven," she said. "For, although you have committed a serious fault, you are now penitent and I think you have been punished enough. Soldier, release Ojo the Lucky and--" "I beg your pardon; I'm Ojo the Unlucky," said the boy. "At this moment you are lucky," said she. "Release him, Soldier, and let him go free." The people were glad to hear Ozma's decree and murmured their approval. As the royal audience was now over, they began to leave the Throne Room and soon there were none remaining except Ojo and his friends and Ozma and her favorites. The girl Ruler now asked Ojo to sit down and tell her all his story, which he did, beginning at the time he had left his home in the forest and ending with his arrival at the Emerald City and his arrest. Ozma listened attentively and was thoughtful for some moments after the boy had finished speaking. Then she said: "The Crooked Magician was wrong to make the Glass Cat and the Patchwork Girl, for it was against the Law. And if he had not unlawfully kept the bottle of Liquid of Petrifaction standing on his shelf, the accident to his wife Margolotte and to Unc Nunkie could not have occurred. I can understand, however, that Ojo, who loves his uncle, will be unhappy unless he can save him. Also I feel it is wrong to leave those two victims standing as marble statues, when they ought to be alive. So I propose we allow Dr. Pipt to make the magic charm which will save them, and that we assist Ojo to find the things he is seeking. What do you think, Wizard?" "That is perhaps the best thing to do," replied the Wizard. "But after the Crooked Magician has restored those poor people to life you must take away his magic powers." "I will," promised Ozma. "Now tell me, please, what magic things must you find?" continued the Wizard, addressing Ojo. "The three hairs from the Woozy's tail I have," said the boy. "That is, I have the Woozy, and the hairs are in his tail. The six-leaved clover I--I--" "You may take it and keep it," said Ozma. "That will not be breaking the Law, for it is already picked, and the crime of picking it is forgiven." "Thank you!" cried Ojo gratefully. Then he continued: "The next thing I must find is a gill of water from a dark well." The Wizard shook his head. "That," said he, "will be a hard task, but if you travel far enough you may discover it." "I am willing to travel for years, if it will save Unc Nunkie," declared Ojo, earnestly. "Then you'd better begin your journey at once," advised the Wizard. Dorothy had been listening with interest to this conversation. Now she turned to Ozma and asked: "May I go with Ojo, to help him?" "Would you like to?" returned Ozma. "Yes. I know Oz pretty well, but Ojo doesn't know it at all. I'm sorry for his uncle and poor Margolotte and I'd like to help save them. May I go?" "If you wish to," replied Ozma. "If Dorothy goes, then I must go to take care of her," said the Scarecrow, decidedly. "A dark well can only be discovered in some out-of-the-way place, and there may be dangers there." "You have my permission to accompany Dorothy," said Ozma. "And while you are gone I will take care of the Patchwork Girl." "I'll take care of myself," announced Scraps, "for I'm going with the Scarecrow and Dorothy. I promised Ojo to help him find the things he wants and I'll stick to my promise." "Very well," replied Ozma. "But I see no need for Ojo to take the Glass Cat and the Woozy." "I prefer to remain here," said the cat. "I've nearly been nicked half a dozen times, already, and if they're going into dangers it's best for me to keep away from them." "Let Jellia Jamb keep her till Ojo returns," suggested Dorothy. "We won't need to take the Woozy, either, but he ought to be saved because of the three hairs in his tail." "Better take me along," said the Woozy. "My eyes can flash fire, you know, and I can growl--a little." "I'm sure you'll be safer here," Ozma decided, and the Woozy made no further objection to the plan. After consulting together they decided that Ojo and his party should leave the very next day to search for the gill of water from a dark well, so they now separated to make preparations for the journey. Ozma gave the Munchkin boy a room in the palace for that night and the afternoon he passed with Dorothy--getting acquainted, as she said--and receiving advice from the Shaggy Man as to where they must go. The Shaggy Man had wandered in many parts of Oz, and so had Dorothy, for that matter, yet neither of them knew where a dark well was to be found. "If such a thing is anywhere in the settled parts of Oz," said Dorothy, "we'd prob'ly have heard of it long ago. If it's in the wild parts of the country, no one there would need a dark well. P'raps there isn't such a thing." "Oh, there must be!" returned Ojo, positively; "or else the recipe of Dr. Pipt wouldn't call for it." "That's true," agreed Dorothy; "and, if it's anywhere in the Land of Oz, we're bound to find it." "Well, we're bound to search for it, anyhow," said the Scarecrow. "As for finding it, we must trust to luck." "Don't do that," begged Ojo, earnestly. "I'm called Ojo the Unlucky, you know." Chapter Nineteen Trouble with the Tottenhots A day's journey from the Emerald City brought the little band of adventurers to the home of Jack Pumpkinhead, which was a house formed from the shell of an immense pumpkin. Jack had made it himself and was very proud of it. There was a door, and several windows, and through the top was stuck a stovepipe that led from a small stove inside. The door was reached by a flight of three steps and there was a good floor on which was arranged some furniture that was quite comfortable. It is certain that Jack Pumpkinhead might have had a much finer house to live in had he wanted it, for Ozma loved the stupid fellow, who had been her earliest companion; but Jack preferred his pumpkin house, as it matched himself very well, and in this he was not so stupid, after all. The body of this remarkable person was made of wood, branches of trees of various sizes having been used for the purpose. This wooden framework was covered by a red shirt--with white spots in it--blue trousers, a yellow vest, a jacket of green-and-gold and stout leather shoes. The neck was a sharpened stick on which the pumpkin head was set, and the eyes, ears, nose and mouth were carved on the skin of the pumpkin, very like a child's jack-o'-lantern. The house of this interesting creation stood in the center of a vast pumpkin-field, where the vines grew in profusion and bore pumpkins of extraordinary size as well as those which were smaller. Some of the pumpkins now ripening on the vines were almost as large as Jack's house, and he told Dorothy he intended to add another pumpkin to his mansion. The travelers were cordially welcomed to this quaint domicile and invited to pass the night there, which they had planned to do. The Patchwork Girl was greatly interested in Jack and examined him admiringly. "You are quite handsome," she said; "but not as really beautiful as the Scarecrow." Jack turned, at this, to examine the Scarecrow critically, and his old friend slyly winked one painted eye at him. "There is no accounting for tastes," remarked the Pumpkinhead, with a sigh. "An old crow once told me I was very fascinating, but of course the bird might have been mistaken. Yet I have noticed that the crows usually avoid the Scarecrow, who is a very honest fellow, in his way, but stuffed. I am not stuffed, you will observe; my body is good solid hickory." "I adore stuffing," said the Patchwork Girl. "Well, as for that, my head is stuffed with pumpkin-seeds," declared Jack. "I use them for brains, and when they are fresh I am intellectual. Just now, I regret to say, my seeds are rattling a bit, so I must soon get another head." "Oh; do you change your head?" asked Ojo. "To be sure. Pumpkins are not permanent, more's the pity, and in time they spoil. That is why I grow such a great field of pumpkins--that I may select a new head whenever necessary." "Who carves the faces on them?" inquired the boy. "I do that myself. I lift off my old head, place it on a table before me, and use the face for a pattern to go by. Sometimes the faces I carve are better than others--more expressive and cheerful, you know--but I think they average very well." Before she had started on the journey Dorothy had packed a knapsack with the things she might need, and this knapsack the Scarecrow carried strapped to his back. The little girl wore a plain gingham dress and a checked sunbonnet, as she knew they were best fitted for travel. Ojo also had brought along his basket, to which Ozma had added a bottle of "Square Meal Tablets" and some fruit. But Jack Pumpkinhead grew a lot of things in his garden besides pumpkins, so he cooked for them a fine vegetable soup and gave Dorothy, Ojo and Toto, the only ones who found it necessary to eat, a pumpkin pie and some green cheese. For beds they must use the sweet dried grasses which Jack had strewn along one side of the room, but that satisfied Dorothy and Ojo very well. Toto, of course, slept beside his little mistress. The Scarecrow, Scraps and the Pumpkinhead were tireless and had no need to sleep, so they sat up and talked together all night; but they stayed outside the house, under the bright stars, and talked in low tones so as not to disturb the sleepers. During the conversation the Scarecrow explained their quest for a dark well, and asked Jack's advice where to find it. The Pumpkinhead considered the matter gravely. "That is going to be a difficult task," said he, "and if I were you I'd take any ordinary well and enclose it, so as to make it dark." "I fear that wouldn't do," replied the Scarecrow. "The well must be naturally dark, and the water must never have seen the light of day, for otherwise the magic charm might not work at all." "How much of the water do you need?" asked Jack. "A gill." "How much is a gill?" "Why--a gill is a gill, of course," answered the Scarecrow, who did not wish to display his ignorance. "I know!" cried Scraps. "Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch--" "No, no; that's wrong," interrupted the Scarecrow. "There are two kinds of gills, I think; one is a girl, and the other is--" "A gillyflower," said Jack. "No; a measure." "How big a measure?" "Well, I'll ask Dorothy." So next morning they asked Dorothy, and she said: "I don't just know how much a gill is, but I've brought along a gold flask that holds a pint. That's more than a gill, I'm sure, and the Crooked Magician may measure it to suit himself. But the thing that's bothering us most, Jack, is to find the well." Jack gazed around the landscape, for he was standing in the doorway of his house. "This is a flat country, so you won't find any dark wells here," said he. "You must go into the mountains, where rocks and caverns are." "And where is that?" asked Ojo. "In the Quadling Country, which lies south of here," replied the Scarecrow. "I've known all along that we must go to the mountains." "So have I," said Dorothy. "But--goodness me!--the Quadling Country is full of dangers," declared Jack. "I've never been there myself, but--" "I have," said the Scarecrow. "I've faced the dreadful Hammerheads, which have no arms and butt you like a goat; and I've faced the Fighting Trees, which bend down their branches to pound and whip you, and had many other adventures there." "It's a wild country," remarked Dorothy, soberly, "and if we go there we're sure to have troubles of our own. But I guess we'll have to go, if we want that gill of water from the dark well." So they said good-bye to the Pumpkinhead and resumed their travels, heading now directly toward the South Country, where mountains and rocks and caverns and forests of great trees abounded. This part of the Land of Oz, while it belonged to Ozma and owed her allegiance, was so wild and secluded that many queer peoples hid in its jungles and lived in their own way, without even a knowledge that they had a Ruler in the Emerald City. If they were left alone, these creatures never troubled the inhabitants of the rest of Oz, but those who invaded their domains encountered many dangers from them. It was a two days journey from Jack Pumkinhead's house to the edge of the Quadling Country, for neither Dorothy nor Ojo could walk very fast and they often stopped by the wayside to rest. The first night they slept on the broad fields, among the buttercups and daisies, and the Scarecrow covered the children with a gauze blanket taken from his knapsack, so they would not be chilled by the night air. Toward evening of the second day they reached a sandy plain where walking was difficult; but some distance before them they saw a group of palm trees, with many curious black dots under them; so they trudged bravely on to reach that place by dark and spend the night under the shelter of the trees. The black dots grew larger as they advanced and although the light was dim Dorothy thought they looked like big kettles turned upside down. Just beyond this place a jumble of huge, jagged rocks lay scattered, rising to the mountains behind them. Our travelers preferred to attempt to climb these rocks by daylight, and they realized that for a time this would be their last night on the plains. Twilight had fallen by the time they came to the trees, beneath which were the black, circular objects they had marked from a distance. Dozens of them were scattered around and Dorothy bent near to one, which was about as tall as she was, to examine it more closely. As she did so the top flew open and out popped a dusky creature, rising its length into the air and then plumping down upon the ground just beside the little girl. Another and another popped out of the circular, pot-like dwelling, while from all the other black objects came popping more creatures--very like jumping-jacks when their boxes are unhooked--until fully a hundred stood gathered around our little group of travelers. By this time Dorothy had discovered they were people, tiny and curiously formed, but still people. Their skins were dusky and their hair stood straight up, like wires, and was brilliant scarlet in color. Their bodies were bare except for skins fastened around their waists and they wore bracelets on their ankles and wrists, and necklaces, and great pendant earrings. Toto crouched beside his mistress and wailed as if he did not like these strange creatures a bit. Scraps began to mutter something about "hoppity, poppity, jumpity, dump!" but no one paid any attention to her. Ojo kept close to the Scarecrow and the Scarecrow kept close to Dorothy; but the little girl turned to the queer creatures and asked: "Who are you?" They answered this question all together, in a sort of chanting chorus, the words being as follows: "We're the jolly Tottenhots; We do not like the day, But in the night 'tis our delight To gambol, skip and play. "We hate the sun and from it run, The moon is cool and clear, So on this spot each Tottenhot Waits for it to appear. "We're ev'ry one chock full of fun, And full of mischief, too; But if you're gay and with us play We'll do no harm to you. "Glad to meet you, Tottenhots," said the Scarecrow solemnly. "But you mustn't expect us to play with you all night, for we've traveled all day and some of us are tired." "And we never gamble," added the Patchwork Girl. "It's against the Law." These remarks were greeted with shouts of laughter by the impish creatures and one seized the Scarecrow's arm and was astonished to find the straw man whirl around so easily. So the Tottenhot raised the Scarecrow high in the air and tossed him over the heads of the crowd. Some one caught him and tossed him back, and so with shouts of glee they continued throwing the Scarecrow here and there, as if he had been a basket-ball. Presently another imp seized Scraps and began to throw her about, in the same way. They found her a little heavier than the Scarecrow but still light enough to be tossed like a sofa-cushion, and they were enjoying the sport immensely when Dorothy, angry and indignant at the treatment her friends were receiving, rushed among the Tottenhots and began slapping and pushing them until she had rescued the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl and held them close on either side of her. Perhaps she would not have accomplished this victory so easily had not Toto helped her, barking and snapping at the bare legs of the imps until they were glad to flee from his attack. As for Ojo, some of the creatures had attempted to toss him, also, but finding his body too heavy they threw him to the ground and a row of the imps sat on him and held him from assisting Dorothy in her battle. The little brown folks were much surprised at being attacked by the girl and the dog, and one or two who had been slapped hardest began to cry. Then suddenly they gave a shout, all together, and disappeared in a flash into their various houses, the tops of which closed with a series of pops that sounded like a bunch of firecrackers being exploded. The adventurers now found themselves alone, and Dorothy asked anxiously: "Is anybody hurt?" "Not me," answered the Scarecrow. "They have given my straw a good shaking up and taken all the lumps out of it. I am now in splendid condition and am really obliged to the Tottenhots for their kind treatment." "I feel much the same way," said Scraps. "My cotton stuffing had sagged a good deal with the day's walking and they've loosened it up until I feel as plump as a sausage. But the play was a little rough and I'd had quite enough of it when you interfered." "Six of them sat on me," said Ojo, "but as they are so little they didn't hurt me much." Just then the roof of the house in front of them opened and a Tottenhot stuck his head out, very cautiously, and looked at the strangers. "Can't you take a joke?" he asked, reproachfully; "haven't you any fun in you at all?" "If I had such a quality," replied the Scarecrow, "your people would have knocked it out of me. But I don't bear grudges. I forgive you." "So do I," added Scraps. "That is, if you behave yourselves after this." "It was just a little rough-house, that's all," said the Tottenhot. "But the question is not if we will behave, but if you will behave? We can't be shut up here all night, because this is our time to play; nor do we care to come out and be chewed up by a savage beast or slapped by an angry girl. That slapping hurts like sixty; some of my folks are crying about it. So here's the proposition: you let us alone and we'll let you alone." "You began it," declared Dorothy. "Well, you ended it, so we won't argue the matter. May we come out again? Or are you still cruel and slappy?" "Tell you what we'll do," said Dorothy. "We're all tired and want to sleep until morning. If you'll let us get into your house, and stay there until daylight, you can play outside all you want to." "That's a bargain!" cried the Tottenhot eagerly, and he gave a queer whistle that brought his people popping out of their houses on all sides. When the house before them was vacant, Dorothy and Ojo leaned over the hole and looked in, but could see nothing because it was so dark. But if the Tottenhots slept there all day the children thought they could sleep there at night, so Ojo lowered himself down and found it was not very deep. "There's a soft cushion all over," said he. "Come on in." Dorothy handed Toto to the boy and then climbed in herself. After her came Scraps and the Scarecrow, who did not wish to sleep but preferred to keep out of the way of the mischievous Tottenhots. There seemed no furniture in the round den, but soft cushions were strewn about the floor and these they found made very comfortable beds. They did not close the hole in the roof but left it open to admit air. It also admitted the shouts and ceaseless laughter of the impish Tottenhots as they played outside, but Dorothy and Ojo, being weary from their journey, were soon fast asleep. Toto kept an eye open, however, and uttered low, threatening growls whenever the racket made by the creatures outside became too boisterous; and the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl sat leaning against the wall and talked in whispers all night long. No one disturbed the travelers until daylight, when in popped the Tottenhot who owned the place and invited them to vacate his premises. Chapter Twenty The Captive Yoop As they were preparing to leave, Dorothy asked: "Can you tell us where there is a dark well?" "Never heard of such a thing," said the Tottenhot. "We live our lives in the dark, mostly, and sleep in the daytime; but we've never seen a dark well, or anything like one." "Does anyone live on those mountains beyond here?" asked the Scarecrow. "Lots of people. But you'd better not visit them. We never go there," was the reply. "What are the people like?" Dorothy inquired. "Can't say. We've been told to keep away from the mountain paths, and so we obey. This sandy desert is good enough for us, and we're not disturbed here," declared the Tottenhot. So they left the man snuggling down to sleep in his dusky dwelling, and went out into the sunshine, taking the path that led toward the rocky places. They soon found it hard climbing, for the rocks were uneven and full of sharp points and edges, and now there was no path at all. Clambering here and there among the boulders they kept steadily on, gradually rising higher and higher until finally they came to a great rift in a part of the mountain, where the rock seemed to have split in two and left high walls on either side. "S'pose we go this way," suggested Dorothy; "it's much easier walking than to climb over the hills." "How about that sign?" asked Ojo. "What sign?" she inquired. The Munchkin boy pointed to some words painted on the wall of rock beside them, which Dorothy had not noticed. The words read: "LOOK OUT FOR YOOP." The girl eyed this sign a moment and turned to the Scarecrow, asking: "Who is Yoop; or what is Yoop?" The straw man shook his head. Then looked at Toto and the dog said "Woof!" "Only way to find out is to go on," said Scraps. This being quite true, they went on. As they proceeded, the walls of rock on either side grew higher and higher. Presently they came upon another sign which read: "BEWARE THE CAPTIVE YOOP." "Why, as for that," remarked Dorothy, "if Yoop is a captive there's no need to beware of him. Whatever Yoop happens to be, I'd much rather have him a captive than running around loose." "So had I," agreed the Scarecrow, with a nod of his painted head. "Still," said Scraps, reflectively: "Yoop-te-hoop-te-loop-te-goop! Who put noodles in the soup? We may beware but we don't care, And dare go where we scare the Yoop." "Dear me! Aren't you feeling a little queer, just now?" Dorothy asked the Patchwork Girl. "Not queer, but crazy," said Ojo. "When she says those things I'm sure her brains get mixed somehow and work the wrong way. "I don't see why we are told to beware the Yoop unless he is dangerous," observed the Scarecrow in a puzzled tone. "Never mind; we'll find out all about him when we get to where he is," replied the little girl. The narrow canyon turned and twisted this way and that, and the rift was so small that they were able to touch both walls at the same time by stretching out their arms. Toto had run on ahead, frisking playfully, when suddenly he uttered a sharp bark of fear and came running back to them with his tail between his legs, as dogs do when they are frightened. "Ah," said the Scarecrow, who was leading the way, "we must be near Yoop." Just then, as he rounded a sharp turn, the Straw man stopped so suddenly that all the others bumped against him. "What is it?" asked Dorothy, standing on tip-toes to look over his shoulder. But then she saw what it was and cried "Oh!" in a tone of astonishment. In one of the rock walls--that at their left--was hollowed a great cavern, in front of which was a row of thick iron bars, the tops and bottoms being firmly fixed in the solid rock. Over this cavern was a big sign, which Dorothy read with much curiosity, speaking the words aloud that all might know what they said: "MISTER YOOP--HIS CAVE The Largest Untamed Giant in Captivity. Height, 21 Feet.--(And yet he has but 2 feet.) Weight, 1640 Pounds.--(But he waits all the time.) Age, 400 Years 'and Up' (as they say in the Department Store advertisements). Temper, Fierce and Ferocious.--(Except when asleep.) Appetite, Ravenous.--(Prefers Meat People and Orange Marmalade.) STRANGERS APPROACHING THIS CAVE DO SO AT THEIR OWN PERIL! P.S.--Don't feed the Giant yourself." "Very well," said Ojo, with a sigh; "let's go back." "It's a long way back," declared Dorothy. "So it is," remarked the Scarecrow, "and it means a tedious climb over those sharp rocks if we can't use this passage. I think it will be best to run by the Giant's cave as fast as we can go. Mister Yoop seems to be asleep just now." But the Giant wasn't asleep. He suddenly appeared at the front of his cavern, seized the iron bars in his great hairy hands and shook them until they rattled in their sockets. Yoop was so tall that our friends had to tip their heads way back to look into his face, and they noticed he was dressed all in pink velvet, with silver buttons and braid. The Giant's boots were of pink leather and had tassels on them and his hat was decorated with an enormous pink ostrich feather, carefully curled. "Yo-ho!" he said in a deep bass voice; "I smell dinner." "I think you are mistaken," replied the Scarecrow. "There is no orange marmalade around here." "Ah, but I eat other things," asserted Mister Yoop. "That is, I eat them when I can get them. But this is a lonely place, and no good meat has passed by my cave for many years; so I'm hungry." "Haven't you eaten anything in many years?" asked Dorothy. "Nothing except six ants and a monkey. I thought the monkey would taste like meat people, but the flavor was different. I hope you will taste better, for you seem plump and tender." "Oh, I'm not going to be eaten," said Dorothy. "Why not?" "I shall keep out of your way," she answered. "How heartless!" wailed the Giant, shaking the bars again. "Consider how many years it is since I've eaten a single plump little girl! They tell me meat is going up, but if I can manage to catch you I'm sure it will soon be going down. And I'll catch you if I can." With this the Giant pushed his big arms, which looked like tree-trunks (except that tree-trunks don't wear pink velvet) between the iron bars, and the arms were so long that they touched the opposite wall of the rock passage. Then he extended them as far as he could reach toward our travelers and found he could almost touch the Scarecrow--but not quite. "Come a little nearer, please," begged the Giant. "I'm a Scarecrow." "A Scarecrow? Ugh! I don't care a straw for a scarecrow. Who is that bright-colored delicacy behind you?" "Me?" asked Scraps. "I'm a Patchwork Girl, and I'm stuffed with cotton." "Dear me," sighed the Giant in a disappointed tone; "that reduces my dinner from four to two--and the dog. I'll save the dog for dessert." Toto growled, keeping a good distance away. "Back up," said the Scarecrow to those behind him. "Let us go back a little way and talk this over." So they turned and went around the bend in the passage, where they were out of sight of the cave and Mister Yoop could not hear them. "My idea," began the Scarecrow, when they had halted, "is to make a dash past the cave, going on a run." "He'd grab us," said Dorothy. "Well, he can't grab but one at a time, and I'll go first. As soon as he grabs me the rest of you can slip past him, out of his reach, and he will soon let me go because I am not fit to eat." They decided to try this plan and Dorothy took Toto in her arms, so as to protect him. She followed just after the Scarecrow. Then came Ojo, with Scraps the last of the four. Their hearts beat a little faster than usual as they again approached the Giant's cave, this time moving swiftly forward. It turned out about the way the Scarecrow had planned. Mister Yoop was quite astonished to see them come flying toward him, and thrusting his arms between the bars he seized the Scarecrow in a firm grip. In the next instant he realized, from the way the straw crunched between his fingers, that he had captured the non-eatable man, but during that instant of delay Dorothy and Ojo had slipped by the Giant and were out of reach. Uttering a howl of rage the monster threw the Scarecrow after them with one hand and grabbed Scraps with the other. The poor Scarecrow went whirling through the air and so cleverly was he aimed that he struck Ojo's back and sent the boy tumbling head over heels, and he tripped Dorothy and sent her, also, sprawling upon the ground. Toto flew out of the little girl's arms and landed some distance ahead, and all were so dazed that it was a moment before they could scramble to their feet again. When they did so they turned to look toward the Giant's cave, and at that moment the ferocious Mister Yoop threw the Patchwork Girl at them. Down went all three again, in a heap, with Scraps on top. The Giant roared so terribly that for a time they were afraid he had broken loose; but he hadn't. So they sat in the road and looked at one another in a rather bewildered way, and then began to feel glad. "We did it!" exclaimed the Scarecrow, with satisfaction. "And now we are free to go on our way." "Mister Yoop is very impolite," declared Scraps. "He jarred me terribly. It's lucky my stitches are so fine and strong, for otherwise such harsh treatment might rip me up the back." "Allow me to apologize for the Giant," said the Scarecrow, raising the Patchwork Girl to her feet and dusting her skirt with his stuffed hands. "Mister Yoop is a perfect stranger to me, but I fear, from the rude manner in which he has acted, that he is no gentleman." Dorothy and Ojo laughed at this statement and Toto barked as if he understood the joke, after which they all felt better and resumed the journey in high spirits. "Of course," said the little girl, when they had walked a way along the passage, "it was lucky for us the Giant was caged; for, if he had happened to be loose, he--he--" "Perhaps, in that case, he wouldn't be hungry any more," said Ojo gravely. Chapter Twenty-One Hip Hopper the Champion They must have had good courage to climb all those rocks, for after getting out of the canyon they encountered more rock hills to be surmounted. Toto could jump from one rock to another quite easily, but the others had to creep and climb with care, so that after a whole day of such work Dorothy and Ojo found themselves very tired. As they gazed upward at the great mass of tumbled rocks that covered the steep incline, Dorothy gave a little groan and said: "That's going to be a ter'ble hard climb, Scarecrow. I wish we could find the dark well without so much trouble." "Suppose," said Ojo, "you wait here and let me do the climbing, for it's on my account we're searching for the dark well. Then, if I don't find anything, I'll come back and join you." "No," replied the little girl, shaking her head positively, "we'll all go together, for that way we can help each other. If you went alone, something might happen to you, Ojo." So they began the climb and found it indeed difficult, for a way. But presently, in creeping over the big crags, they found a path at their feet which wound in and out among the masses of rock and was quite smooth and easy to walk upon. As the path gradually ascended the mountain, although in a roundabout way, they decided to follow it. "This must be the road to the Country of the Hoppers," said the Scarecrow. "Who are the Hoppers?" asked Dorothy. "Some people Jack Pumpkinhead told me about," he replied. "I didn't hear him," replied the girl. "No; you were asleep," explained the Scarecrow. "But he told Scraps and me that the Hoppers and the Horners live on this mountain." "He said in the mountain," declared Scraps; "but of course he meant on it." "Didn't he say what the Hoppers and Horners were like?" inquired Dorothy. "No; he only said they were two separate nations, and that the Horners were the most important." "Well, if we go to their country we'll find out all about 'em," said the girl. "But I've never heard Ozma mention those people, so they can't be very important." "Is this mountain in the Land of Oz?" asked Scraps. "Course it is," answered Dorothy. "It's in the South Country of the Quadlings. When one comes to the edge of Oz, in any direction, there is nothing more to be seen at all. Once you could see sandy desert all around Oz; but now it's diff'rent, and no other people can see us, any more than we can see them." "If the mountain is under Ozma's rule, why doesn't she know about the Hoppers and the Horners?" Ojo asked. "Why, it's a fairyland," explained Dorothy, "and lots of queer people live in places so tucked away that those in the Emerald City never even hear of 'em. In the middle of the country it's diff'rent, but when you get around the edges you're sure to run into strange little corners that surprise you. I know, for I've traveled in Oz a good deal, and so has the Scarecrow." "Yes," admitted the straw man, "I've been considerable of a traveler, in my time, and I like to explore strange places. I find I learn much more by traveling than by staying at home." During this conversation they had been walking up the steep pathway and now found themselves well up on the mountain. They could see nothing around them, for the rocks beside their path were higher than their heads. Nor could they see far in front of them, because the path was so crooked. But suddenly they stopped, because the path ended and there was no place to go. Ahead was a big rock lying against the side of the mountain, and this blocked the way completely. "There wouldn't be a path, though, if it didn't go somewhere," said the Scarecrow, wrinkling his forehead in deep thought. "This is somewhere, isn't it?" asked the Patchwork Girl, laughing at the bewildered looks of the others. "The path is locked, the way is blocked, Yet here we've innocently flocked; And now we're here it's rather queer There's no front door that can be knocked." "Please don't, Scraps," said Ojo. "You make me nervous." "Well," said Dorothy, "I'm glad of a little rest, for that's a drea'ful steep path." As she spoke she leaned against the edge of the big rock that stood in their way. To her surprise it slowly swung backward and showed behind it a dark hole that looked like the mouth of a tunnel. "Why, here's where the path goes to!" she exclaimed. "So it is," answered the Scarecrow. "But the question is, do we want to go where the path does?" "It's underground; right inside the mountain," said Ojo, peering into the dark hole. "Perhaps there's a well there; and, if there is, it's sure to be a dark one." "Why, that's true enough!" cried Dorothy with eagerness. "Let's go in, Scarecrow; 'cause, if others have gone, we're pretty safe to go, too." Toto looked in and barked, but he did not venture to enter until the Scarecrow had bravely gone first. Scraps followed closely after the straw man and then Ojo and Dorothy timidly stepped inside the tunnel. As soon as all of them had passed the big rock, it slowly turned and filled up the opening again; but now they were no longer in the dark, for a soft, rosy light enabled them to see around them quite distinctly. It was only a passage, wide enough for two of them to walk abreast--with Toto in between them--and it had a high, arched roof. They could not see where the light which flooded the place so pleasantly came from, for there were no lamps anywhere visible. The passage ran straight for a little way and then made a bend to the right and another sharp turn to the left, after which it went straight again. But there were no side passages, so they could not lose their way. After proceeding some distance, Toto, who had gone on ahead, began to bark loudly. They ran around a bend to see what was the matter and found a man sitting on the floor of the passage and leaning his back against the wall. He had probably been asleep before Toto's barks aroused him, for he was now rubbing his eyes and staring at the little dog with all his might. There was something about this man that Toto objected to, and when he slowly rose to his foot they saw what it was. He had but one leg, set just below the middle of his round, fat body; but it was a stout leg and had a broad, flat foot at the bottom of it, on which the man seemed to stand very well. He had never had but this one leg, which looked something like a pedestal, and when Toto ran up and made a grab at the man's ankle he hopped first one way and then another in a very active manner, looking so frightened that Scraps laughed aloud. Toto was usually a well behaved dog, but this time he was angry and snapped at the man's leg again and again. This filled the poor fellow with fear, and in hopping out of Toto's reach he suddenly lost his balance and tumbled heel over head upon the floor. When he sat up he kicked Toto on the nose and made the dog howl angrily, but Dorothy now ran forward and caught Toto's collar, holding him back. "Do you surrender?" she asked the man. "Who? Me?" asked the Hopper. "Yes; you," said the little girl. "Am I captured?" he inquired. "Of course. My dog has captured you," she said. "Well," replied the man, "if I'm captured I must surrender, for it's the proper thing to do. I like to do everything proper, for it saves one a lot of trouble." "It does, indeed," said Dorothy. "Please tell us who you are." "I'm Hip Hopper--Hip Hopper, the Champion." "Champion what?" she asked in surprise. "Champion wrestler. I'm a very strong man, and that ferocious animal which you are so kindly holding is the first living thing that has ever conquered me." "And you are a Hopper?" she continued. "Yes. My people live in a great city not far from here. Would you like to visit it?" "I'm not sure," she said with hesitation. "Have you any dark wells in your city?" "I think not. We have wells, you know, but they're all well lighted, and a well lighted well cannot well be a dark well. But there may be such a thing as a very dark well in the Horner Country, which is a black spot on the face of the earth." "Where is the Horner Country?" Ojo inquired. "The other side of the mountain. There's a fence between the Hopper Country and the Horner Country, and a gate in the fence; but you can't pass through just now, because we are at war with the Horners." "That's too bad," said the Scarecrow. "What seems to be the trouble?" "Why, one of them made a very insulting remark about my people. He said we were lacking in understanding, because we had only one leg to a person. I can't see that legs have anything to do with understanding things. The Horners each have two legs, just as you have. That's one leg too many, it seems to me." "No," declared Dorothy, "it's just the right number." "You don't need them," argued the Hopper, obstinately. "You've only one head, and one body, and one nose and mouth. Two legs are quite unnecessary, and they spoil one's shape." "But how can you walk, with only one leg?" asked Ojo. "Walk! Who wants to walk?" exclaimed the man. "Walking is a terribly awkward way to travel. I hop, and so do all my people. It's so much more graceful and agreeable than walking." "I don't agree with you," said the Scarecrow. "But tell me, is there any way to get to the Horner Country without going through the city of the Hoppers?" "Yes; there is another path from the rocky lowlands, outside the mountain, that leads straight to the entrance of the Horner Country. But it's a long way around, so you'd better come with me. Perhaps they will allow you to go through the gate; but we expect to conquer them this afternoon, if we get time, and then you may go and come as you please." They thought it best to take the Hopper's advice, and asked him to lead the way. This he did in a series of hops, and he moved so swiftly in this strange manner that those with two legs had to run to keep up with him. Chapter Twenty-Two The Joking Horners It was not long before they left the passage and came to a great cave, so high that it must have reached nearly to the top of the mountain within which it lay. It was a magnificent cave, illumined by the soft, invisible light, so that everything in it could be plainly seen. The walls were of polished marble, white with veins of delicate colors running through it, and the roof was arched and fantastic and beautiful. Built beneath this vast dome was a pretty village--not very large, for there seemed not more than fifty houses altogether--and the dwellings were of marble and artistically designed. No grass nor flowers nor trees grew in this cave, so the yards surrounding the houses carved in designs both were smooth and bare and had low walls around them to mark their boundaries. In the streets and the yards of the houses were many people all having one leg growing below their bodies and all hopping here and there whenever they moved. Even the children stood firmly upon their single legs and never lost their balance. "All hail, Champion!" cried a man in the first group of Hoppers they met; "whom have you captured?" "No one," replied the Champion in a gloomy voice; "these strangers have captured me." "Then," said another, "we will rescue you, and capture them, for we are greater in number." "No," answered the Champion, "I can't allow it. I've surrendered, and it isn't polite to capture those you've surrendered to." "Never mind that," said Dorothy. "We will give you your liberty and set you free." "Really?" asked the Champion in joyous tones. "Yes," said the little girl; "your people may need you to help conquer the Horners." At this all the Hoppers looked downcast and sad. Several more had joined the group by this time and quite a crowd of curious men, women and children surrounded the strangers. "This war with our neighbors is a terrible thing," remarked one of the women. "Some one is almost sure to get hurt." "Why do you say that, madam?" inquired the Scarecrow. "Because the horns of our enemies are sharp, and in battle they will try to stick those horns into our warriors," she replied. "How many horns do the Horners have?" asked Dorothy. "Each has one horn in the center of his forehead," was the answer. "Oh, then they're unicorns," declared the Scarecrow. "No; they're Horners. We never go to war with them if we can help it, on account of their dangerous horns; but this insult was so great and so unprovoked that our brave men decided to fight, in order to be revenged," said the woman. "What weapons do you fight with?" the Scarecrow asked. "We have no weapons," explained the Champion. "Whenever we fight the Horners, our plan is to push them back, for our arms are longer than theirs." "Then you are better armed," said Scraps. "Yes; but they have those terrible horns, and unless we are careful they prick us with the points," returned the Champion with a shudder. "That makes a war with them dangerous, and a dangerous war cannot be a pleasant one." "I see very clearly," remarked the Scarecrow, "that you are going to have trouble in conquering those Horners--unless we help you." "Oh!" cried the Hoppers in a chorus; "can you help us? Please do! We will be greatly obliged! It would please us very much!" and by these exclamations the Scarecrow knew that his speech had met with favor. "How far is it to the Horner Country?" he asked. "Why, it's just the other side of the fence," they answered, and the Champion added: "Come with me, please, and I'll show you the Horners." So they followed the Champion and several others through the streets and just beyond the village came to a very high picket fence, built all of marble, which seemed to divide the great cave into two equal parts. But the part inhabited by the Horners was in no way as grand in appearance as that of the Hoppers. Instead of being marble, the walls and roof were of dull gray rock and the square houses were plainly made of the same material. But in extent the city was much larger than that of the Hoppers and the streets were thronged with numerous people who busied themselves in various ways. Looking through the open pickets of the fence our friends watched the Horners, who did not know they were being watched by strangers, and found them very unusual in appearance. They were little folks in size and had bodies round as balls and short legs and arms. Their heads were round, too, and they had long, pointed ears and a horn set in the center of the forehead. The horns did not seem very terrible, for they were not more than six inches long; but they were ivory white and sharp pointed, and no wonder the Hoppers feared them. The skins of the Horners were light brown, but they wore snow-white robes and were bare-footed. Dorothy thought the most striking thing about them was their hair, which grew in three distinct colors on each and every head--red, yellow and green. The red was at the bottom and sometimes hung over their eyes; then came a broad circle of yellow and the green was at the top and formed a brush-shaped top-knot. None of the Horners was yet aware of the presence of strangers, who watched the little brown people for a time and then went to the big gate in the center of the dividing fence. It was locked on both sides and over the latch was a sign reading: "WAR IS DECLARED" "Can't we go through?" asked Dorothy. "Not now," answered the Champion. "I think," said the Scarecrow, "that if I could talk with those Horners they would apologize to you, and then there would be no need to fight." "Can't you talk from this side?" asked the Champion. "Not so well," replied the Scarecrow. "Do you suppose you could throw me over that fence? It is high, but I am very light." "We can try it," said the Hopper. "I am perhaps the strongest man in my country, so I'll undertake to do the throwing. But I won't promise you will land on your feet." "No matter about that," returned the Scarecrow. "Just toss me over and I'll be satisfied." So the Champion picked up the Scarecrow and balanced him a moment, to see how much he weighed, and then with all his strength tossed him high into the air. Perhaps if the Scarecrow had been a trifle heavier he would have been easier to throw and would have gone a greater distance; but, as it was, instead of going over the fence he landed just on top of it, and one of the sharp pickets caught him in the middle of his back and held him fast prisoner. Had he been face downward the Scarecrow might have managed to free himself, but lying on his back on the picket his hands waved in the air of the Horner Country while his feet kicked the air of the Hopper Country; so there he was. "Are you hurt?" called the Patchwork Girl anxiously. "Course not," said Dorothy. "But if he wiggles that way he may tear his clothes. How can we get him down, Mr. Champion?" The Champion shook his head. "I don't know," he confessed. "If he could scare Horners as well as he does crows, it might be a good idea to leave him there." "This is terrible," said Ojo, almost ready to cry. "I s'pose it's because I am Ojo the Unlucky that everyone who tries to help me gets into trouble." "You are lucky to have anyone to help you," declared Dorothy. "But don't worry. We'll rescue the Scarecrow somehow." "I know how," announced Scraps. "Here, Mr. Champion; just throw me up to the Scarecrow. I'm nearly as light as he is, and when I'm on top the fence I'll pull our friend off the picket and toss him down to you." "All right," said the Champion, and he picked up the Patchwork Girl and threw her in the same manner he had the Scarecrow. He must have used more strength this time, however, for Scraps sailed far over the top of the fence and, without being able to grab the Scarecrow at all, tumbled to the ground in the Horner Country, where her stuffed body knocked over two men and a woman and made a crowd that had collected there run like rabbits to get away from her. Seeing the next moment that she was harmless, the people slowly returned and gathered around the Patchwork Girl, regarding her with astonishment. One of them wore a jeweled star in his hair, just above his horn, and this seemed a person of importance. He spoke for the rest of his people, who treated him with great respect. "Who are you, Unknown Being?" he asked. "Scraps," she said, rising to her feet and patting her cotton wadding smooth where it had bunched up. "And where did you come from?" he continued. "Over the fence. Don't be silly. There's no other place I could have come from," she replied. He looked at her thoughtfully. "You are not a Hopper," said he, "for you have two legs. They're not very well shaped, but they are two in number. And that strange creature on top the fence--why doesn't he stop kicking?--must be your brother, or father, or son, for he also has two legs." "You must have been to visit the Wise Donkey," said Scraps, laughing so merrily that the crowd smiled with her, in sympathy. "But that reminds me, Captain--or King--" "I am Chief of the Horners, and my name is Jak." "Of course; Little Jack Horner; I might have known it. But the reason I volplaned over the fence was so I could have a talk with you about the Hoppers." "What about the Hoppers?" asked the Chief, frowning. "You've insulted them, and you'd better beg their pardon," said Scraps. "If you don't, they'll probably hop over here and conquer you." "We're not afraid--as long as the gate is locked," declared the Chief. "And we didn't insult them at all. One of us made a joke that the stupid Hoppers couldn't see." The Chief smiled as he said this and the smile made his face look quite jolly. "What was the joke?" asked Scraps. "A Horner said they have less understanding than we, because they've only one leg. Ha, ha! You see the point, don't you? If you stand on your legs, and your legs are under you, then--ha, ha, ha!--then your legs are your under-standing. Hee, hee, hee! Ho, ho! My, but that's a fine joke. And the stupid Hoppers couldn't see it! They couldn't see that with only one leg they must have less under-standing than we who have two legs. Ha, ha, ha! Hee, hee! Ho, ho!" The Chief wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes with the bottom hem of his white robe, and all the other Horners wiped their eyes on their robes, for they had laughed just as heartily as their Chief at the absurd joke. "Then," said Scraps, "their understanding of the understanding you meant led to the misunderstanding." "Exactly; and so there's no need for us to apologize," returned the Chief. "No need for an apology, perhaps, but much need for an explanation," said Scraps decidedly. "You don't want war, do you?" "Not if we can help it," admitted Jak Horner. "The question is, who's going to explain the joke to the Horners? You know it spoils any joke to be obliged to explain it, and this is the best joke I ever heard." "Who made the joke?" asked Scraps. "Diksey Horner. He is working in the mines, just now, but he'll be home before long. Suppose we wait and talk with him about it? Maybe he'll be willing to explain his joke to the Hoppers." "All right," said Scraps. "I'll wait, if Diksey isn't too long." "No, he's short; he's shorter than I am. Ha, ha, ha! Say! that's a better joke than Diksey's. He won't be too long, because he's short. Hee, hee, ho!" The other Horners who were standing by roared with laughter and seemed to like their Chief's joke as much as he did. Scraps thought it was odd that they could be so easily amused, but decided there could be little harm in people who laughed so merrily. Chapter Twenty-Three Peace Is Declared "Come with me to my dwelling and I'll introduce you to my daughters," said the Chief. "We're bringing them up according to a book of rules that was written by one of our leading old bachelors, and everyone says they're a remarkable lot of girls." So Scraps accompanied him along the street to a house that seemed on the outside exceptionally grimy and dingy. The streets of this city were not paved nor had any attempt been made to beautify the houses or their surroundings, and having noticed this condition Scraps was astonished when the Chief ushered her into his home. Here was nothing grimy or faded, indeed. On the contrary, the room was of dazzling brilliance and beauty, for it was lined throughout with an exquisite metal that resembled translucent frosted silver. The surface of this metal was highly ornamented in raised designs representing men, animals, flowers and trees, and from the metal itself was radiated the soft light which flooded the room. All the furniture was made of the same glorious metal, and Scraps asked what it was. "That's radium," answered the Chief. "We Horners spend all our time digging radium from the mines under this mountain, and we use it to decorate our homes and make them pretty and cosy. It is a medicine, too, and no one can ever be sick who lives near radium." "Have you plenty of it?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "More than we can use. All the houses in this city are decorated with it, just the same as mine is." "Why don't you use it on your streets, then, and the outside of your houses, to make them as pretty as they are within?" she inquired. "Outside? Who cares for the outside of anything?" asked the Chief. "We Horners don't live on the outside of our homes; we live inside. Many people are like those stupid Hoppers, who love to make an outside show. I suppose you strangers thought their city more beautiful than ours, because you judged from appearances and they have handsome marble houses and marble streets; but if you entered one of their stiff dwellings you would find it bare and uncomfortable, as all their show is on the outside. They have an idea that what is not seen by others is not important, but with us the rooms we live in are our chief delight and care, and we pay no attention to outside show." "Seems to me," said Scraps, musingly, "it would be better to make it all pretty--inside and out." "Seems? Why, you're all seams, my girl!" said the Chief; and then he laughed heartily at his latest joke and a chorus of small voices echoed the chorus with "tee-hee-hee! ha, ha!" Scraps turned around and found a row of girls seated in radium chairs ranged along one wall of the room. There were nineteen of them, by actual count, and they were of all sizes from a tiny child to one almost a grown woman. All were neatly dressed in spotless white robes and had brown skins, horns on their foreheads and three-colored hair. "These," said the Chief, "are my sweet daughters. My dears, I introduce to you Miss Scraps Patchwork, a lady who is traveling in foreign parts to increase her store of wisdom." The nineteen Horner girls all arose and made a polite curtsey, after which they resumed their seats and rearranged their robes properly. "Why do they sit so still, and all in a row?" asked Scraps. "Because it is ladylike and proper," replied the Chief. "But some are just children, poor things! Don't they ever run around and play and laugh, and have a good time?" "No, indeed," said the Chief. "That would be improper in young ladies, as well as in those who will sometime become young ladies. My daughters are being brought up according to the rules and regulations laid down by a leading bachelor who has given the subject much study and is himself a man of taste and culture. Politeness is his great hobby, and he claims that if a child is allowed to do an impolite thing one cannot expect the grown person to do anything better." "Is it impolite to romp and shout and be jolly?" asked Scraps. "Well, sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't," replied the Horner, after considering the question. "By curbing such inclinations in my daughters we keep on the safe side. Once in a while I make a good joke, as you have heard, and then I permit my daughters to laugh decorously; but they are never allowed to make a joke themselves." "That old bachelor who made the rules ought to be skinned alive!" declared Scraps, and would have said more on the subject had not the door opened to admit a little Horner man whom the Chief introduced as Diksey. "What's up, Chief?" asked Diksey, winking nineteen times at the nineteen girls, who demurely cast down their eyes because their father was looking. The Chief told the man that his joke had not been understood by the dull Hoppers, who had become so angry that they had declared war. So the only way to avoid a terrible battle was to explain the joke so they could understand it. "All right," replied Diksey, who seemed a good-natured man; "I'll go at once to the fence and explain. I don't want any war with the Hoppers, for wars between nations always cause hard feelings." So the Chief and Diksey and Scraps left the house and went back to the marble picket fence. The Scarecrow was still stuck on the top of his picket but had now ceased to struggle. On the other side of the fence were Dorothy and Ojo, looking between the pickets; and there, also, were the Champion and many other Hoppers. Diksey went close to the fence and said: "My good Hoppers, I wish to explain that what I said about you was a joke. You have but one leg each, and we have two legs each. Our legs are under us, whether one or two, and we stand on them. So, when I said you had less understanding than we, I did not mean that you had less understanding, you understand, but that you had less standundering, so to speak. Do you understand that?" The Hoppers thought it over carefully. Then one said: "That is clear enough; but where does the joke come in?'" Dorothy laughed, for she couldn't help it, although all the others were solemn enough. "I'll tell you where the joke comes in," she said, and took the Hoppers away to a distance, where the Horners could not hear them. "You know," she then explained, "those neighbors of yours are not very bright, poor things, and what they think is a joke isn't a joke at all--it's true, don't you see?" "True that we have less understanding?" asked the Champion. "Yes; it's true because you don't understand such a poor joke; if you did, you'd be no wiser than they are." "Ah, yes; of course," they answered, looking very wise. "So I'll tell you what to do," continued Dorothy. "Laugh at their poor joke and tell 'em it's pretty good for a Horner. Then they won't dare say you have less understanding, because you understand as much as they do." The Hoppers looked at one another questioningly and blinked their eyes and tried to think what it all meant; but they couldn't figure it out. "What do you think, Champion?" asked one of them. "I think it is dangerous to think of this thing any more than we can help," he replied. "Let us do as this girl says and laugh with the Horners, so as to make them believe we see the joke. Then there will be peace again and no need to fight." They readily agreed to this and returned to the fence laughing as loud and as hard as they could, although they didn't feel like laughing a bit. The Horners were much surprised. "That's a fine joke--for a Horner--and we are much pleased with it," said the Champion, speaking between the pickets. "But please don't do it again." "I won't," promised Diksey. "If I think of another such joke I'll try to forget it." "Good!" cried the Chief Horner. "The war is over and peace is declared." There was much joyful shouting on both sides of the fence and the gate was unlocked and thrown wide open, so that Scraps was able to rejoin her friends. "What about the Scarecrow?" she asked Dorothy. "We must get him down, somehow or other," was the reply. "Perhaps the Horners can find a way," suggested Ojo. So they all went through the gate and Dorothy asked the Chief Horner how they could get the Scarecrow off the fence. The Chief didn't know how, but Diksey said: "A ladder's the thing." "Have you one?" asked Dorothy. "To be sure. We use ladders in our mines," said he. Then he ran away to get the ladder, and while he was gone the Horners gathered around and welcomed the strangers to their country, for through them a great war had been avoided. In a little while Diksey came back with a tall ladder which he placed against the fence. Ojo at once climbed to the top of the ladder and Dorothy went about halfway up and Scraps stood at the foot of it. Toto ran around it and barked. Then Ojo pulled the Scarecrow away from the picket and passed him down to Dorothy, who in turn lowered him to the Patchwork Girl. As soon as he was on his feet and standing on solid ground the Scarecrow said: "Much obliged. I feel much better. I'm not stuck on that picket any more." The Horners began to laugh, thinking this was a joke, but the Scarecrow shook himself and patted his straw a little and said to Dorothy: "Is there much of a hole in my back?" The little girl examined him carefully. "There's quite a hole," she said. "But I've got a needle and thread in the knapsack and I'll sew you up again." "Do so," he begged earnestly, and again the Hoppers laughed, to the Scarecrow's great annoyance. While Dorothy was sewing up the hole in the straw man's back Scraps examined the other parts of him. "One of his legs is ripped, too!" she exclaimed. "Oho!" cried little Diksey; "that's bad. Give him the needle and thread and let him mend his ways." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Chief, and the other Horners at once roared with laughter. "What's funny?" inquired the Scarecrow sternly. "Don't you see?" asked Diksey, who had laughed even harder than the others. "That's a joke. It's by odds the best joke I ever made. You walk with your legs, and so that's the way you walk, and your legs are the ways. See? So, when you mend your legs, you mend your ways. Ho, ho, ho! hee, hee! I'd no idea I could make such a fine joke!" "Just wonderful!" echoed the Chief. "How do you manage to do it, Diksey?" "I don't know," said Diksey modestly. "Perhaps it's the radium, but I rather think it's my splendid intellect." "If you don't quit it," the Scarecrow told him, "there'll be a worse war than the one you've escaped from." Ojo had been deep in thought, and now he asked the Chief: "Is there a dark well in any part of your country?" "A dark well? None that ever I heard of," was the answer. "Oh, yes," said Diksey, who overheard the boy's question. "There's a very dark well down in my radium mine." "Is there any water in it?" Ojo eagerly asked. "Can't say; I've never looked to see. But we can find out." So, as soon as the Scarecrow was mended, they decided to go with Diksey to the mine. When Dorothy had patted the straw man into shape again he declared he felt as good as new and equal to further adventures. "Still," said he, "I prefer not to do picket duty again. High life doesn't seem to agree with my constitution." And then they hurried away to escape the laughter of the Horners, who thought this was another joke. Chapter Twenty-Four Ojo Finds the Dark Well They now followed Diksey to the farther end of the great cave, beyond the Horner city, where there were several round, dark holes leading into the ground in a slanting direction. Diksey went to one of these holes and said: "Here is the mine in which lies the dark well you are seeking. Follow me and step carefully and I'll lead you to the place." He went in first and after him came Ojo, and then Dorothy, with the Scarecrow behind her. The Patchwork Girl entered last of all, for Toto kept close beside his little mistress. A few steps beyond the mouth of the opening it was pitch dark. "You won't lose your way, though," said the Horner, "for there's only one way to go. The mine's mine and I know every step of the way. How's that for a joke, eh? The mine's mine." Then he chuckled gleefully as they followed him silently down the steep slant. The hole was just big enough to permit them to walk upright, although the Scarecrow, being much the taller of the party, often had to bend his head to keep from hitting the top. The floor of the tunnel was difficult to walk upon because it had been worn smooth as glass, and pretty soon Scraps, who was some distance behind the others, slipped and fell head foremost. At once she began to slide downward, so swiftly that when she came to the Scarecrow she knocked him off his feet and sent him tumbling against Dorothy, who tripped up Ojo. The boy fell against the Horner, so that all went tumbling down the slide in a regular mix-up, unable to see where they were going because of the darkness. Fortunately, when they reached the bottom the Scarecrow and Scraps were in front, and the others bumped against them, so that no one was hurt. They found themselves in a vast cave which was dimly lighted by the tiny grains of radium that lay scattered among the loose rocks. "Now," said Diksey, when they had all regained their feet, "I will show you where the dark well is. This is a big place, but if we hold fast to each other we won't get lost." They took hold of hands and the Horner led them into a dark corner, where he halted. "Be careful," said he warningly. "The well is at your feet." "All right," replied Ojo, and kneeling down he felt in the well with his hand and found that it contained a quantity of water. "Where's the gold flask, Dorothy?" he asked, and the little girl handed him the flask, which she had brought with her. Ojo knelt again and by feeling carefully in the dark managed to fill the flask with the unseen water that was in the well. Then he screwed the top of the flask firmly in place and put the precious water in his pocket. "All right!" he said again, in a glad voice; "now we can go back." They returned to the mouth of the tunnel and began to creep cautiously up the incline. This time they made Scraps stay behind, for fear she would slip again; but they all managed to get up in safety and the Munchkin boy was very happy when he stood in the Horner city and realized that the water from the dark well, which he and his friends had traveled so far to secure, was safe in his jacket pocket. Chapter Twenty-Five They Bribe the Lazy Quadling "Now," said Dorothy, as they stood on the mountain path, having left behind them the cave in which dwelt the Hoppers and the Horners, "I think we must find a road into the Country of the Winkies, for there is where Ojo wants to go next." "Is there such a road?" asked the Scarecrow. "I don't know," she replied. "I s'pose we can go back the way we came, to Jack Pumpkinhead's house, and then turn into the Winkie Country; but that seems like running 'round a haystack, doesn't it?" "Yes," said the Scarecrow. "What is the next thing Ojo must get?" "A yellow butterfly," answered the boy. "That means the Winkie Country, all right, for it's the yellow country of Oz," remarked Dorothy. "I think, Scarecrow, we ought to take him to the Tin Woodman, for he's the Emp'ror of the Winkies and will help us to find what Ojo wants." "Of course," replied the Scarecrow, brightening at the suggestion. "The Tin Woodman will do anything we ask him, for he's one of my dearest friends. I believe we can take a crosscut into his country and so get to his castle a day sooner than if we travel back the way we came." "I think so, too," said the girl; "and that means we must keep to the left." They were obliged to go down the mountain before they found any path that led in the direction they wanted to go, but among the tumbled rocks at the foot of the mountain was a faint trail which they decided to follow. Two or three hours walk along this trail brought them to a clear, level country, where there were a few farms and some scattered houses. But they knew they were still in the Country of the Quadlings, because everything had a bright red color. Not that the trees and grasses were red, but the fences and houses were painted that color and all the wild-flowers that bloomed by the wayside had red blossoms. This part of the Quadling Country seemed peaceful and prosperous, if rather lonely, and the road was more distinct and easier to follow. But just as they were congratulating themselves upon the progress they had made they came upon a broad river which swept along between high banks, and here the road ended and there was no bridge of any sort to allow them to cross. "This is queer," mused Dorothy, looking at the water reflectively. "Why should there be any road, if the river stops everyone walking along it?" "Wow!" said Toto, gazing earnestly into her face. "That's the best answer you'll get," declared the Scarecrow, with his comical smile, "for no one knows any more than Toto about this road." Said Scraps: "Ev'ry time I see a river, I have chills that make me shiver, For I never can forget All the water's very wet. If my patches get a soak It will be a sorry joke; So to swim I'll never try Till I find the water dry." "Try to control yourself, Scraps," said Ojo; "you're getting crazy again. No one intends to swim that river." "No," decided Dorothy, "we couldn't swim it if we tried. It's too big a river, and the water moves awful fast." "There ought to be a ferryman with a boat," said the Scarecrow; "but I don't see any." "Couldn't we make a raft?" suggested Ojo. "There's nothing to make one of," answered Dorothy. "Wow!" said Toto again, and Dorothy saw he was looking along the bank of the river. "Why, he sees a house over there!" cried the little girl. "I wonder we didn't notice it ourselves. Let's go and ask the people how to get 'cross the river." A quarter of a mile along the bank stood a small, round house, painted bright red, and as it was on their side of the river they hurried toward it. A chubby little man, dressed all in red, came out to greet them, and with him were two children, also in red costumes. The man's eyes were big and staring as he examined the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl, and the children shyly hid behind him and peeked timidly at Toto. "Do you live here, my good man?" asked the Scarecrow. "I think I do, Most Mighty Magician," replied the Quadling, bowing low; "but whether I'm awake or dreaming I can't be positive, so I'm not sure where I live. If you'll kindly pinch me I'll find out all about it!" "You're awake," said Dorothy, "and this is no magician, but just the Scarecrow." "But he's alive," protested the man, "and he oughtn't to be, you know. And that other dreadful person--the girl who is all patches--seems to be alive, too." "Very much so," declared Scraps, making a face at him. "But that isn't your affair, you know." "I've a right to be surprised, haven't I?" asked the man meekly. "I'm not sure; but anyhow you've no right to say I'm dreadful. The Scarecrow, who is a gentleman of great wisdom, thinks I'm beautiful," retorted Scraps. "Never mind all that," said Dorothy. "Tell us, good Quadling, how we can get across the river." "I don't know," replied the Quadling. "Don't you ever cross it?" asked the girl. "Never." "Don't travelers cross it?" "Not to my knowledge," said he. They were much surprised to hear this, and the man added: "It's a pretty big river, and the current is strong. I know a man who lives on the opposite bank, for I've seen him there a good many years; but we've never spoken because neither of us has ever crossed over." "That's queer," said the Scarecrow. "Don't you own a boat?" The man shook his head. "Nor a raft?" "Where does this river go to?" asked Dorothy. "That way," answered the man, pointing with one hand, "it goes into the Country of the Winkies, which is ruled by the Tin Emperor, who must be a mighty magician because he's all made of tin, and yet he's alive. And that way," pointing with the other hand, "the river runs between two mountains where dangerous people dwell." The Scarecrow looked at the water before them. "The current flows toward the Winkie Country," said he; "and so, if we had a boat, or a raft, the river would float us there more quickly and more easily than we could walk." "That is true," agreed Dorothy; and then they all looked thoughtful and wondered what could be done. "Why can't the man make us a raft?" asked Ojo. "Will you?" inquired Dorothy, turning to the Quadling. The chubby man shook his head. "I'm too lazy," he said. "My wife says I'm the laziest man in all Oz, and she is a truthful woman. I hate work of any kind, and making a raft is hard work." "I'll give you my em'rald ring," promised the girl. "No; I don't care for emeralds. If it were a ruby, which is the color I like best, I might work a little while." "I've got some Square Meal Tablets," said the Scarecrow. "Each one is the same as a dish of soup, a fried fish, a mutton pot-pie, lobster salad, charlotte russe and lemon jelly--all made into one little tablet that you can swallow without trouble." "Without trouble!" exclaimed the Quadling, much interested; "then those tablets would be fine for a lazy man. It's such hard work to chew when you eat." "I'll give you six of those tablets if you'll help us make a raft," promised the Scarecrow. "They're a combination of food which people who eat are very fond of. I never eat, you know, being straw; but some of my friends eat regularly. What do you say to my offer, Quadling?" "I'll do it," decided the man. "I'll help, and you can do most of the work. But my wife has gone fishing for red eels to-day, so some of you will have to mind the children." Scraps promised to do that, and the children were not so shy when the Patchwork Girl sat down to play with them. They grew to like Toto, too, and the little dog allowed them to pat him on his head, which gave the little ones much joy. There were a number of fallen trees near the house and the Quadling got his axe and chopped them into logs of equal length. He took his wife's clothesline to bind these logs together, so that they would form a raft, and Ojo found some strips of wood and nailed them along the tops of the logs, to render them more firm. The Scarecrow and Dorothy helped roll the logs together and carry the strips of wood, but it took so long to make the raft that evening came just as it was finished, and with evening the Quadling's wife returned from her fishing. The woman proved to be cross and bad-tempered, perhaps because she had only caught one red eel during all the day. When she found that her husband had used her clothesline, and the logs she had wanted for firewood, and the boards she had intended to mend the shed with, and a lot of gold nails, she became very angry. Scraps wanted to shake the woman, to make her behave, but Dorothy talked to her in a gentle tone and told the Quadling's wife she was a Princess of Oz and a friend of Ozma and that when she got back to the Emerald City she would send them a lot of things to repay them for the raft, including a new clothesline. This promise pleased the woman and she soon became more pleasant, saying they could stay the night at her house and begin their voyage on the river next morning. This they did, spending a pleasant evening with the Quadling family and being entertained with such hospitality as the poor people were able to offer them. The man groaned a good deal and said he had overworked himself by chopping the logs, but the Scarecrow gave him two more tablets than he had promised, which seemed to comfort the lazy fellow. Chapter Twenty-Six The Trick River Next morning they pushed the raft into the water and all got aboard. The Quadling man had to hold the log craft fast while they took their places, and the flow of the river was so powerful that it nearly tore the raft from his hands. As soon as they were all seated upon the logs he let go and away it floated and the adventurers had begun their voyage toward the Winkie Country. The little house of the Quadlings was out of sight almost before they had cried their good-byes, and the Scarecrow said in a pleased voice: "It won't take us long to get to the Winkie Country, at this rate." They had floated several miles down the stream and were enjoying the ride when suddenly the raft slowed up, stopped short, and then began to float back the way it had come. "Why, what's wrong?" asked Dorothy, in astonishment; but they were all just as bewildered as she was and at first no one could answer the question. Soon, however, they realized the truth: that the current of the river had reversed and the water was now flowing in the opposite direction--toward the mountains. They began to recognize the scenes they had passed, and by and by they came in sight of the little house of the Quadlings again. The man was standing on the river bank and he called to them: "How do you do? Glad to see you again. I forgot to tell you that the river changes its direction every little while. Sometimes it flows one way, and sometimes the other." They had no time to answer him, for the raft was swept past the house and a long distance on the other side of it. "We're going just the way we don't want to go," said Dorothy, "and I guess the best thing we can do is to get to land before we're carried any farther." But they could not get to land. They had no oars, nor even a pole to guide the raft with. The logs which bore them floated in the middle of the stream and were held fast in that position by the strong current. So they sat still and waited and, even while they were wondering what could be done, the raft slowed down, stopped, and began drifting the other way--in the direction it had first followed. After a time they repassed the Quadling house and the man was still standing on the bank. He cried out to them: "Good day! Glad to see you again. I expect I shall see you a good many times, as you go by, unless you happen to swim ashore." By that time they had left him behind and were headed once more straight toward the Winkie Country. "This is pretty hard luck," said Ojo in a discouraged voice. "The Trick River keeps changing, it seems, and here we must float back and forward forever, unless we manage in some way to get ashore." "Can you swim?" asked Dorothy. "No; I'm Ojo the Unlucky." "Neither can I. Toto can swim a little, but that won't help us to get to shore." "I don't know whether I could swim, or not," remarked Scraps; "but if I tried it I'd surely ruin my lovely patches." "My straw would get soggy in the water and I would sink," said the Scarecrow. So there seemed no way out of their dilemma and being helpless they simply sat still. Ojo, who was on the front of the raft, looked over into the water and thought he saw some large fishes swimming about. He found a loose end of the clothesline which fastened the logs together, and taking a gold nail from his pocket he bent it nearly double, to form a hook, and tied it to the end of the line. Having baited the hook with some bread which he broke from his loaf, he dropped the line into the water and almost instantly it was seized by a great fish. They knew it was a great fish, because it pulled so hard on the line that it dragged the raft forward even faster than the current of the river had carried it. The fish was frightened, and it was a strong swimmer. As the other end of the clothesline was bound around the logs he could not get it away, and as he had greedily swallowed the gold hook at the first bite he could not get rid of that, either. When they reached the place where the current had before changed, the fish was still swimming ahead in its wild attempt to escape. The raft slowed down, yet it did not stop, because the fish would not let it. It continued to move in the same direction it had been going. As the current reversed and rushed backward on its course it failed to drag the raft with it. Slowly, inch by inch, they floated on, and the fish tugged and tugged and kept them going. "I hope he won't give up," said Ojo anxiously. "If the fish can hold out until the current changes again, we'll be all right." The fish did not give up, but held the raft bravely on its course, till at last the water in the river shifted again and floated them the way they wanted to go. But now the captive fish found its strength failing. Seeking a refuge, it began to drag the raft toward the shore. As they did not wish to land in this place the boy cut the rope with his pocket-knife and set the fish free, just in time to prevent the raft from grounding. The next time the river backed up the Scarecrow managed to seize the branch of a tree that overhung the water and they all assisted him to hold fast and prevent the raft from being carried backward. While they waited here, Ojo spied a long broken branch lying upon the bank, so he leaped ashore and got it. When he had stripped off the side shoots he believed he could use the branch as a pole, to guide the raft in case of emergency. They clung to the tree until they found the water flowing the right way, when they let go and permitted the raft to resume its voyage. In spite of these pauses they were really making good progress toward the Winkie Country and having found a way to conquer the adverse current their spirits rose considerably. They could see little of the country through which they were passing, because of the high banks, and they met with no boats or other craft upon the surface of the river. Once more the trick river reversed its current, but this time the Scarecrow was on guard and used the pole to push the raft toward a big rock which lay in the water. He believed the rock would prevent their floating backward with the current, and so it did. They clung to this anchorage until the water resumed its proper direction, when they allowed the raft to drift on. Floating around a bend they saw ahead a high bank of water, extending across the entire river, and toward this they were being irresistibly carried. There being no way to arrest the progress of the raft they clung fast to the logs and let the river sweep them on. Swiftly the raft climbed the bank of water and slid down on the other side, plunging its edge deep into the water and drenching them all with spray. As again the raft righted and drifted on, Dorothy and Ojo laughed at the ducking they had received; but Scraps was much dismayed and the Scarecrow took out his handkerchief and wiped the water off the Patchwork Girl's patches as well as he was able to. The sun soon dried her and the colors of her patches proved good, for they did not run together nor did they fade. After passing the wall of water the current did not change or flow backward any more but continued to sweep them steadily forward. The banks of the river grew lower, too, permitting them to see more of the country, and presently they discovered yellow buttercups and dandelions growing amongst the grass, from which evidence they knew they had reached the Winkie Country. "Don't you think we ought to land?" Dorothy asked the Scarecrow. "Pretty soon," he replied. "The Tin Woodman's castle is in the southern part of the Winkie Country, and so it can't be a great way from here." Fearing they might drift too far, Dorothy and Ojo now stood up and raised the Scarecrow in their arms, as high as they could, thus allowing him a good view of the country. For a time he saw nothing he recognized, but finally he cried: "There it is! There it is!" "What?" asked Dorothy. "The Tin Woodman's tin castle. I can see its turrets glittering in the sun. It's quite a way off, but we'd better land as quickly as we can." They let him down and began to urge the raft toward the shore by means of the pole. It obeyed very well, for the current was more sluggish now, and soon they had reached the bank and landed safely. The Winkie Country was really beautiful, and across the fields they could see afar the silvery sheen of the tin castle. With light hearts they hurried toward it, being fully rested by their long ride on the river. By and by they began to cross an immense field of splendid yellow lilies, the delicate fragrance of which was very delightful. "How beautiful they are!" cried Dorothy, stopping to admire the perfection of these exquisite flowers. "Yes," said the Scarecrow, reflectively, "but we must be careful not to crush or injure any of these lilies." "Why not?" asked Ojo. "The Tin Woodman is very kind-hearted," was the reply, "and he hates to see any living thing hurt in any way." "Are flowers alive?" asked Scraps. "Yes, of course. And these flowers belong to the Tin Woodman. So, in order not to offend him, we must not tread on a single blossom." "Once," said Dorothy, "the Tin Woodman stepped on a beetle and killed the little creature. That made him very unhappy and he cried until his tears rusted his joints, so he couldn't move 'em." "What did he do then?" asked Ojo. "Put oil on them, until the joints worked smooth again." "Oh!" exclaimed the boy, as if a great discovery had flashed across his mind. But he did not tell anybody what the discovery was and kept the idea to himself. It was a long walk, but a pleasant one, and they did not mind it a bit. Late in the afternoon they drew near to the wonderful tin castle of the Emperor of the Winkies, and Ojo and Scraps, who had never seen it before, were filled with amazement. Tin abounded in the Winkie Country and the Winkies were said to be the most skillful tinsmiths in all the world. So the Tin Woodman had employed them in building his magnificent castle, which was all of tin, from the ground to the tallest turret, and so brightly polished that it glittered in the sun's rays more gorgeously than silver. Around the grounds of the castle ran a tin wall, with tin gates; but the gates stood wide open because the Emperor had no enemies to disturb him. When they entered the spacious grounds our travelers found more to admire. Tin fountains sent sprays of clear water far into the air and there were many beds of tin flowers, all as perfectly formed as any natural flowers might be. There were tin trees, too, and here and there shady bowers of tin, with tin benches and chairs to sit upon. Also, on the sides of the pathway leading up to the front door of the castle, were rows of tin statuary, very cleverly executed. Among these Ojo recognized statues of Dorothy, Toto, the Scarecrow, the Wizard, the Shaggy Man, Jack Pumpkinhead and Ozma, all standing upon neat pedestals of tin. Toto was well acquainted with the residence of the Tin Woodman and, being assured a joyful welcome, he ran ahead and barked so loudly at the front door that the Tin Woodman heard him and came out in person to see if it were really his old friend Toto. Next moment the tin man had clasped the Scarecrow in a warm embrace and then turned to hug Dorothy. But now his eye was arrested by the strange sight of the Patchwork Girl, and he gazed upon her in mingled wonder and admiration. Chapter Twenty-Seven The Tin Woodman Objects The Tin Woodman was one of the most important personages in all Oz. Though Emperor of the Winkies, he owed allegiance to Ozma, who ruled all the land, and the girl and the tin man were warm personal friends. He was something of a dandy and kept his tin body brilliantly polished and his tin joints well oiled. Also he was very courteous in manner and so kind and gentle that everyone loved him. The Emperor greeted Ojo and Scraps with cordial hospitality and ushered the entire party into his handsome tin parlor, where all the furniture and pictures were made of tin. The walls were paneled with tin and from the tin ceiling hung tin chandeliers. The Tin Woodman wanted to know, first of all, where Dorothy had found the Patchwork Girl, so between them the visitors told the story of how Scraps was made, as well as the accident to Margolotte and Unc Nunkie and how Ojo had set out upon a journey to procure the things needed for the Crooked Magician's magic charm. Then Dorothy told of their adventures in the Quadling Country and how at last they succeeded in getting the water from a dark well. While the little girl was relating these adventures the Tin Woodman sat in an easy chair listening with intense interest, while the others sat grouped around him. Ojo, however, had kept his eyes fixed upon the body of the tin Emperor, and now he noticed that under the joint of his left knee a tiny drop of oil was forming. He watched this drop of oil with a fast-beating heart, and feeling in his pocket brought out a tiny vial of crystal, which he held secreted in his hand. Presently the Tin Woodman changed his position, and at once Ojo, to the astonishment of all, dropped to the floor and held his crystal vial under the Emperor's knee joint. Just then the drop of oil fell, and the boy caught it in his bottle and immediately corked it tight. Then, with a red face and embarrassed manner, he rose to confront the others. "What in the world were you doing?" asked the Tin Woodman. "I caught a drop of oil that fell from your knee-joint," confessed Ojo. "A drop of oil!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman. "Dear me, how careless my valet must have been in oiling me this morning. I'm afraid I shall have to scold the fellow, for I can't be dropping oil wherever I go." "Never mind," said Dorothy. "Ojo seems glad to have the oil, for some reason." "Yes," declared the Munchkin boy, "I am glad. For one of the things the Crooked Magician sent me to get was a drop of oil from a live man's body. I had no idea, at first, that there was such a thing; but it's now safe in the little crystal vial." "You are very welcome to it, indeed," said the Tin Woodman. "Have you now secured all the things you were in search of?" "Not quite all," answered Ojo. "There were five things I had to get, and I have found four of them. I have the three hairs in the tip of a Woozy's tail, a six-leaved clover, a gill of water from a dark well and a drop of oil from a live man's body. The last thing is the easiest of all to get, and I'm sure that my dear Unc Nunkie--and good Margolotte, as well--will soon be restored to life." The Munchkin boy said this with much pride and pleasure. "Good!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman; "I congratulate you. But what is the fifth and last thing you need, in order to complete the magic charm?" "The left wing of a yellow butterfly," said Ojo. "In this yellow country, and with your kind assistance, that ought to be very easy to find." The Tin Woodman stared at him in amazement. "Surely you are joking!" he said. "No," replied Ojo, much surprised; "I am in earnest." "But do you think for a moment that I would permit you, or anyone else, to pull the left wing from a yellow butterfly?" demanded the Tin Woodman sternly. "Why not, sir?" "Why not? You ask me why not? It would be cruel--one of the most cruel and heartless deeds I ever heard of," asserted the Tin Woodman. "The butterflies are among the prettiest of all created things, and they are very sensitive to pain. To tear a wing from one would cause it exquisite torture and it would soon die in great agony. I would not permit such a wicked deed under any circumstances!" Ojo was astounded at hearing this. Dorothy, too, looked grave and disconcerted, but she knew in her heart that the Tin Woodman was right. The Scarecrow nodded his head in approval of his friend's speech, so it was evident that he agreed with the Emperor's decision. Scraps looked from one to another in perplexity. "Who cares for a butterfly?" she asked. "Don't you?" inquired the Tin Woodman. "Not the snap of a finger, for I have no heart," said the Patchwork Girl. "But I want to help Ojo, who is my friend, to rescue the uncle whom he loves, and I'd kill a dozen useless butterflies to enable him to do that." The Tin Woodman sighed regretfully. "You have kind instincts," he said, "and with a heart you would indeed be a fine creature. I cannot blame you for your heartless remark, as you cannot understand the feelings of those who possess hearts. I, for instance, have a very neat and responsive heart which the wonderful Wizard of Oz once gave me, and so I shall never--never--never permit a poor yellow butterfly to be tortured by anyone." "The yellow country of the Winkies," said Ojo sadly, "is the only place in Oz where a yellow butterfly can be found." "I'm glad of that," said the Tin Woodman. "As I rule the Winkie Country, I can protect my butterflies." "Unless I get the wing--just one left wing--" said Ojo miserably, "I can't save Unc Nunkie." "Then he must remain a marble statue forever," declared the Tin Emperor, firmly. Ojo wiped his eyes, for he could not hold back the tears. "I'll tell you what to do," said Scraps. "We'll take a whole yellow butterfly, alive and well, to the Crooked Magician, and let him pull the left wing off." "No, you won't," said the Tin Woodman. "You can't have one of my dear little butterflies to treat in that way." "Then what in the world shall we do?" asked Dorothy. They all became silent and thoughtful. No one spoke for a long time. Then the Tin Woodman suddenly roused himself and said: "We must all go back to the Emerald City and ask Ozma's advice. She's a wise little girl, our Ruler, and she may find a way to help Ojo save his Unc Nunkie." So the following morning the party started on the journey to the Emerald City, which they reached in due time without any important adventure. It was a sad journey for Ojo, for without the wing of the yellow butterfly he saw no way to save Unc Nunkie--unless he waited six years for the Crooked Magician to make a new lot of the Powder of Life. The boy was utterly discouraged, and as he walked along he groaned aloud. "Is anything hurting you?" inquired the Tin Woodman in a kindly tone, for the Emperor was with the party. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky," replied the boy. "I might have known I would fail in anything I tried to do." "Why are you Ojo the Unlucky?" asked the tin man. "Because I was born on a Friday." "Friday is not unlucky," declared the Emperor. "It's just one of seven days. Do you suppose all the world becomes unlucky one-seventh of the time?" "It was the thirteenth day of the month," said Ojo. "Thirteen! Ah, that is indeed a lucky number," replied the Tin Woodman. "All my good luck seems to happen on the thirteenth. I suppose most people never notice the good luck that comes to them with the number 13, and yet if the least bit of bad luck falls on that day, they blame it to the number, and not to the proper cause." "Thirteen's my lucky number, too," remarked the Scarecrow. "And mine," said Scraps. "I've just thirteen patches on my head." "But," continued Ojo, "I'm left-handed." "Many of our greatest men are that way," asserted the Emperor. "To be left-handed is usually to be two-handed; the right-handed people are usually one-handed." "And I've a wart under my right arm," said Ojo. "How lucky!" cried the Tin Woodman. "If it were on the end of your nose it might be unlucky, but under your arm it is luckily out of the way." "For all those reasons," said the Munchkin boy, "I have been called Ojo the Unlucky." "Then we must turn over a new leaf and call you henceforth Ojo the Lucky," declared the tin man. "Every reason you have given is absurd. But I have noticed that those who continually dread ill luck and fear it will overtake them, have no time to take advantage of any good fortune that comes their way. Make up your mind to be Ojo the Lucky." "How can I?" asked the boy, "when all my attempts to save my dear uncle have failed?" "Never give up, Ojo," advised Dorothy. "No one ever knows what's going to happen next." Ojo did not reply, but he was so dejected that even their arrival at the Emerald City failed to interest him. The people joyfully cheered the appearance of the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow and Dorothy, who were all three general favorites, and on entering the royal palace word came to them from Ozma that she would at once grant them an audience. Dorothy told the girl Ruler how successful they had been in their quest until they came to the item of the yellow butterfly, which the Tin Woodman positively refused to sacrifice to the magic potion. "He is quite right," said Ozma, who did not seem a bit surprised. "Had Ojo told me that one of the things he sought was the wing of a yellow butterfly I would have informed him, before he started out, that he could never secure it. Then you would have been saved the troubles and annoyances of your long journey." "I didn't mind the journey at all," said Dorothy; "it was fun." "As it has turned out," remarked Ojo, "I can never get the things the Crooked Magician sent me for; and so, unless I wait the six years for him to make the Powder of Life, Unc Nunkie cannot be saved." Ozma smiled. "Dr. Pipt will make no more Powder of Life, I promise you," said she. "I have sent for him and had him brought to this palace, where he now is, and his four kettles have been destroyed and his book of recipes burned up. I have also had brought here the marble statues of your uncle and of Margolotte, which are standing in the next room." They were all greatly astonished at this announcement. "Oh, let me see Unc Nunkie! Let me see him at once, please!" cried Ojo eagerly. "Wait a moment," replied Ozma, "for I have something more to say. Nothing that happens in the Land of Oz escapes the notice of our wise Sorceress, Glinda the Good. She knew all about the magic-making of Dr. Pipt, and how he had brought the Glass Cat and the Patchwork Girl to life, and the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and of Ojo's quest and his journey with Dorothy. Glinda also knew that Ojo would fail to find all the things he sought, so she sent for our Wizard and instructed him what to do. Something is going to happen in this palace, presently, and that 'something' will, I am sure, please you all. And now," continued the girl Ruler, rising from her chair, "you may follow me into the next room." Chapter Twenty-Eight The Wonderful Wizard of Oz When Ojo entered the room he ran quickly to the statue of Unc Nunkie and kissed the marble face affectionately. "I did my best, Unc," he said, with a sob, "but it was no use!" Then he drew back and looked around the room, and the sight of the assembled company quite amazed him. Aside from the marble statues of Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, the Glass Cat was there, curled up on a rug; and the Woozy was there, sitting on its square hind legs and looking on the scene with solemn interest; and there was the Shaggy Man, in a suit of shaggy pea-green satin, and at a table sat the little Wizard, looking quite important and as if he knew much more than he cared to tell. Last of all, Dr. Pipt was there, and the Crooked Magician sat humped up in a chair, seeming very dejected but keeping his eyes fixed on the lifeless form of his wife Margolotte, whom he fondly loved but whom he now feared was lost to him forever. Ozma took a chair which Jellia Jamb wheeled forward for the Ruler, and back of her stood the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and Dorothy, as well as the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger. The Wizard now arose and made a low bow to Ozma and another less deferent bow to the assembled company. "Ladies and gentlemen and beasts," he said, "I beg to announce that our Gracious Ruler has permitted me to obey the commands of the great Sorceress, Glinda the Good, whose humble Assistant I am proud to be. We have discovered that the Crooked Magician has been indulging in his magical arts contrary to Law, and therefore, by Royal Edict, I hereby deprive him of all power to work magic in the future. He is no longer a crooked magician, but a simple Munchkin; he is no longer even crooked, but a man like other men." As he pronounced these words the Wizard waved his hand toward Dr. Pipt and instantly every crooked limb straightened out and became perfect. The former magician, with a cry of joy, sprang to his feet, looked at himself in wonder, and then fell back in his chair and watched the Wizard with fascinated interest. "The Glass Cat, which Dr. Pipt lawlessly made," continued the Wizard, "is a pretty cat, but its pink brains made it so conceited that it was a disagreeable companion to everyone. So the other day I took away the pink brains and replaced them with transparent ones, and now the Glass Cat is so modest and well behaved that Ozma has decided to keep her in the palace as a pet." "I thank you," said the cat, in a soft voice. "The Woozy has proved himself a good Woozy and a faithful friend," the Wizard went on, "so we will send him to the Royal Menagerie, where he will have good care and plenty to eat all his life." "Much obliged," said the Woozy. "That beats being fenced up in a lonely forest and starved." "As for the Patchwork Girl," resumed the Wizard, "she is so remarkable in appearance, and so clever and good tempered, that our Gracious Ruler intends to preserve her carefully, as one of the curiosities of the curious Land of Oz. Scraps may live in the palace, or wherever she pleases, and be nobody's servant but her own." "That's all right," said Scraps. "We have all been interested in Ojo," the little Wizard continued, "because his love for his unfortunate uncle has led him bravely to face all sorts of dangers, in order that he might rescue him. The Munchkin boy has a loyal and generous heart and has done his best to restore Unc Nunkie to life. He has failed, but there are others more powerful than the Crooked Magician, and there are more ways than Dr. Pipt knew of to destroy the charm of the Liquid of Petrifaction. Glinda the Good has told me of one way, and you shall now learn how great is the knowledge and power of our peerless Sorceress." As he said this the Wizard advanced to the statue of Margolote and made a magic pass, at the same time muttering a magic word that none could hear distinctly. At once the woman moved, turned her head wonderingly this way and that, to note all who stood before her, and seeing Dr. Pipt, ran forward and threw herself into her husband's outstretched arms. Then the Wizard made the magic pass and spoke the magic word before the statue of Unc Nunkie. The old Munchkin immediately came to life and with a low bow to the Wizard said: "Thanks." But now Ojo rushed up and threw his arms joyfully about his uncle, and the old man hugged his little nephew tenderly and stroked his hair and wiped away the boy's tears with a handkerchief, for Ojo was crying from pure happiness. Ozma came forward to congratulate them. "I have given to you, my dear Ojo and Unc Nunkie, a nice house just outside the walls of the Emerald City," she said, "and there you shall make your future home and be under my protection." "Didn't I say you were Ojo the Lucky?" asked the Tin Woodman, as everyone crowded around to shake Ojo's hand. "Yes; and it is true!" replied Ojo, gratefully. 
43659	----	[Illustration] [Illustration] THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE Or There's No Place Like Home by AMANDA M. DOUGLAS Author of "In Trust," "The Kathie Stories," etc. Boston Lee and Shepard, 47 Franklin Street New York Charles T. Dillingham. 678 Broadway Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by William F. Gill & Co., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. In Remembrance OF _MANY PLEASANT HOURS SPENT AT WOODSIDE_, This Story OF LOVE AND FAITH, OF WORK AND WAITING, AND THE GENTLE VIRTUES THAT ARE NONE THE LESS HEROIC FOR BLOOMING IN THE CENTRE OF THE HOME CIRCLE, _IS DEDICATED TO THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD_ OF MR. and MRS. A. C. NEUMANN. * * * * * * THE DOUGLAS NOVELS. BY MISS AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. _Uniform Volumes. Price $1.50 Each._ FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR. "Fascinating throughout, and worthy of the reputation of the author."--_Philadelphia Methodist._ WHOM KATHIE MARRIED. Kathie was the heroine of the popular series of Kathie Stories for young people, the readers of which were very anxious to know with whom Kathie settled down in life. Hence this story, charmingly written. LOST IN A GREAT CITY. "There is the power of delineation and robustness of expression that would credit a masculine hand in the present volume, and the reader will at no stage of the reading regret having commenced its perusal. In some parts it is pathetic, even to eloquence."--_San Francisco Post._ THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE. "The romances of Miss Douglas's creation are all thrillingly interesting."--_Cambridge Tribune._ HOPE MILLS; or, Between Friend and Sweetheart. "Amanda Douglas is one of the favorite authors of American novel-readers."--_Manchester Mirror._ FROM HAND TO MOUTH. "There is real satisfaction in reading this book, from the fact that we can so readily 'take it home' to ourselves."--_Portland Argus._ NELLY KINNARD'S KINGDOM. "The Hartford Religious Herald" says, "This story is so fascinating, that one can hardly lay it down after taking it up." IN TRUST; or, Dr. Bertrand's Household. "She writes in a free, fresh, and natural way; and her characters are never overdrawn."--_Manchester Mirror._ CLAUDIA. "The plot is very dramatic, and the _dénoûment_ startling. Claudia, the heroine, is one of those self-sacrificing characters which it is the glory of the female sex to produce."--_Boston Journal._ STEPHEN DANE. "This is one of this author's happiest and most successful attempts at novel-writing, for which a grateful public will applaud her."--_Herald._ HOME NOOK: or, the Crown of Duty. "An interesting story of home-life, not wanting in incident, and written in forcible and attractive style."--_New York Graphic._ SYDNIE ADRIANCE; or, Trying the World. "The works of Miss Douglas have stood the test of popular judgment, and become the fashion. They are true, natural in delineation, pure and elevating in their tone."--_Express, Easton, Penn._ SEVEN DAUGHTERS. The charm of the story is the perfectly natural and home-like air which pervades it. _Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston. * * * * * * CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE. JOE'S GRAND DISCOVERY 7 CHAPTER II. PLANNING IN THE TWILIGHT 22 CHAPTER III. A CHANCE FOR FLOSSY 36 CHAPTER IV. THE IDENTICAL SHOE 52 CHAPTER V. GOOD LUCK FOR JOE 68 CHAPTER VI. FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES 84 CHAPTER VII. THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL 103 CHAPTER VIII. FLORENCE IN STATE 120 CHAPTER IX. FOURTH OF JULY 137 CHAPTER X. WHICH SHOULD SHE CHOOSE? 154 CHAPTER XI. OUT OF THE OLD HOME-NEST 172 CHAPTER XII. JOE'S FORTUNE 191 CHAPTER XIII. FROM GRAY SKIES TO BLUE 209 CHAPTER XIV. A FLOWER-GARDEN INDOORS 225 CHAPTER XV. HOW CHARLIE RAN AWAY 244 CHAPTER XVI. ALMOST DISCOURAGED 262 CHAPTER XVII. LOST AT SEA 282 CHAPTER XVIII. A SONG IN THE NIGHT 299 CHAPTER XIX. IN THE OLD HOME-NEST AGAIN 317 CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN THE OLD SHOE BECOMES CROWDED 337 CHAPTER XXI. HOW THE DREAMS CAME TRUE 352 CHAPTER XXII. CHRISTMASTIDE 366 THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME. CHAPTER I. JOE'S GRAND DISCOVERY. Hal sat trotting Dot on his knee,--poor little weazen-faced Dot, who was just getting over the dregs of the measles, and cross accordingly. By way of accompaniment he sang all the Mother Goose melodies that he could remember. At last he came to,-- "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe: She had so many children she didn't know what to do; To some she gave broth without any bread,"-- and Harry stopped to catch his breath, for the trotting was of the vigorous order. "And a thrashing all round, and sent them to bed!" finished Joe, thrusting his shaggy head in at the window after the fashion of a great Newfoundland dog. Dot answered with a piteous cry,--a sort of prolonged wail, heart-rending indeed. "Serve you right," said Joe, going through an imaginary performance with remarkably forcible gestures. "For shame, Joe! You were little once yourself, and I dare say cried when you were sick. I always thought it very cruel, that, after being deprived of their supper, they should be"-- "Thrashed! Give us good strong Saxon for once, Flossy!" Flossy was of the ambitious, correct, and sentimental order. She had lovely light curls, and soft white hands when she did not have to work too hard, which she never did of her own free will. She thought it dreadful to be so poor, and aspired to a rather aristocratic ladyhood. "I am sorry you were not among them," she replied indignantly. "You're a hard-hearted, cruel boy!" "When the thrashings went round? You're a c-r-u-e-l girl!" with a prodigious length of accent. "Why, I get plenty of 'em at school." "'Trot, trot, trot. There was an old woman'--what are you laughing at, Joe?" and Hal turned red in the face. "I've just made a brilliant discovery. O my poor buttons! remember Flossy's hard labor and many troubles, and do not _bust_! Why, we're the very children!" At this, Joe gave a sudden lurch: you saw his head, and then you saw his heels, and the patch on the knee of his trousers, ripped partly off by an unlucky nail, flapped in the breeze; and he was seated on the window-sill right side up with care, drumming both bare heels into the broken wall. He gave a prolonged whistle of satisfaction, made big eyes at Dot, and then said again,-- "Yes, we are the _very_ children!" "What children? Joe, you are the noisiest boy in Christendom!" "Flossy, the old woman who lived in a shoe is Granny, and no mistake! I can prove it logically. Look at this old tumble-down rookery: it is just the shape of a huge shoe, sloping gradually to the toe, which is the shed-end here. It's brown and rusty and cracked and patched: it wants heeling and toeing, and to be half-soled, greased to keep the water out, and blacked to make it shine. It was a famous seven-leaguer in its day; but, when it had lost its virtue, the giant who used to wear it kicked it off by the roadside, little dreaming that it would be transformed into a cabin for the aforesaid old woman. And here we all are sure enough! Sometimes we get broth, and sometimes we don't." Dot looked up in amazement at this harangue, and thrust her thumbs in her mouth. Hal laughed out-right,--a soft little sound like the rippling of falling water. "Yes, a grand discovery! Ladies and gentlemen of the nineteenth century, I rise to get up, to speak what I am about to say; and I hope you will treasure the words of priceless wisdom that fall from my lips. I'm not backward about coming forward"-- Joe was balancing himself very nicely, and making tremendous flourishes, when two brown, dimpled hands scrubbed up the shock of curly hair, and the sudden onslaught destroyed his equilibrium, as Flossy would have said, and down he went on the floor in crab fashion, looking as if he were all arms and legs. "Charlie, you midget! just wait till I catch you. I haven't the broth, but the other thing will do as well." But Charlie was on the outside; and her little brown, bare feet were as fleet as a deer's. Joe saw her skimming over the meadow; but the afternoon was very warm, and a dozen yards satisfied him for a race, so he turned about. "Joe, you might take Dot a little while, I think," said Hal beseechingly, as Joe braced himself against the door-post. "I've held her all the afternoon." "She won't come--will you, Dot?" But Dot signified her gratification by stretching out her hands. Joe was a good-natured fellow; and, though he might have refused Hal easily, he couldn't resist Dot's tender appeal, so he took her on his shoulder and began trotting off to Danbury Cross. Dot laughed out of her sleepy eyes, highly delighted at this change in the programme. "Oh, dear!" and Hal rubbed his tired arms. "I shouldn't think grandmother would know what to do, sure enough! What a host of us there are,--six children!" "I'm sure I do my best," said Flossy with a pathetic little sniff. "But it's very hard to be an orphan and poor." "And when there are six of us, and we are all orphans, and all poor, it must be six times as hard," put in Joe with a sly twinkle. Then he changed Dot from her triumphal position on his shoulder to a kind of cradle in his arms. Her eyelids drooped, and she began to croon a very sleepy tune. Hal looked out of the window, over to the woods, where the westward sun was making a wonderful land of gold and crimson. Sometimes he had beautiful dreams of that softened splendor, but now they were mercenary. If one could only coin it all into money! There was poor grandmother slaving away, over at Mrs. Kinsey's,--she should come home, and be a princess, to say the very least. "I guess I'll clear up a bit!" said Hal, coming down from the clouds, and glancing round at the disorderly room. "Granny will be most tired to death when her day's work is done. Flossy, if you wouldn't mind going in the other room." Flossy gathered up her skirts and her crocheting, and did not take the invitation at all amiss. Then Hal found the stubby broom, and swept the floor; dusted the mantle, after removing an armful of "trash;" went at the wooden chairs, that had once been painted a gorgeous yellow with green bars; and cleared a motley accumulation of every thing off of the table, hanging up two or three articles, and tucking the rest into a catch-all closet. A quaint old pitcher, that had lost both spout and handle, was emptied of some faded flowers, and a fresh lot cut,--nothing very choice; but the honeysuckle scented the room, and the coxcombs gave their crimson glow to the top of the pyramid. "Why, Mrs. Betty," said Joe, "you've made quite a palace out of your end of the shoe, and this miserable little Dot has gone to sleep at last. Shall I put her in the cradle, or drop her down the well?" Hal smiled a little, and opened the door. It was the best room, quite large, uncarpeted, but clean; and though the bed was covered with a homemade spread, it was as white as it could be. The cradle was not quite as snowy; for the soiled hands that tumbled Dot in and out left some traces. To get her safely down was a masterpiece of strategy. Joe bumped her head; and Hal took her in his arms, hushing her in a low, motherly fashion, and pressing his brown cheek to hers, which looked the color of milk that had been skimmed, and then split in two, and skimmed again. She made a dive in Hal's hair with her little bird's claw of a hand, but presently dropped asleep again. "I guess she'll take a good long nap," whispered Hal, quite relieved. "I'm sure she ought," sighed Florence. Hal went back to his housekeeping. He was as handy as a girl, any day. He pulled some radishes, and put them in a bowl of cold water, and chopped some lettuce and onions together, the children were all so fond of it. Then he gleaned the raspberries, and filled the saucer with currants that were not salable. Joe, in the meanwhile, had gone after Mrs. Green's cows. She gave them a quart of milk daily for driving the cows to and from the pasture, and doing odd chores. "If you see the children, send them home," had been Hal's parting injunction. "Grandmother will soon be here." She came before Joe returned. The oddest looking little old woman that you ever saw. Florence, at fourteen, was half a head taller. Thin and wrinkled and sunburned; her flaxen hair turning to silver, and yet obstinately full of little curls; her blue eyes pale and washed out, and hosts of "crows'-feet" at the corners; and her voice cracked and tremulous. Poor Grandmother Kenneth! She had worked hard enough in her day, and was still forced to keep it up, now that it was growing twilight with her. But I don't believe there was another as merry a houseful of children in all Madison. Joe's discovery was not far out of the way. The old woman, whose biography and family troubles were so graphically given by Mother Goose, died long before our childhood; but I think Granny Kenneth must have looked like her, though I fancy she was better natured. As for the children, many and many a time she had not known what to do with them,--when they were hungry, when they were bad, when their clothes were worn out and she had nothing to make new ones with, when they had no shoes; and yet she loved the whole six, and toiled for them without a word of complaint. Her only son, Joe, had left them to her,--a troublesome legacy indeed; but at that time they had a mother and a very small sum of money. Mrs. Joe was a pretty, helpless, inefficient body, who continually fretted because Joe did not get rich. When the poor fellow lay on his death-bed, his disease aggravated by working when he was not able, he twined his arms around his mother's neck, and cried with a great gasp,-- "You'll be kind to them, mother, and look after them a little. God will help you, I know. I should like to live for their sakes." A month or two after this, Dot was born. Now that her dear Joe was dead, there was no comfort in the world; so the frail, pretty little thing grieved herself away, and went to sleep beside him in the churchyard. The neighbors made a great outcry when Grandmother Kenneth took the children to her own little cottage. "What could she do with them? Why, they will all starve in a bunch," said one. "Florence and Joe might be bound out," proposed another. A third was for sending them to the almshouse, or putting them in some orphan asylum; but five years had come and gone, and they had not starved yet, though once or twice granny's heart had quaked for fear. Every one thought it would be such a blessing if Dot would only die. She had been a sight of trouble during the five years of her life. First, she had the whooping cough, which lasted three times as long as with any ordinary child. Then she fell out of the window, and broke her collar-bone; and when she was just over that, it was the water-pox. The others had the mumps, and Dot's share was the worst of all. Kit had the measles in the lightest possible form, and actually had to be tied in bed to make him stay there; while it nearly killed poor Dot, who had been suffering from March to midsummer, and was still poor as a crow, and cross as a whole string of comparisons. But Granny was patient with it all. The very sweetest old woman in the world, and the children loved her in their fashion; but they seldom realized all that she was doing for them. And though some of her neighbors appreciated the toil and sacrifice, the greater part of them thought it very foolish for her to be slaving herself to death for a host of beggarly grandchildren. "Well, Hal!" she exclaimed in her rather shrill but cheery voice, "how's the day gone?" "Pretty well: but you're tired to death. I suppose Mrs. Kinsey's company came, and there was a grand feast?" "Grand! I guess it was. Such loads of pies and puddings and kettles of berries and tubs of cream"-- Granny paused, out of breath from not having put in any commas. "Ice-cream, you mean? Freezers, they call 'em." "You do know every thing, Hal!" And granny laughed. "I can't get all the new-fangled names and notions in my head. There was Grandmother Kinsey, neat as a new pin, and children and grandchildren, and aunts and cousins. But it was nice, Hal." The boy smiled, thinking of them all. "Half of the goodies'll spile, I know. Mrs. Kinsey packed me a great basket full; and, Hal, here's two dollars. I'm clean tuckered out." "Then you just sit still, and let me 'tend to you. Dot's asleep; and if I haven't worried with her this afternoon! That child ought to grow up a wonder, she's been so much trouble to us all. Joe's gone after the cows, and Florence is busy as a bee. Oh, what a splendid basket full! Why, we shall feast like kings!" With that Hal began to unpack,--a plate full of cut cake, biscuits by the dozen, cold chicken, delicious slices of ham, and various other delicacies. "We'll only have a few to-night," said Hal economically. "'Tisn't every day that we have such a windfall. I'll put these out of the children's sight; for there they come." The "children" were Charlie and Kit, with barely a year between; Kit being seven, and Charlie--her real name was Charlotte, but she was such a tomboy that they gave her the nickname--was about eight. Hal was ten, and Joe twelve. "Children," said Hal, "don't come in till you've washed yourselves. Be quiet, for Dot is asleep." Thus admonished, Charlie did nothing worse than pour a basin of water over Kit, who sputtered and scolded and kicked until Hal rushed out to settle them. "If you're not quiet, you shall not have a mouthful of supper; and we've lots of goodies." Kit began to wash the variegated streaks from his face. Charlie soused her head in a pail of water, and shook it like a dog, then ran her fingers through her hair. It was not as light or silken as that of Florence, and was cropped close to her head. Kit's was almost as black as a coal; and one refractory lock stood up. Joe called it his "scalp-lock waving in the breeze." "Now, Charlie, pump another pail of water. There comes Joe, and we'll have supper." Charlie eyed Joe distrustfully, and hurried into the house. Hal hung up Granny's sun-bonnet, and placed the chairs around. "Come, Florence," he said, opening the door softly. "My eyes!" ejaculated Joe in amaze. "Grandmother, you're a trump." "Joe!" exclaimed Hal reproachfully. Joe made amends by kissing Granny in the most rapturous fashion. Then he escorted her to the table in great state. "Have you been good children to-day?" she asked, as they assembled round the table. "I've run a splinter in my toe; and, oh! my trousers are torn!" announced Kit dolefully. "If you ever had a whole pair of trousers at one time the world would come to an end," declared Joe sententiously. "Would it?" And Kit puzzled his small brain over the connection. "And Charlie preserves a discreet silence. Charlie, my dear, I advise you to keep out of the way of the ragmen, or you will find yourself on the road to the nearest paper-mill." Florence couldn't help laughing at the suggestion. "Children!" said their grandmother. Full of fun and frolic as they were, the little heads bowed reverently as Granny asked her simple blessing. She would as soon have gone without eating as to omit that. "I really don't want any thing," she declared. "I've been tasting all day,--a bit here and a bit there, and such loads of things!" "Tell us all about it," begged Joe. "And who was there,--the grand Panjandrum with a button on the top. Children's children unto the third and fourth generation." "O Joe! if you only wouldn't," began Granny imploringly. "No, I won't, Granny;" and Joe made a face as long as your arm, or a piece of string. "Of course I didn't see 'em all, nor half; but men and women and children and babies! And Grandmother Kinsey's ninety-five years old!" "I hope I'll live to be that old, and have lots of people to give me a golden wedding," said Charlie, with her mouth so full that the words were pretty badly squeezed. "This isn't a golden wedding," said Florence with an air of dignity: "it's a birthday party." "Ho!" and Joe laughed. "You'll be,-- 'Ugly, ill-natured, and wrinkled and thin, Worn by your troubles to bone and to skin.'" "She's never been much else," rejoined Flossy, looking admiringly at her own white arm. "I'm not as old as you!" And Charlie flared up to scarlet heat. "Oh! you needn't get so vexed. I was only thinking of the skin and bone," said Florence in a more conciliatory manner. "Well, I don't want to be a 'Mother Bunch.'" "No fear of you, Charlie. You look like the people who live on some shore,--I've forgotten the name of the place,--and, eat so many fish that the bones work through." Charlie felt of her elbows. They were pretty sharp, to be sure. She was very tall of her age, and ran so much that it was quite impossible to keep any flesh on her bones. "Hush, children!" said grandmother. "I was going to tell you about the party. Hal, give me a little of your salad, first." The Kinseys had invited all their relations to a grand family gathering. Granny told over the pleasant and comical incidents that had come under her notice,--the mishaps in cooking, the babies that had fallen down stairs, and various entertaining matters. By that time supper was ended. Florence set out to take some lace that she had been making to a neighbor; Hal washed the dishes, and Charlie wiped them; Joe fed the chickens, and then perched himself astride the gate-post, whistling all the tunes he could remember; Kit and Charlie went to bed presently; and Hal and his grandmother had a good talk until Dot woke up, strange to say quite good-natured. "Granny," said Hal, preparing a bowl of bread and milk for his little sister, "some day we'll all be grown, and you won't have to work so hard." "Six men and women! How odd it will be!" returned Granny with a smile shining over her tired face. "Yes. We'll keep you like a lady. You shall have a pretty house to live in, and Dot shall wait upon you. Won't you, Dot?" Dot shook her head sagely at Granny. And in the gathering twilight Hal smiled, remembering Joe's conceit. Granny looked happy in spite of her weariness. She, foolish body, was thinking how nice it was to have them all, even to poor little Dot. CHAPTER II. PLANNING IN THE TWILIGHT. It was a rainy August day, and the children were having a glorious time up in the old garret. Over the house-part there were two rooms; but this above the kitchen was kept for rubbish. A big wheel, on which Granny used to spin in her younger days, now answered for almost any purpose, from a coach and four, to a menagerie: they could make it into an elephant, a camel, or a hyena, by a skilful arrangement of drapery. There were several other pieces of dilapidated furniture, old hats, old boots, a barrel or two of papers; in fact, a lot of useless traps and a few trophies that Joe had brought home; to say nothing of Charlie's endless heaps of trash, for she had a wonderful faculty of accumulation; herbs of every kind, bundles of calamus, stacks of "cat-tails," the fuzz of which flew in every direction with the least whiff of wind. The "children" had been raising bedlam generally. Joe was dressed in an old scuttle-shaped Leghorn bonnet and a gay plaid cloak, a strait kind of skirt plaited on a yoke. Granny had offered it to Florence for a dress, but it had been loftily declined. Kit was attired as an Indian, his "scalp-lock" bound up with rooster feathers; and he strutted up and down, jabbering a most uncouth dialect, though of what tribe it would be difficult to say. Charlie appeared in a new costume about every half-hour, and improvised caves in every corner; though it must be confessed Joe rather extinguished her with his style. He could draw in his lips until he looked as if he hadn't a tooth in his head, and talk like nearly every old lady in town. Such whoops and yells and shouts as had rung through the old garret would have astonished delicate nerves. In one of the bedrooms Granny was weaving rag-carpet on a rickety loom, for she did a little of every thing to lengthen out her scanty income; but the noise of that was as a whiff of wind in comparison. At last they had tried nearly every kind of transformation, and were beginning to grow tired. It was still very cloudy, and quite twilight in their den, when Florence came up stairs, and found them huddled around the window listening to a wonderful story that Joe made up as he went along. Such fortunes and adventures could only belong to the Munchausen period. "Dear!" exclaimed Florence, "I thought the chief of the Mohawks had declared war upon the Narragansetts, and everybody had been scalped, you subsided so suddenly. You've made racket enough to take off the roof of the house!" "It's on yet," was Joe's solemn assurance. "O Joe!" begged Charlie: "tell us another story,--something about a sailor who was wrecked, and lived in a cave, and found bags and bags of money!" "That's the kind, Charlie. Flo, come on and take a seat." "Where's Dot?" "Here in my arms," replied Hal; "as good as a kitten; aren't you, Dot?" Dot answered with a contented grunt. "Oh, let's all tell what we'd like to do!" said Charlie, veering round on a new tack. "Flo'll want to be Cinderella at the king's ball." Florence tumbled over the pile of legs, and found a seat beside Hal. "Well, I'll lead off," began Joe with a flourish. "First, I'm going to be a sailor. I mean to ship with a captain bound for China; and hurra! we'll go out with a flowing sea or some other tip-top thing! Well, I guess we'll go to China,--this is all suppos'n, you know; and while I'm there I'll get such lots of things!--crape-shawls and silks for you, Flossy; and cedarwood chests to keep out moths, and fans and beautiful boxes, and a chest of tea, for Granny. On the way home we shall be wrecked. You'll hear the news, and think that I'm dead, sure enough." "But how will Flo get her shawls?" asked Charlie. "Oh, you'll hear presently! That's way in the end. I shall be wrecked on an island where there's a fierce native chief; and first he and his men think they'll kill me." Joe always delighted in harrowing up the feelings of his audience. "So I offer him the elegant shawls and some money"-- "But I thought you lost them all in the wreck!" interposed quick-brained Charlie. "Oh, no! There's always something floats ashore, you must remember. Well, he concluded not to kill me, though they have a great festival dance in honor of their idols; and I only escape by promising to be his obedient slave. I find some others who have been cast on that desolate shore, and been treated in the same manner. The chief beats us, and makes us work, and treats us dreadfully. Then we mutiny, and have a great battle, for a good many of the natives join us. In the scrimmage the old fellow is killed; and there's a tremendous rejoicing, I can tell you, for they all hate him. We divide his treasure, and it's immense, and go to live in his palace. Well, no boat ever comes along; so we build one for ourselves, and row to the nearest port and tell them the chief is dead. They are very glad, for he was a cruel old fellow. Then we buy a ship, and go back for the rest of our treasures. We take a great many of the beautiful things out of the palace, and then we start for home, double-quick. It's been a good many years; and, when I come back, Granny is old, and walking with a cane, Florence married to a rich gentleman, and Dot here grown into a handsome girl. But won't I build a stunning house! There'll be a scattering out of this old shoe, I tell you." "Oh, won't it be splendid!" exclaimed Charlie, with a long-drawn breath. "It's just like a story." "Now, Hal, it's your turn." Hal sighed softly, and squeezed Dot a little. "I shall not go off and be a sailor"-- "Or a jolly young oysterman," said Joe, by way of assistance. "No. What I'd like most of all"--and Hal made a long pause. "Even if it's murder, we'll forgive you and love you," went on tormenting Joe. "O Joe, don't!" besought Florence. "I want to hear what Hal will choose, for I know just what I'd like to have happen to me." "So do I," announced Charlie confidently. "I don't know that I can have it," said Hal slowly; "for it costs a good deal, though I might make a small beginning. It's raising lovely fruit and flowers, and having a great hot-house, with roses and lilies and dear white blossoms in the middle of the winter. I should love them so much! They always seem like little children to me, with God for their father, and we who take care of them for a stepmother; though stepmothers are not always good, and the poor wicked ones would be those who did not love flowers. Why, it would be like fairy-land,--a great long hot-house, with glass overhead, and all the air sweet with roses and heliotrope and mignonette. And it would be so soft and still in there, and so very, very beautiful! It seems to me as if heaven must be full of flowers." "Could you sell 'em if you were poor?" asked Charlie, in a low voice. "Not the flowers in heaven! Charlie, you're a heathen." "I didn't mean that! Don't you suppose I know about heaven!" retorted Charlie warmly. "Yes," admitted Joe with a laugh: "he could sell them, and make lots of money. And there are ever so many things: why, Mr. Green paid six cents apiece for some choice tomato-plants." "When I'm a man, I think I'll do that. I mean to try next summer in my garden." "May I tell now?" asked Charlie, who was near exploding with her secret. "Yes. Great things," said Joe. "I'm going to run away!" And Charlie gave her head an exultant toss, that, owing to the darkness, was lost to her audience. Joe laughed to his utmost capacity, which was not small. The old garret fairly rang again. Florence uttered a horrified exclamation; and Kit said,-- "I'll go with you!" "Girls don't run away," remarked Hal gravely. "But I mean to, and it'll be royal fun," was the confident reply. "Where will you go? and will you beg from door to door?" asked Joe quizzically. "No: I'm going out in the woods," was the undaunted rejoinder. "I mean to find a nice cave; and I'll bring in a lot of good dry leaves and some straw, and make a bed. Then I'll gather berries; and I know how to catch fish, and I can make a fire and fry them. I'll have a gay time going off to the river and rambling round, and there'll be no lessons to plague a body to death. It will be just splendid." "Suppose a bear comes along and eats you up?" suggested Joe. "As if there were any bears around here!" Charlie returned with immense disdain. "Well, a snake, or a wild-cat!" "I'm not afraid of snakes." "But you'd want a little bread." "Oh! I'd manage about that. I do mean to run away some time, just for fun." "You'll be glad to run back again!" "You see, now!" was the decisive reply. "Florentina, it is your turn now. We have had age before beauty." Florence tossed her soft curls, and went through with a few pretty airs. "I shouldn't run away," she said slowly; "but I'd like to _go_, for all that. Sometimes, as I sit by the window sewing, and see an elegant carriage pass by, I think, what if there should be an old gentleman in it, who had lost his wife and all his children, and that one of his little girls looked like--like me? And if he should stop and ask me for a drink, I'd go to the well and draw a fresh, cool bucketful"-- "From the north side--that's the coldest," interrupted Joe. "Hush, Joe! No one laughed at you!" "Laugh! Why, I am sober as an owl." "Then I'd give him a drink. I wish we could have some goblets: tumblers look so dreadfully old-fashioned. I mean to buy _one_, at least, some time. He would ask me about myself; and I'd tell him that we were all orphans, and had been very unfortunate, and that our grandmother was old"-- "'Four score and ten of us, poor old maids,-- Four score and ten of us, Without a penny in our _puss_, Poor old maids,'" sang Joe pathetically, cutting short the _purse_ on account of the rhyme. "O Joe, you are too bad! I won't tell any more." "Yes, do!" entreated Hal. "And so he liked you on account of the resemblance, and wanted to adopt you." "Exactly! Hal, how could you guess it?" returned Florence, much mollified. "And so he would take me to a beautiful house, where there were plenty of servants, and get me lovely clothes to wear; and there would be lots of china and silver and elegant furniture and a piano. I'd go to school, and study music and drawing, and never have to sew or do any kind of work. Then I'd send you nice presents home; and, when you were fixed up a little, you should come and see me. And maybe, Hal, as you grew older, he would help you about getting a hot-house. I think when I became a woman, I would take Dot to educate." "I've heard of fairy godmothers before, but this seems to be a godfather. Here's luck to your old covey, Florrie, drunk in imaginary champagne." "Joe, I wish you wouldn't use slang phrases, nor be so disrespectful." "I'm afraid I'll have to keep clear of the palace." "Oh, if it only could be!" sighed Hal. "I think Flo was meant for a lady." Florence smiled inwardly at hearing this. It was her opinion also. "Here, Kit, are you asleep?" And Joe pulled him out of the pile by one leg. "Wake up, and give us your heart's desire." Kit indulged in a vigorous kick, which Joe dodged. "It'll be splendid," began Kit, "especially the piano. I've had my hands over my eyes, making stars; and I was thinking"-- "That's just what we want, Chief of the Mohawk Valley. Don't keep us in suspense." "I'm going to save up my money, like some one Hal was reading about the other day, and buy a fiddle." A shout of laughter greeted this announcement, it sounded so comical. Kit rubbed his eyes in amazement, and failed to see any thing amusing. Then he said indignantly,-- "You needn't make such a row!" "But what will you do with a fiddle? You might tie a string to Charlie, and take her along for a monkey; or you might both go round singing in a squeaky voice,-- 'Two orphan boys of Switzerland.'" "You're real mean, Joe," said Kit, with his voice full of tears. "Kit, I'll give you the violin myself when I get rich," Florence exclaimed in a comforting tone, her soft hand smoothing down the refractory scalp-lock; "but I would say violin, it sounds so much nicer. And then you'll play." "Play!" enunciated Kit in a tone that I cannot describe, as if that were a weak word for the anticipated performance. "I'd make her talk! They'd sit there and listen,--a whole houseful of people it would be, you know; and when I first came out with my fiddle,--violin. I mean,--they would look at me as if they thought I couldn't do much. I'd begin with a slow sound, like the wind wailing on a winter night,--I guess I'd have it a storm, and a little lost child, for you can make almost any thing with a violin; and the cries should grow fainter and fainter, for she would be chilled and worn out; and presently it should drop down into the snow, and there'd be the softest, strangest music you ever heard. The crowd would listen and listen, and hold their breath; and when the storm cleared away, and the angels came down for the child, it would be so, so sad"--and there was an ominous falter in Kit's voice, "they couldn't help crying. There'd be an angel's song up in heaven; and in the sweetest part of it all, I'd go quietly away, for I wouldn't want any applause." "But you'd have it," said Hal softly, reaching out for the small fingers that were to evoke such wonderful melody. "It almost makes me cry myself to think of it! and the poor little girl lost in the snow, not bigger than Dot here!" "Children!" called Granny from the foot of the stairs, "ain't you going to come down and have any supper? I've made a great pot full of mush." There was a general scrambling. Hal carried Dot in his arms, for she was fast asleep. Two or three times in the short journey he stopped to kiss the soft face, thinking of Kit's vision. "Oh, we've been having such a splendid time!" announced Charlie. "All of us telling what we'd like to do; and, Granny, Joe's going to build you an _elegant_ house!" with a great emphasis on the word, as Charlie was not much given to style, greatly to the sorrow and chagrin of Florence. Granny gave a cheerful but cracked treble laugh, and asked,-- "What'll he build it of, my dear,--corn-cobs?" "Oh, a _real_ house! He's going to make lots of money, Joe is, and get shipwrecked." Granny shook her head, which made the little white curls bob around oddly enough. "How you do mix up things, Charlie," said Joe, giving her a poke with his elbow. "You're a perfect harum-scarum! I don't wonder you want to live in the woods. Go look at your head: it stands out nine ways for Sunday!" Charlie ran her fingers through her hair, her usual manner of arranging it. "Granny, here's this little lamb fast asleep. She's grown to be one of the best babies in the world;" and Hal kissed her again. He had such a tender, girlish heart, that any thing weak or helpless always appealed to him. Their sleek, shining Tabby had been a poor, forlorn, broken-legged kitten when he found her; and there was no end to the birds and chickens that he nursed through accidents. But for a fortnight Dot had been improving, it must be confessed, being exempt from disease and broken bones. "Poor childie! Just lay her in the bed, Hal." There was a huge steaming dish of mush in the middle of the table; and the hungry children went at it in a vigorous manner. Some had milk, and some had molasses; and they improvised a dessert by using a little butter, sugar, and nutmeg. They spiced their meal by recounting their imaginary adventures; but Granny was observed to wipe away a few tears over the shipwreck. "It was all make believe," said Joe sturdily. "Lots of people go to sea, and don't get wrecked." "But I don't want you to go," Granny returned in a broken tone of voice. "Pooh!" exclaimed Joe, with immense disdain. "Don't people meet with accidents on the land? Wasn't Steve Holder killed in the mill. And if I was on the cars in a smash-up, I couldn't swim out of that!" Joe took a long breath, fancying that he had established his point beyond a cavil. "But sailors never make fortunes," went on Granny hesitatingly. "Captains do, though; and it's a jolly life. Besides, we couldn't all stay in this little shanty, unless we made nests in the chimney like the swallows; and I don't know which would tumble down first,--we or the chimney." Charlie laughed at the idea. "I shall stay with you always, Granny," said Hal tenderly. "And Dot, you know, will be growing into a big girl and be company for us. We'll get along nicely, never fear." Some tears dropped unwittingly into Granny's plate, and she didn't want any more supper. It was foolish, of course. She ought to be thankful to have them all out of the way and doing for themselves. Here she was, over fifty, and had worked hard from girlhood. Some day she would be worn out. But, in spite of all their poverty and hardship, she had been very happy with them; and theirs were by no means a forlorn-looking set of faces. Each one had a little beauty of its own; and, though they were far from being pattern children, she loved them dearly in spite of their faults and roughnesses. And in their way they loved her, though sometimes they were great torments. And so at bed-time they all crowded round to kiss the wrinkled face, unconsciously softened by the thought of the parting that was to come somewhere along their lives. But no one guessed how Granny held little Dot in her arms that night, and prayed in her quaint, fervent fashion that she might live to see them all grown up and happy, good and prosperous men and women, and none of them straying far from the old home-nest. I think God listened with watchful love. No one else would have made crooked paths so straight. CHAPTER III. A CHANCE FOR FLOSSY. The vacation had come to an end, and next week the children were to go to school again. Florence counted up her small hoard; for though she did not like to sweep, or wash dishes, she was industrious in other ways. She crocheted edgings and tidies, made lamp-mats, toilet-sets, and collars, and had earned sixteen dollars. Granny would not have touched a penny of it for the world. So Florence bought herself two pretty delaine dresses for winter wear, and begged Granny to let Miss Brown cut and fit them. Florence had a pretty, slender figure; and she was rather vain of it. Her two dresses had cost seven dollars, a pair of tolerably nice boots three and a half, a plaid shawl four, and then she had indulged in the great luxury of a pair of kid gloves. It had come about in this wise. Mrs. Day had purchased them in New York, but they proved too small for her daughter Julia. She was owing Florence a dollar; so she said,-- "Now, if you have a mind to take these gloves, Florence, I'd let you have them for seventy-five cents. I bought them very cheap: they ask a dollar and a quarter in some stores;" and she held them up in their most tempting light. Florence looked at them longingly. "They are lovely kid, and such a beautiful color! Green is all the fashion, and you have a new green dress." There was a pair of nice woollen gloves at the store for fifty cents; and although they were rather clumsy, still Florence felt they would be warmer and more useful. "I don't know as I can spare you the dollar now," continued Mrs. Day, giving the dainty little gloves a most aggravating stretch. "I'd like to have them," said Florence hesitatingly. "I suppose your grandmother won't mind? Your money is your own." Now, Mrs. Day knew that it was wrong to tempt Florence; but the gloves were useless to her, and she felt anxious to dispose of them. "Grandmother said I might spend all my money for clothes," was the rather proud reply. "Kid gloves always look so genteel, and are so durable. You have such a pretty hand too." "I guess I will take them," Florence said faintly. So Mrs. Day gave her the gloves and twenty-five cents. Florence carried them home in secret triumph, and put them in _her_ drawer in Granny's big bureau. She had not told about them yet; and sometimes they were a heavier burden than you would imagine so small a pair of gloves could possibly be. Joe had earned a little odd change from the farmers round, and bought himself a pair of new trousers and a new pair of boots; while Hal had been maid-of-all-work in doors, and head gardener out of doors. "Just look at these potatoes!" he said in triumph to Granny. "There's a splendid binful, and it'll last all winter. And there'll be cabbage and pumpkins and marrow-squash and Lima beans, and lots of corn for the chickens. The garden has been a success this summer." "And you've worked early and late," returned Granny in tender triumph. "There isn't such another boy in the State, I'll be bound!" And she gave him the fondest of smiles. "But the best of all is Dot. She's actually getting fat, Granny; and she has a dimple in her cheek. Why, she'll be almost as pretty as Flossy!" Granny gave the little one a kiss. "She's as good as a kitten when she is well," was the rejoinder, in a loving tone. Kit and Charlie still romped like wild deers. They had made a cave in the wood, and spent whole days there; but Charlie burned her fingers roasting a bird, and went back to potatoes and corn, that could be put in the ashes without so much risk. The old plaid cloak had been made over for a school-dress, and Charlie thought it quite grand. Kit and Hal had to do the best they could about clothes. "Never mind me, Granny," Hal said cheerfully; though he couldn't help thinking of his patched Sunday jacket, which was growing short in the sleeves for him. So on Saturday the children scrubbed and scoured and swept, and made the place quite shine again. Hal arranged the flowers, and then they all drew a restful breath before the supper preparations began. "There's Mrs. Van Wyck coming!" and Charlie flew up the lane, dashing headlong into the house, to the imminent peril of her best dress, which she had been allowed to put on for an hour or two. "Mrs. Van Wyck!" Granny brushed back her bobbing flaxen curls, washed Dot's face over again with the nearest white cloth, which happened to be Flossy's best handkerchief that she had been doing up for Sunday. "Oh!" the young lady cried in dismay, and then turned to make her prettiest courtesy. Mrs. Van Wyck was very well off indeed, and lived in quite a pretentious cottage,--villa she called it; but, as she had a habit of confusing her V's and W's, Joe re-christened it the Van Wyck Willow. "Good-afternoon, Mrs. Kenneth. How d'y do, Florence?" Florence brought out a chair, and, with the most polite air possible, invited her to be seated. Mrs. Van Wyck eyed her sharply. "'Pears to me you look quite fine," she said. Florence wore a white dress that was pretty well outgrown, and had been made from one of her mother's in the beginning. It had a good many little darns here and there, and she was wearing it for the last time. She had tied a blue ribbon in her curls, and pinned a tiny bouquet on her bosom. She looked very much dressed, but that was pretty Flossy's misfortune. Mrs. Van Wyck gathered up her silk gown,--a great staring brocade in blue and gold, that might have been her grandmother's, it looked so ancient in style. "I've come over on some business," she began, with an important air and a mysterious shake of the head. Granny sat down, and took Dot upon her lap. Kit and Charlie peered out of their hiding-places, and Joe perched himself upon the window-sill. "How do you ever manage with all this tribe?" And Mrs. Van Wyck gave each of them a scowl. "There's a houseful," returned Granny, "but we _do_ get along." "Tough scratching, I should say." "And poor pickings the chickens might add, if they had _such_ an old hen," commented Joe _soto voce_. "There'd be something worse than clucking." Hal couldn't help laughing. Mrs. Van Wyck was so ruffled and frilled, so full of ends of ribbon about the head and neck, that she did look like a setting hen disturbed in the midst of her devotions. "Them children haven't a bit of manners," declared Mrs. Van Wyck, in sublime disregard of syntax. "Trot off, all of you but Florence: I have something to say to your grandmother." Joe made a somerset out of the window, and placed himself in a good listening position; Hal went out and sat on the doorstep; and Charlie crawled under the table. "I don't see how you manage to get along with such a houseful. I always did wonder at your taking 'em." "Oh! we do pretty well," returned Granny cheerily. "They're growing big enough to help themselves a little. Why don't you bind Joe out to some of the farmers. Such a great fellow ought to be doing something besides racing round and getting into mischief." Joe made a series of such polite evolutions, that Hal ran to the gate to have a good laugh without being heard. "He's going to school," said Granny innocently. "They all begin on Monday." "Going to school?" And Mrs. Van Wyck elevated her voice as if she thought them all deaf. "Why, _I_ never went to school a day after I was twelve year old, and my father was a well-to-do farmer. There's no sense in children having so much book-larnin'. It makes 'em proud and stuck up, and good for nothing. "Oh! where's that dog? Put him out! Put him out! I can't bear dogs. And the poorer people are, the more dogs they'll keep." Joe, the incorrigible, was quite a ventriloquist for his years and size. He had just made a tremendous ki-yi, after the fashion of the most snarling terrier dog, and a kind of scrabbling as if the animal might be under Mrs. Van Wyck's feet. "Oh, my! Take the nasty brute away. Maybe he's full of fleas or has the mange"-- "It is only Joe," explained Florence, as soon as she could put in a word. "I'd Joe him, if I had him here! You're a ruining of these children as I've always said; and you may thank your stars if Joe escapes the gallows. I've positively come on an errand of mercy." "Not for Joe," declared the owner of the name with a sagacious shake of the head, while Mrs. Van Wyck paused for breath. "Yes. Not one of them'll be worth a penny if they go on this way. Now, here's Florence, growing up in idleness"-- "She keeps pretty busy," said Granny stoutly. "Busy! Why, you've nothing for her to do. When I was a little girl, my mother made me sit beside her, and sew patchwork; and before I was twelve year old I had finished four quilts. And she taught me the hymn,-- 'Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.'" "They always learn a verse for Sunday," said Granny deprecatingly. "But you let 'em run wild. I've seen it all along. I was a talkin' to Miss Porter about it; and says I, 'Now, I'll do one good deed;' and the Lord knows it's needed." Everybody listened. Joe from the outside made a pretence of picking his ears open with the handle of a broken saucepan. "Florence is getting to be a big girl, and it's high time she learned something. As I was a sayin' to Miss Porter, 'I want just such a girl; and it will be the making of Florence Kenneth to fall into good hands.'" "But you don't mean"--and Granny paused, aghast. "I mean to make the child useful in her day and generation. It'll be a good place for her." Mrs. Van Wyck nodded her head until the bows and streamers flew in every direction. Granny opened her eyes wide in surprise. "What do you want of her, Mrs. Van Wyck?" Charlie peeped out from between the legs of the table to hear, her mouth wide open lest she should lose a word. "Want of her?" screamed the visitor. "Why, to work, of course! I don't keep idle people about me, I can tell you. I want a girl to make beds, and sweep, and dust, and wash dishes, and scour knives, and scrub, and run errands, and do little chores around. It'll be the making of her; and I'm willing to do the fair thing." Granny was struck dumb with amazement. Florence could hardly credit her ears. Hal sprang up indignantly, and Joe doubled his fists as if he were about to demolish the old house along with Mrs. Van Wyck. "Yes. I've considered the subject well. I always sleep on a thing before I tell a single soul. And, if Florence is a good smart girl, I'll give her seventy-five cents a week and her board. For six dollars a month I could get a grown girl, who could do all my work." Granny looked at Florence in helpless consternation; and Florence looked at Granny with overwhelming disdain. "Well! why don't you answer?" said the visitor. She had supposed they would jump at the offer. "I don't expect to go out doing housework, Mrs. Van Wyck," said Florence loftily. "Hoity-toity! how grand we are! I've never been above doing my own housework; and I could buy and sell the whole bunch of you, a dozen times over." "Florence wouldn't like it, I'm afraid," said Granny mildly. "A fine way to bring up children, truly! You may see the day when you'll be thankful to have a home as good as my kitchen." There was a bright red spot in Florence's cheeks. "Mrs. Van Wyck," Florence began in a quiet, ladylike manner, although she felt inclined to be angry, "grandmother is right: I should not like it. I have no taste for housework; and I can earn more than you offer to give by doing embroidering and crocheting. Through the six weeks of vacation I earned sixteen dollars." "Fancy work! What is the world coming to? Children brought up to despise good, honest employment." "No, I don't despise it," amended Florence; "but I do not like it, and I think it a hard way of earning a little money. If I can do better, of course I have the right." Granny was amazed at the spirit Florence displayed. "You'll all be paupers on the town yet, mark my words. Flaunting round in white dresses and ribbons, and"-- She glanced around for some further vanity to include in her inventory. "I am sure we are obliged to you," said Granny mildly. "But Florence"-- "Yes, Florence is too good to work. There's no sense in such high-flown names. I'd have called her plain Peggy. She must curl her hair, and dress herself--oh my lady, if I had you, you'd see!" And Mrs. Van Wyck arose in great wrath, her streamers flying wildly. "You'll remember this when you come to beggary,--refusing a good home and plenty. Your grandmother is a foolish old woman; and you're a lazy, shiftless, impudent set! I wash my hands of the whole lot." "I'm sorry," began Granny. "There's no use talking. I wouldn't have the girl on any account. I can get her betters any day. You'll come to no good end, I can tell you!" With that, Mrs. Van Wyck flounced out; but at the first turn tumbled over Kit, who had rolled himself in a ball on the doorstep. Down she went, and Joe set up a shout. Hal couldn't help laughing, and Charlie ran to pull out Kit. "You good-for-nothing, beggarly wretches!" While she was sputtering and scrambling about, Joe began a hideous caterwauling. "Drat that cat! Pity I hadn't broken his neck! And my second-best bonnet!" Kit hid himself in his grandmother's gown, sorely frightened, and a little bruised. [Illustration] "It's the last time I'll ever step inside of this place. Such an awful set of children I never did see!" To use Joe's expressive phraseology, she "slathered" right and left, her shrill voice adding to the confusion. Granny watched the retreating figure with the utmost bewilderment. "The mean old thing!" began Florence, half crying. "Why, I couldn't stand her temper and her scolding, and to be a common kitchen-girl!" "She meant well, dear. In my day girls thought it no disgrace to live out." "Wasn't it gay and festive, Granny? I believe I've burst every button, laughing; and you'll have to put a mustard plaster on my side to draw out the soreness. And oh, Kit, what a horrible yell you gave! How could you be the ruin of that second best bonnet?" "'Twasn't me," said Kit, rubbing his eyes. "But she most squeezed the breath out of me." "Flossy, here is your fortune, and your coach-and-four. My dear child, I hope you will not be too much elated, for you must remember"-- "'Satan finds some mischief still,' &c." Joe whisked around, holding Dot's apron at full length in imitation of a streamer. "I wonder if she really thought I would go. Scouring and scrubbing, and washing dishes. I'd do with one meal a day first." "She is a coarse, ill-bred woman," said Hal; "not a bit like Mrs. Kinsey." "We will not be separated just yet," exclaimed Granny, with a sigh for the time that must come. "And I don't mean to live out," was the emphatic rejoinder of Florence. "My dear, you mustn't be too proud," cautioned Granny. "It isn't altogether pride. Why should I wash dishes when I can do something better?" "That's the grit, Flossy. I'll bet on you!" "O Joe! don't. I wish you would learn to be refined. Now, you see all Mrs. Van Wyck's money cannot make her a lady." Joe put on a solemn face; but the next moment declared that he must keep a sharp look out, or some old sea-captain would snap him up, and set him to scrubbing decks, and holystoning the cable. And yet they felt quite grave when the fun was over. Their merry vacation had ended, and there was no telling what a year might bring forth. "I think I should like most of all to be a school-teacher," Florence declared. "You'll have to wait till you're forty. Who do you s'pose is going to mind a little gal?" "Not you; for you never mind anybody," was the severe reply. Florence felt quite grand on the following day, attired in her new green delaine, and her "lovely" gloves. Granny was so busy with the others that she never noticed them; and Florence quieted her conscience by thinking that the money was her own, and she could do what she liked with it. She kept self generally in view, it must be admitted. Mrs. Van Wyck's overture was destined to make quite a stir. She repeated it to her neighbors in such glowing terms that it really looked like an offer to adopt Florence; and she declaimed bitterly against the pride and the ingratitude of the whole Kenneth family. Florence held her head loftily, and took great pains to contradict the story; and Joe became the stoutest of champions, though he teased her at home. "But it's too bad to have her tell everybody such falsehoods; and, after all, three dollars a month would be very low wages. Why, Mary Connor gets a dollar a week for tending Mrs. Hall's baby; and she never scrubs or scours a thing!" Truth to tell, Florence felt a good deal insulted. But the whole five went to school pretty regularly. Hal was very studious, and Florence also, in spite of her small vanities; but Joe was incorrigible everywhere. Florence gained courage one day to ask Mr. Fielder about the prospect of becoming a teacher. She was ambitious, and desired some kind of a position that would be ladylike. "It's pretty hard work at first," he answered with a smile. "But how long would I have to study?" "Let me see--you are fourteen now: in three years you might be able to take a situation. Public schools in the city are always better for girls, for they can begin earlier in the primary department. A country school, you see, may have some troublesome urchins in it." Florence sighed. Three years would be a long while to wait. "I will give you all the assistance in my power," Mr. Fielder said kindly. "And I may be able to hear of something that will be to your advantage." Florence thanked him, but somehow the prospect did not look brilliant. Then she thought of dressmaking. Miss Brown had a pretty cottage, furnished very nicely indeed; and it was her boast that she did it all with her own hands. She kept a servant, and dressed quite elegantly; and all the ladies round went to her in their carriages. Then she had such beautiful pieces for cushions and wonderful bedquilts,--"Though I never take but the least snip of a dress," she would say with a virtuous sniff. "I have heard of people who kept a yard or two, but to my mind it's downright stealing." There was a drawback to this picture of serene contentment. Miss Brown was an old maid, and Florence hoped devoutly that would never be her fate. And then Miss Skinner, who went out by the day, was single also. Was it the natural result of the employment? CHAPTER IV. THE IDENTICAL SHOE. They did pretty well through the fall. Joe came across odd jobs, gathered stores of hickory-nuts and chestnuts; and now and then of an evening they had what he called a rousing good boil; and certainly chestnuts never tasted better. They sat round the fire, and told riddles or stories, and laughed as only healthy, happy children can. What if they were poor, and had to live in a little tumble-down shanty! Sometimes Joe would surprise them with a somerset in the middle of the floor, or a good stand on his head in one corner. "Joe," Granny would say solemnly, "I once knowed a man who fell that way on his head off a load of hay, and broke his back." "Granny dear, 'knowed' is bad grammar. When you go to see Florence in her palace, you must say knew, to rhyme with blew. But your old man's back must have grown cranky with rheumatism, while mine is limber as an eel." "He wasn't old, Joe. And in my day they never learned grammar." "Oh, tell us about the good old times!" and Hal's head was laid in Granny's lap. The children were never tired of hearing these tales. Days when Granny was young were like enchantment. She remembered some real witch stories, that she was sure were true; and weddings, quiltings, husking-bees, and apple-parings were full of interest. How they went out sleigh-riding, and had a dance; and how once Granny and her lover, sitting on the back seat, were jolted out, seat and all, while the horses went skimming along at a pace equal to Tam O'Shanter's. And how they had to go to a neighboring cottage, and stay ever so long before they were missed. "There'll never be such times again," Joe would declare solemnly. Florence would breath a little sigh, and wonder if she could ever attain to beaux and merriment, and if any one would ever quarrel about dancing with her. How happy Granny must have been! Dot had a dreadful cold, and Granny an attack of rheumatism; but they both recovered before Christmas. Every one counted so much on this holiday. All were making mysterious preparations. Joe and Hal and Florence had their heads together; and then it was Granny and Florence, or Granny and Hal. "I don't dare to stir out," said Joe lugubriously, "lest you may say something that I shall not hear." Hal killed three fine young geese. Two were disposed of for a dollar apiece, and the third he brought to the kitchen in triumph. "There's our Christmas dinner, and a beauty too!" he announced. Hal had sold turkeys and chickens enough to buy himself a good warm winter coat. Granny had a little extra luck. In fact, it was rather a prosperous winter with them; and there was nothing like starvation, in spite of Mrs. Van Wyck's prediction. They all coaxed Granny to make doughnuts. Joe dropped them in the kettle, and Hal took them out with the skimmer. How good they did smell! Kit and Charlie tumbled about on the floor, and were under everybody's feet; while Dot sat in her high chair, looking wondrous wise. "How'll we get the stockings filled?" propounded Joe, when the supper-table had been cleared away. They all glanced at each other in consternation. "But where'll you hang 'em?" asked Kit after a moment or two of profound study. "Some on the andirons, some on the door-knob, some on the kettle-spout, and the rest up chimney." "I say, can't we have two?" was Charlie's anxious question. "Lucky if you get one full. What a host of youngsters! O Granny! did you know that last summer I discovered that you were the old woman who lived in a shoe?" "O Joe! don't;" and Hal raised his soft eyes reproachfully. Granny laughed, not understanding Hal's anxiety. "Because I had so many children?" "Exactly; but I think you are better tempered than your namesake." Granny's eyes twinkled at this compliment. "It was an awful hot day, and Dot was cross enough to kill a cat with nine lives." "But she's a little darling now," said Hal, kissing her. "I think the sand-man has been around;" and he smiled into the little face with its soft drooping eyes. "Yes, she ought to be in bed, and Kit and Charlie. Come, children." "I want to see what's going to be put in my stocking," whined Charlie in a very sleepy tone. "No, you can't. March off, you small snipes, or you will find a whip there to-morrow morning." That was Joe's peremptory order. They had a doughnut apiece, and then went reluctantly. Charlie was very sure that she was wider awake than ever before in her life, and could not get asleep if she tried all night. Kit didn't believe that morning would ever come. Hal put on Dot's nightgown, and heard her say, "Now I lay me down to sleep;" while Joe picked up the cat, and irreverently whispered,-- "Now I lay me down to sleep, All curled up in a little heap. If I should wake before 'tis day, What do you s'pose the doctor'd say?" "O Joe!" remonstrated Granny. "That's Tabby's prayers. Tabby is a high principled, moral, and intellectual cat. Now go to sleep, and dream of a mouse." Tabby winked her eyes solemnly, as if she understood every word; and it's my firm belief that she did. Then Granny, Florence, Joe, and Hal sat in profound thought until the old high clock in the corner struck nine. "Well," said Joe, "what are we waiting for?" Hal laughed and answered,-- "For some one to go to bed." "What is to be done about it?" Florence looked wise, and said presently,-- "We'll all have to go in the other room except the one who is to put something in the stockings." "That's it. Who will begin?" "Not I," rejoined Joe. "I don't want to be poked down into the toe." "And I can't have my gifts crushed," declared Florence. "Hal, you begin." Hal was very cheerful and obliging. Granny lighted another candle, and the three retired. He disposed of his gifts, and then called Joe. Joe made a great scrambling around. One would think he had Santa Claus himself, and was squeezing him into the small stocking, sleigh, ponies, and all. "Now, Granny, it's your turn." Granny fumbled about a long while, until the children grew impatient. Afterward Florence found herself sorely straitened for room; but she had a bright brain, and what she could not put inside she did up in papers and pinned to the outside, giving the stockings a rather grotesque appearance, it must be confessed. There they hung in a row, swelled to dropsical proportions, and looking not unlike stumpy little Dutchmen who had been beheaded at the knees. "Now, Granny, you must go to bed," said Joe with an air of importance. "And you must promise to lie there until you are called to-morrow morning,--honor bright!" Granny smiled, and bobbed her flaxen curls. "Now," exclaimed Florence, bolting the middle door so they would be sure of no interruption. Joe went out to the wood-shed, and dragged in a huge shoe. The toe was painted red, and around the top a strip of bright yellow, ending with an immense buckle cut out of wood. "Oh, isn't it splendid!" exclaimed Florence, holding her breath. "That was Hal's idea, and it's too funny for any thing. Granny could crawl into it head first. If we haven't worked and conjured to keep Kit and Charlie out of the secret, then no one ever had a bit of trouble in this world." Joe laughed until he held his sides. It was a sort of safety escape-valve with him. "H-u-s-h!" whispered Hal. "Now, Flossy." Florence brought a large bundle out of the closet. There were some suppressed titters, and "O's," and "Isn't it jolly?" "Now you must tie your garters round the bedpost, put the toe of your shoes toward the door, and go to bed backward. That'll make every thing come out just right," declared Joe. "Oh, dear! I wish it was morning!" said Hal. "I want to see the fun." "So don't this child. I must put in some tall snoring between this and daylight." They said good-night softly to each other, and went off to bed. Joe was so full of mischief, that he kept digging his elbows into Hal's ribs, and rolling himself in the bedclothes, until it was a relief to have him commence the promised snoring. With the first gray streak of dawn there was a stir. "Merry Christmas!" sang out Joe with a shout that might have been heard a mile. "Hal and Kit"-- "Can't you let a body sleep in peace?" asked Kit in an injured tone, the sound coming from vasty deeps of bedclothes. Joe declared they always had to fish him out of bed, and that buckwheat cakes was the best bait that could be used. "Why, it's Christmas. Hurrah! We're going to have a jolly time. What do you suppose is in your stocking?" That roused Kit. He came out of bed on his head, and commenced putting his foot through his jacket sleeve. "I can't find my stockings! Who's got 'em?" "The fellow who gets up first always takes the best clothes," said Joe solemnly. With that he made a dive into his. It was the funniest thing in the world to see Joe dress. His clothes always seemed joined together in some curious fashion; for he flung his arms and legs into them at one bound. "Oh, dear! Don't look in my stocking, Joe. You might wait. I know you've hidden away my shoe on purpose." With this Kit sat in the middle of the floor like a heap of rains, and began to cry. Hal came to the rescue, and helped his little brother dress. But Joe was down long before them. He gave a whoop at the door. "Merry Christmas!" exclaimed Florence with a laugh, glad to think she had distanced him. "Merry Christmas! The top o' the mornin' to you, Granny! Long life and plenty of 'praties and pint.' Santa Claus has been here. My eyes!" Hal and Kit came tumbling along; but the younger stood at the door in amaze, his mouth wide open. "Hush for your life!" But Kit had to make a tour regardless of his own stocking, while Joe brandished the tongs above his head as if to enforce silence. Hal began to kindle the fire. Charlie crept out in her nightgown, with an old shawl about her, and stood transfixed with astonishment. "Oh, my! Isn't that jolly? Doesn't Granny know a bit?" "Not a word." "Mrs. McFinnegan," said Joe through the chink of the door, "I have to announce that the highly esteemed and venerable Mr. Santa Claus, a great traveller and a remarkably generous man, has made a call upon you during the night. As he feared to disturb your slumbers, he left a ball of cord, a paper of pins, and a good warm night-cap." Florence was laughing so that she could hardly use buttons or hooks. Dot gave a neglected whine from the cradle. "Is Granny ready?" Hal asked as she came out. "She's just putting on her cap." Hal went in for a Christmas kiss. Granny held him to her heart in a fond embrace, and wished the best of every thing over him. "Merry Christmas to you all!" she said as Hal escorted her out to the middle of the room. Joe went over on his head, and then perched himself on the back of a chair. The rest all looked at Granny. "Is this really for me?" she asked in surprise, though the great placard stared her in the face. The children set up a shout. Kit and Charlie paused, open-mouthed, in the act of demolishing something. "Why, I never"-- "Tumble it out," said Joe. "This great shoe full"-- Florence handed the first package to Granny. She opened it in amaze, as if she really could not decide whether it belonged to her or not. There was a paper pinned on it, "A Merry Christmas from Mrs. Kinsey." A nice dark calico dress-pattern, at which Granny was so overcome that she dropped into the nearest chair. Next a pair of gloves from Joe; a pretty, warm hood from Mrs. Howard, the clergyman's wife; a bowl of elegant cranberry sauce from another neighbor; a crocheted collar from Florence, and then with a big tug-- "Oh!" exclaimed Granny, "is it a comfortable, or what?" A good thick plaid shawl. Just bright enough to be handsome and not too gay, and as soft as the back of a lamb. "Where did it come from?" Granny's voice trembled in her excitement. "From all of us," said Florence. "I mean, Joe and Hal and me. We've been saving our money this ever so long, and Mrs. Kinsey bought it for us. O Granny!"-- But Granny had her arms around them, and was crying over heads golden and brown and black; and Hal, little chicken-heart, was sobbing and smiling together. Joe picked a big tear or two out of his eye, and began with some nonsense. "And to keep it a secret all this time! and to make this great shoe! There never was such a Christmas before. Oh, children, I'm happier than a queen!" "What makes you cry then, Granny?" asked Charlie. "But oh! wasn't it funny? And if it only had runners it would make a sleigh. Look at the red toe." They kissed dozens of times, and inspected each other's gifts. Florence had made each of the boys two dainty little neckties, having begged the silk from Miss Brown. Charlie and Kit had a pair of new mittens, Joe and Hal a new shirt with a real plaited bosom, and a host of small articles devised by love, with a scarce purse. But I doubt if there was a happier household in richer homes. It was a long while before they had tried every thing, [Illustration] tasted of all their "goodies," and expressed sufficient delight and surprise. Dot was taken up and dressed, and Kit found that she fitted into the shoe exact. Her tiny stocking was not empty. They all laughed and talked; and it was nine o'clock before their simple breakfast was ready. Joe had to take a turn out to see some of the boys; Florence made the beds, and put the room in order; and Hal kept a roaring fire to warm it up, so that they might have a parlor. Kit and Charlie were deeply interested in the shoe; and Granny had to break out every now and then in surprise and thankfulness. "A shawl and hood and gloves and a dress! Why, I never had so many things at once, I believe; and how hard you must all have worked! I don't see how you could save so much money!" "It's better than living with Mrs. Van Wyck," returned Florence with pardonable pride. "Embroidering is real pretty work, and it pays well. Mrs. Howard has asked me to do some for a friend of hers." "You're a wonder, Florence, to be sure. I can't see how you do 'em all so nice. But my fingers are old and clumsy." "They know how to make pies and doughnuts," said Kit, as if that was the main thing, after all. They went to work at the dinner. It was to be a grand feast. Joe kept the fire brisk; while Hal waited upon Granny, and remembered the ingredients that went to make "tip-top" dressing. "It is a pity you were not a Frenchman," said Florence. "You would make such a handy cook." Hal laughed, his cheeks as red as roses. "I couldn't keep house without him," appended Granny. There was a savory smell of roasting goose, the flavor of thyme and onions, which the children loved dearly. Charlie and Kit went out to have a good run, and came back hungry as bears, they declared. Joe went off to see some of the boys, and compare gifts. Though more than one new sled or nice warm overcoat gave his heart a little twinge, he was too gay and happy to feel sad very long; and, when he had a royal ride down hill on the bright sleds that flashed along like reindeers, he returned very well content. Florence sighed a little as she arranged the table. Three kinds of dishes, and some of them showing their age considerably. If they were all white it wouldn't be so bad. She did so love beauty! But when the goose, browned in the most delicious manner, graced the middle dish, the golden squash and snowy mound of potatoes, and the deep wine color of the cranberries lent their contrast, it was quite a picture, after all. And when the host of eager faces had clustered round it, one would hardly have noticed any lack. They were all in the gayest possible mood. Hal did the carving. The goose was young and tender, and he disappeared with marvellous celerity. Wings, drumsticks, great juicy slices with crisp skin, dressing in abundance; and how they did eat! For a second helping they had to demolish the rack; and Charlie wasn't sure but picking bones was the most fun of all. "Hal, you had better go into the poultry business," said Joe, stopping in the midst of a spoonful of cranberry. "I've been thinking of it," was the reply. "I should think he was in it," said Charlie slyly. Joe laughed. "Good for you, Charlie. They must feed you on knives at your house, you're so sharp. But I have heard of people being too smart to live long, so take warning." Charlie gave her head a toss. "Why wouldn't it be good?" pursued Joe. "People do make money by it; and I suppose, before very long, we must begin to think about money." "Don't to-day" said Granny. "No, we will not worry ourselves," rejoined Hal. One after another drew long breaths, as if their appetites were diminishing. Dot sat back in her high chair, her hands and face showing signs of the vigorous contest, but wonderfully content. "Now the pie!" exclaimed Joe. Florence gathered up the bones and the plates, giving Tabby, who sat in the corner washing her face, a nice feast. Then came on the Christmas pie, which was pronounced as great a success as the goose. "Oh, dear!" sighed Joe. "One unfortunate thing about eating is, that it takes away your appetite." "It is high time!" added Florence. They wouldn't allow Granny to wash a dish, but made her sit in state while they brought about order and cleanliness once more. A laughable time they had; for Joe wiped some dishes, and Charlie scoured one knife. Afterward they had a game at blind-man's-buff. Such scampering and such screams would have half frightened any passer-by. They coaxed Granny to get up and join; and at last, to please Hal, she consented. If Joe fancied he could catch her easily, he was much mistaken. She had played blind-man's-buff too many times in her young days. Such turning and doubling and slipping away was fine to see; and Charlie laughed so, that Joe, much chagrined, took her prisoner instead. "Granny, you beat every thing!" he said. "Now, Charlie." Charlie made a dive at the cupboard, and then started for the window, spinning round in such a fashion that they all had to run; but even she was not fleet enough. After that, Kit and Florence essayed; and Joe, manoeuvring in their behalf, fell into the trap himself, at which they all set up a shout. "I'm bound to have Granny this time," he declared. Sure enough, though he confessed afterwards that he peeped a little; but Granny was tired with so much running: and, as the short afternoon drew to a close, they gathered round the fire, and cracked nuts, washing them down with apples, as they had no cider. "It's been a splendid Christmas!" said Charlie, with such a yawn that she nearly made the top of her head an island. "I wonder if we'll all be here next year?" said Joe, rather more solemnly than his wont. "I hope so," responded Granny, glancing over the clustering faces. Dot sat on Hal's knee, looking bright as a new penny. She, too, had enjoyed herself amazingly. But presently the spirit of fun seemed to die out, and they began to sing some hymns and carols. The tears came into Granny's eyes, as the sweet, untrained voices blended so musically. Ah, if they could always stay children! Foolish wish; and yet Granny would have toiled for them to her latest breath. "Here's long life and happiness!" exclaimed Joe, with a flourish of the old cocoanut dipper. "A merry Christmas next year, and may we all be there to see!" Ah, Joe, it will be many a Christmas before you are all there again. CHAPTER V. GOOD LUCK FOR JOE. "Hooray!" said Joe, swinging the molasses jug over his head as if it had been a feather, or the stars and stripes on Fourth of July morning. "O Joe!" "Flossy, my darling, you are a poet sure; only poetry, like an alligator, must have feet, or it will lose its reputation. Here's your 'lasses, Granny; and what do you think? Something has actually happened to me! Oh, my! do guess quick!" "You've been taken with the 'lirium"--and there Charlie paused, having been wrecked on a big word. "Delirium tremen_jous_. Remember to say it right hereafter, Charlie." Charlie looked very uncertain. "Maybe it's the small-pox," said Kit, glancing up in amazement. "Good for you!" and Joe applauded with two rather blue thumb-nails. "But it's a fact. Guess, Granny. I'm on the high road to fortune. Hooray!" With that, Joe executed his usual double-shuffle, and a revolution on his axis hardly laid down in the planetary system. He would have said that it was because he was not a heavenly body. "O Joe, if you were like any other boy!" "Jim Fisher, for instance,--red-headed, squint-eyed, and freckled." "He can't help it," said Hal mildly. "He is real nice too." "You're not going"--began Granny with a gasp. "Yes, I'm going"--was the solemn rejoinder. "Not to sea!" and there came a quick blur in Hal's eyes. "Oh, bother, no! You're all splendid at guessing, and ought to have a prize leather medal. It's in Mr. Terry's store; and I shall have a dollar and a half a week! Good by, Mr. Fielder. Adieu, beloved grammar; and farewell, most fragrant extract of cube-root, as well as birch-oil. O Granny! I'm happy as a big sunflower. On the high road to fame and fortune,--think of it!" "Is it really true?" asked Florence. "Then, I won't need to go for any thing," appended Charlie. "No; but you'll have to draw water, and split kindlings, and hunt up Mrs. Green's cows." "In Mr. Terry's store! What wonderful luck, Joe!" Granny's delight was overwhelming. All along she had experienced a sad misgiving, lest Joe should take a fancy to the sea in real earnest. "Yes. It's just splendid. Steve Anthony's going to the city to learn a trade. He had a letter from his uncle to-day, saying that he might start right away. I thought a minute: then said I, 'Steve, who's coming here?' 'I don't know,' said he. 'Mr. Terry'll have to look round.' 'I'm your boy,' said I, 'and no mistake.' And with that I rushed in to Mr. Terry, and asked him. He gave me some columns of figures to add up, and questioned me a little, and finally told me that I might come on Monday, and we'd try for a week." "There's Joe's fortune," said Hal, "and a good one too. You will not need to go to sea." There was an odd and knowing twinkle in Joe's merry hazel eye, which showed to an observing person that he was not quite sound on the question. "Tate Dotty;" and two little hands were outstretched. "O Dot! you're a fraud, and more trouble to me than all my money." With that, Joe sat her up on his shoulder, and she laughed gleefully. Granny lighted a candle, and began to prepare for supper. While Charlie set the table, Granny brought out the griddle, and commenced frying some Indian cakes in a most tempting manner. Joe dropped on an old stool, and delighted Dot with a vigorous ride to Banbury Cross. Kit stood beside him, inhaling the fragrance of the cakes, and wondering at the dexterity with which Granny turned them on a slender knife. "I don't see how you do it. Suppose you should let 'em fall?" "Ho!" said Charlie, with a sniff of disdain. "Women always know how." "But they can't come up to the miners," suggested Joe. "They keep house for themselves; and their flapjacks are turned,--as big as Granny's griddle here." "One cake?" "Yes. That's where the art comes in." "They must take a shovel," said Charlie. "No, nor a knife, nor any thing." With that Joe shook his head mysteriously. "With their fingers," announced Kit triumphantly. "My mother used to bake them in a frying-pan," said Granny. "Then she'd twirl it round and round, and suddenly throw the cake over." "There!" Kit gave a nod as much as to say, "Beat that if you can." "That isn't a circumstance," was Joe's solemn comment. "But how then?" asked Charlie, who was wound up to a pitch of curiosity. "Why, _they_ bake them in a pan too, and twirl it round and round, and then throw it up and run out of doors. The cake goes up chimney, and comes down on the raw side, all right, you see, and drops into the pan before you can count six black beans." "Oh, I don't believe it!" declared Charlie. "Do you, Granny?" "They'd have to be pretty quick," was the response. "You see, a woman never could do it, Charlie," Joe continued in a tormenting manner. "But, Charlie, a miner's cabin is not very high; and the chimney is just a great hole in the roof," explained Hal. "'Tory, 'tory," said Dot, who was not interested in the culinary art. "O Dotty! you'll have a piece worn off the end of my tongue, some day. It's high time you were storing your mind with useful facts; so, if you please, we will have a little English history." "What nonsense, Joe! As if she could understand;" and Florence looked up from her pretty worsted crocheting. "To be sure she can. Dot comes of a smart family. Now, Midget;" and with that he perched her up on his knee. Charlie and Kit began to listen. "'When good King Arthur ruled the land, He was a goodly king: He stole three pecks of barley-meal To make a bag pudding.'" "I don't believe it," burst out Charlie. "I was reading about King Arthur"-- "And he was a splendid cook. Hear his experience,-- 'A bag pudding the king did make, And stuffed it well with plums; And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs.'" Dot thought the laugh came in here, and threw back her head, showing her little white teeth. "It really wasn't King Arthur," persisted Charlie. "It is a fact handed down to posterity. No wonder England became great under so wise and economical a rule; for listen-- 'The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried,'-- as we do sometimes. Isn't it wonderful?" "Hunnerful," ejaculated Dot, wide-eyed. "I hope you'll take a lesson, and"-- "Come to supper," said Granny. Irrepressible Charlie giggled at the ending. They did not need a second invitation, but clustered around eagerly. "I'm afraid there won't be any left to fry up in the morning," said Joe solemnly. After the youngsters were off to bed that evening, Joe began to talk about his good fortune again. "And a dollar and a half a week, regularly, is a good deal," he said. "Why, I can get a spick and span new suit of clothes for twelve dollars,--two months, that would be; and made at a tailor's too." "The two months?" asked Florence. "Oh! you know what I mean." "You will get into worse habits than ever," she said with a wise elder-sister air. "I don't ever expect to be a grand gentleman." "But you _might_ be a little careful." "Flo acts as if she thought we were to have a great fortune left us by and by, and wouldn't be polished enough to live in state." "The only fortune we shall ever have will come from five-finger land," laughed Hal good-naturedly. "And I'm going to make a beginning. I do think it was a streak of luck. I am old enough to do something for myself." "I wish I could find such a chance," said Hal, with a soft sigh. "Your turn will come presently," Granny answered, smiling tenderly. Joe went on with his air-castles. The sum of money looked so large in his eyes. He bought out half of Mr. Terry's store, and they were to live like princes,--all on a dollar and a half a week. Granny smiled, and felt proud enough of him. If he would only keep to business, and not go off to sea. So on Friday Joe piled up his books, and turned a somerset over them, and took a farewell race with the boys. They were all sorry enough to lose him. Mr. Fielder wished him good luck. "You will find that work is not play," he said by way of caution. Early Monday morning Joe presented himself bright as a new button. He had insisted upon wearing his best suit,--didn't he mean to have another soon? for the school clothes were all patches. He had given his hair a Sunday combing, which meant that he used a comb instead of his fingers. Mr. Terry was much pleased with his promptness. A regular country store, with groceries on one side and dry goods on the other, a little sashed cubby for a post-office, and a corner for garden and farm implements. There was no liquor kept on the premises; for the mild ginger and root beer sold in summer could hardly be placed in that category. Joe was pretty quick, and by noon had mastered many of the intricacies. Old Mr. Terry was in the store part of the time,--"father" as everybody called him. He was growing rather childish and careless, so his son instructed Joe to keep a little watch over him. Then he showed him how to harness the horse, and drove off with some bulky groceries that he was to take home. "All things work together for good, sonny," said Father Terry with a sleepy nod, as he sat down by the stove. "What things?" "All things," with a sagacious shake of the head. This was Father Terry's favorite quotation, and he used it in season and out of season. The door opened, and Mrs. Van Wyck entered. She gave Joe a sharp look. "So _you're_ here?" with a kind of indignant sniff. "Yes. What will you have?" There was a twinkle in Joe's eye, and an odd little pucker to his lips, as if he were remembering something. "You needn't be so impudent." "I?" and Joe flushed in surprise. "Yes. You're a saucy lot, the whole of you." With that Mrs. Van Wyck began to saunter round. "What's the price of these cranberries?" "Eighteen cents," in his most respectful tone. "They're dear, dreadful dear. Over to Windsor you can get as many as you can carry for a shillin' a quart." Joe was silent. "Say sixteen." "I couldn't," replied Joe. "If Mr. Terry were here"-- "There's Father Terry." She raised her voice a little. "Father Terry, come and look at these cranberries. They're a poor lot, and you'll do well to get a shillin' a quart." Joe ran his fingers through them. Plump and crimson, very nice he thought for so late in the season. "I don't s'pose I'd get more'n two good quarts out of three. They'll spile on your hands. Come now, be reasonable." Father Terry looked undecided. Joe watched him, thinking in his heart that he ought not fall a penny. "Say a shillin'." The old man shook his head. "Well, fifteen cents. I want three quarts, and I won't give a penny more." The old gentleman studied Joe's face, which was full of perplexity. "Well," he said with some reluctance. Joe measured them. Mrs. Van Wyck gave each quart a "settle" by shaking it pretty hard, and Joe had to put in another large handful. "Now I want some cheese." The pound weighed two ounces over. "You can throw that in. Mr. Terry always does." "How much?" "Twenty-three cents." "No: you can't fool me, youngster. I never pay more than twenty cents." "I'm sure Mr. Terry told me that it was twenty-three." Father was appealed to again, and of course went over to the domineering enemy. Then two pounds of butter passed through the same process of cheapening. Joe began to lose his temper. Afterward a broom, some tape and cotton, and finally a calico dress. "Now, here's three dozen eggs for part pay. They're twenty-four cents a dozen." "Why, that's what we sell them for," said astonished Joe, mentally calculating profit and loss. "Oh! they've gone up. Hetty Collins was paid twenty-five over to Windsor. I'd gone there myself if I'd had a little more time." "I wish you had," ejaculated Joe inwardly. She haggled until she got her price, and the settlement was made. "She's a regular old screwer," said Joe rather crossly. "I don't believe it was right to let her have those things in that fashion." "All things work together for good." "For _her_ good, it seems." Father Terry went back to his post by the stove. Joe breathed a little thanksgiving that Flossy was not Mrs. Van Wyck's maid-of-all-work. Joe's next customer was Dave Downs, as the boys called him. He shuffled up to the counter. "Got any _reel_ good cheese?" "Yes," said Joe briskly. "Let's see." Joe raised the cover. Dave took up the knife, and helped himself to a bountiful slice. "Got any crackers?" "Yes," wondering what Dave meant. "Nice and fresh?" "I guess so." "I'll take three or four." "That will be a penny's worth." When Dave had the crackers in his hand he said, raising his shaggy brows in a careless manner,-- "Oh! you needn't be so perticelar." Then he took a seat beside Father Terry, and munched crackers and cheese. "Cool enough," thought Joe. Old Mrs. Skittles came next. She was very deaf, and talked in a high, shrill key, as if she thought all the world in the same affliction. She looked at every thing, priced it, beat down a cent or two, and then concluded she'd rather wait until Mr. Terry came in. At last she purchased a penny's worth of snuff, and begged Joe to give her good measure. After that two customers and the mail. Father Terry bestirred himself, and waited upon a little girl with a jug. Joe was rather glad to see Mr. Terry enter, for he had an uncomfortable sense of responsibility. "Trade been pretty good, Joe?" with a smile. "I've put it all down on the slate, as you told me." "Hillo! What's this!" A slow stream of something dark was running over the floor back of the lower counter. "Oh, molasses!" and with a spring Joe shut off the current, but there was an ominous pool. "I did not get that: it was"--and Joe turned crimson. "Father. We never let him go for molasses, vinegar, oil, or burning fluid. He is sure to deluge us. Run round in the kitchen, and get a pail and a mop." "It's my opinion that this doesn't work together for good," said Joe to himself as he was cleaning up the mess. "So you had Mrs. Skittles?" exclaimed Mr. Terry with a laugh. "And Mrs. Van Wyck. Why, Joe!" "She beat down awfully!" said Joe; "and she wanted every thing thrown in. Mr. Terry"-- "She called on father, I'll be bound. But she has taken off all the profits; and then to make you pay twenty-four cents for the eggs." "I'd just like to have had my own way. If you'll give me leave"-- "You will have to look out a little for father. He's getting old, you know; and these sharp customers are rather too much for him." "I'll never fall a penny again;" and Joe shook his head defiantly. "You will learn by degrees. But it is never necessary to indulge such people. There's the dinner-bell." Dave Downs had finished his crackers and cheese, and now settled himself to a comfortable nap. Joe busied himself by clearing up a little, giving out mail, and once weighing some flour. Then he discovered that he had scattered it over his trousers, and that with the molasses dabs it made a not very delightful mixture. So he took a seat on a barrel-head and began to scrub it off; but he found it something like Aunt Jemima's plaster. "Run in and get some dinner, Joe," said Mr. Terry after his return to the store. "But I was going home," replied Joe bashfully. "Oh! never mind. We will throw in the dinner." So Joe ran around, but hesitated at the door of Mrs. Terry's clean kitchen. She was motherly and cordial, however, and gave him a bright smile. "I told Mr. Terry that you might as well come in here for your dinner. It is quite a long run home." "You are very kind," stammered Joe, feeling that he must say something, in spite of his usual readiness of speech deserting him. "You ought to have an apron, Joe, or a pair of overalls," she said kindly. "You will find grocery business rather dirty work sometimes." "And my best clothes!" thought Joe with a sigh. But the coffee was so delightful, and the cold roast beef tender as a chicken. And Joe began to think it was possible for a few things to work together for good, if they were only the right kind of things. Altogether he went home at night in very good spirits. "But my trousers will have to go in the wash-tub, Granny," he exclaimed. "I believe I wasn't cut out for a gentleman, after all." "O Joe, what a sight! How could you?" "It was all easy enough. If you'd had molasses to scrub up, and flour to get before it was dry, you would have found the sticking process not at all difficult. And oh! Mrs. Van Wyck came in." Florence flushed a little at this. "Yes, wait till I show you." With that, Joe sprang up, and wrapped Granny's old shawl about him, and began in his most comical fashion. In a moment or two the children were in roars of laughter. "I don't know as it is quite right, Joe dear," interposed Granny mildly, "to make fun of any one." "My conscience don't trouble me a bit;" for now he was in a high glee. "I owe her a grudge for making me pay twenty-four cents for eggs. And, Granny, when you come to the store, don't beat me down a penny on any thing; nor ask me to throw in a spool of cotton nor a piece of tape, nor squeeze down the measure. I wonder how people can be so mean!" "Rich people too," added Florence in an injured tone of voice, still thinking of Mrs. Van Wyck's overture. "There's lots of funny folks in the world," said Joe with a grave air. "But I like Mr. Terry, and I mean to do my very best." "That's right;" and Granny smiled tenderly over the boy's resolve. "And I'll put on my old clothes to-morrow. Who knows but I may fall into the mackerel-barrel before to-morrow night?" Kit laughed at this. "They'll have to fish you out with a harpoon, then." "Oh! I might swim ashore." The next day Joe improved rapidly. To be sure, he met with a mishap or two; but Mr. Terry excused him, and only charged him to be more careful in future. And Father Terry administered his unfailing consolation on every occasion. But on Saturday night Joe came home in triumph. "There's the beginning of my fortune," he said, displaying his dollar and a half all in hard cash. For that was a long while ago, when the eagle, emblem of freedom, used to perch on silver half-dollars. CHAPTER VI. FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES. "I think I'll go into business," said Hal one evening, as he and Granny and Florence sat together. They missed Joe so much! He seldom came home until eight o'clock; and there was no one to stir up the children, and keep the house in a racket. "What?" asked Granny. "I am trying to decide. I wonder how chickens would do?" "It takes a good deal to feed 'em," said Granny. "But they could run about, you know. And buckwheat is such a splendid thing for them. Then we can raise ever so much corn." "But where would you get your buckwheat?" asked Florence. "I was thinking. Mr. Peters never does any thing with his lot down here, and the old apple-trees in it are not worth much. If he'd let me have it ploughed up! And then we'd plant all of our ground in corn, except the little garden that we want." "What a master hand you are to plan, Hal!" Granny's face was one immense beam of admiration. "I want to do something. It's too hard, Granny, that you should have to go out washing, and all that." Hal's soft brown eyes were full of tender pity. "Oh! I don't mind. I'm good for a many day's work yet, Hal." "I hope some of us will get rich at last." Florence sighed softly. "I thought you were going to have a green-house," she said. "I'm afraid I can't manage the green-house now, though I mean to try some day. And I noticed old Speckly clucking this morning." "But we haven't any eggs," said Granny. "I could get some." "How many chickens would you raise?" asked Florence. "Well, if we should set the five hens,--out of say sixty-four eggs we ought to raise fifty chickens; oughtn't we, Granny?" "With good luck; but so many things happen to 'em." "And if I could clear thirty dollars. Then there's quite a good deal of work to do in the summer." "I shall soon be a fine lady, and ride in my carriage," Granny commented with a cheerful chirrup of a laugh. "Mrs. Kinsey's chickens are splendid," said Florence. "Yes. Shall I get some eggs, and set Speckly?" "It's rather airly to begin." "But I'll make a nice coop. And eggs are not twenty-four cents a dozen." Hal finished off with a quiet smile at the thought of Mrs. Van Wyck. So he went to Mrs. Kinsey's the next morning, and asked her for a dozen of eggs, promising to come over the first Saturday there was any thing to do, and work it out. "I'll give you the eggs," she said; "but we will be glad to have you some Saturday, all the same." So old Speckly was allowed to indulge her motherly inclinations to her great satisfaction. Hal watched her with the utmost solicitude. In the course of time a tiny bill pecked against white prison walls; and one morning Hal found the cunningest ball of soft, yellow down, trying to balance itself on two slender legs, but finding that the point of gravity as often centred in its head. But the little fellow winked oddly, as much as to say, "I know what I'm about. I'll soon find whether it is the fashion to stand on your head or your feet in this queer world." One by one the rest came out. Hal had a nice coop prepared, and set Mrs. Speckly up at housekeeping. Dot caught one little "birdie," as she called it, and, in running to show Granny, fell down. And although Dot wasn't very heavy, it was an avalanche on poor "birdie." He gave two or three slow kicks with his yellow legs, and then was stiff for all time. "Hal's boofer birdie," said Dot. "See, Danny!" "O Dot! what have you done?" "Him 'oont 'alk;" and Dot stood him down on the doorstep, only to see him tumble over. "Oh, you've killed Hal's birdie! What will he say?" "I 'ell down. Why 'oont him run, Danny?" What could Granny do? Scolding Dot was out of the question. And just then Hal came flying up the road. Granny had seen the fall, and explained the matter. "But she mustn't catch them! You're a naughty little Dot!" Dot began to cry. "Poor little girl!" said Hal, taking her in his arms. "It is wrong to catch them. See, now, the little fellow is dead, and can never run about any more. Isn't Dot sorry? She won't ever touch Hal's birdies again, will she?" So Dot promised, and Hal kissed her. But she carried the dead birdie about, petting it with softest touches, and insisting upon taking it to bed with her. One more of the brood met with a mishap, but the other ten throve and grew rapidly. By the time the next hen wanted to set, Hal had a dozen eggs saved. He asked Farmer Peters about the lot. It was just below their house, between that and the creek, a strip of an acre and a half perhaps. The old trees were not worth much, to be sure; and Mr. Peters never troubled himself to cultivate the plot, as it was accounted very poor. "Yes, you may have it in welcome; but you won't git enough off of it to pay for the ploughin'?" "I'm going to raise chickens; and I thought it would be nice to sow buckwheat, and let them run in it." "Turnin' farmer, hey? 'Pears to me you're makin' an airly beginnin'." Hal smiled pleasantly. "You'll find chickens an awful sight o' bother." "I thought I'd try them." "Goin' to garden any?" "A little." "Hens and gardens are about like fox an' geese. One's death on the other. But you kin have the lot." So Hal asked Abel Kinsey to come over and plough. In return he helped plant potatoes and drop corn for two Saturdays. By this time there was a third hen setting. House-cleaning had come on, and Granny was pretty busy. But she and Hal were up early in the morning garden-making. The plot belonging to the cottage was about two acres. Hal removed his chicken-coops to the lot, and covered his young vegetables with brush to protect them from incursions,--pease, beans, lettuce, beets, and sweet-corn; and the rest was given over to the chickens. "I am going to keep an account of all that is spent for them," he said; "and we will see if we can make it pay." When Joe had saved three dollars, he teased Granny to let him order his clothes. "I don't like running in debt, Joe," she said with a grave shake of the head. "But this is very sure. Mr. Terry likes me, and I shall go on staying. There will be four dollars and a half to pay down by the time they are done, and in five weeks I can earn the rest." "How nice it seems!" said Hal. "You and Flo earn a deal of money." Flo gave a small sniff. She wanted some new clothes also. And Kit and Charlie were going to shreds and patches. Charlie, indeed, was shooting up like Jack's bean-stalk, Joe declared, being nearly as tall as Hal. She was wild as a colt, climbed trees, jumped fences, and wouldn't be dared by any of the boys. "I'm sure I don't know what you'll come to," Granny would say with a sigh. Joe carried his point, and ordered his clothes; for he insisted that he could not think of going to Sunday school until he had them. It was quite an era in his life to have real store clothes. He felt very grand one day when he went to Mr. Briggs the tailor, and selected the cloth. There were several different patterns and colors; but he had made up his mind that it should be gray, just like Archie Palmer's. He was so dreadfully afraid of being disappointed, that he dropped in on Friday to see if they were progressing. There was the jacket in the highest state of perfection. "But the pants?" he questioned. "Never you mind. Them pants'll be done as sure as my name's Peter Briggs." "All right," said Joe; and he ran on his way whistling. "Kit," he announced that evening, "I've just found out a good business for you." "What?" and Kit roused himself. "You shall be a tailor. I was thinking to-day how you would look on the board, with your scalp-lock nodding to every stitch." "I won't," said Kit stoutly; and he gave a kick towards Joe's leg. "It's a good business. You will always have plenty of cabbage." "You better stop!" declared Kit. "It will be handy to have him in the house, Granny. He can do the ironing by odd spells. And on the subject of mending old clothes he will be lovely." With that Kit made another dive. Granny gave a sudden spring, and rescued the earthen jar that held the cakes she had just mixed and set upon the stove-hearth. "O Kit! Those precious pancakes! We are not anxious to have them flavored with extract of old shoes." "Nor to go wandering over the floor." Kit looked sober and but half-awake. "Never mind," said Granny cheerily. "You mustn't tease him so much, Joe." "Why, I was only setting before him the peculiar advantages of this romantic and delightful employment;" and with that, Joe executed a superior double-shuffle quickstep, accompanied by slapping a tune on his knee. "You'd do for a minstrel," said Kit. Joe cleared his voice with a flourish, and sang out,-- "I'd be a tailor, Jolly and free, With plenty of cabbage, And a goose on my knee. Monday would be blue, Tuesday would be shady, Wednesday I'd set out To find a pretty lady." "Much work you would do in that case," commented Florence. "It's time to go to bed, children," said Granny. "Yes," Joe went on gravely. "For a rising young man, who must take time by the fore-lock, or scalp-lock, and who longs to distinguish himself by some great and wonderful discovery, there's nothing like,-- 'Early to bed, and early to rise, To make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'" With that Joe was up stairs with a bound. "Joe!" Charlie called in great earnest. "Well?" "You better take a mouthful of Granny's rising before you go." "Good for you, Charlie; but smart children always die young. Granny, won't you put a stone on Charlie's head for fear?" Hal said his good-night in a tenderer manner. They were all wonderfully interested in Joe's clothes; and, though it was always later on Saturday night when he reached home, they begged to sit up, but Kit took a nap by the chimney-corner with Tabby. Granny sat nodding when they heard the gay whistle without. "Hurrah! The country's safe!" exclaimed Joe. "Get out your spectacles, all hands." "You act as if you never had any thing before, Joe," said Florence, with an air of extreme dignity. "But these are real 'boughten' clothes," said Joe, "and gilt buttons down the jacket. I shall feel like a soldier-boy. Just look now." The bundle came open with a flourish of the jack-knife. All the heads crowded round, though the one candle gave a rather dim light. Such exclamations as sounded through the little room, from every voice, and in almost every key. "But where are the trousers?" asked Hal. "The trousers?--why"-- Granny held up the beautiful jacket. There was nothing else in the paper. "Why--he's made a mistake. He never put them in, I am sure." "You couldn't have lost 'em?" asked Granny mildly. "Lost them--and the bundle tied with this strong twine! Now, that's mean! I'll have to run right back." Off went Joe like a flash. He hardly drew a breath until his hand was on Mr. Brigg's door-knob. "Well, what now, Joe?" asked the astonished Mr. Briggs. "You didn't put in the trousers!" "Didn't? Dan done 'em up. Dan!" Dan emerged from a pile of rags under the counter, where he was taking a snooze. "You didn't put in Joe's trousers." "Yes I did." "No you didn't," said Joe, with more promptness than politeness. Dan began to search. A sleepy-looking, red-headed boy, to whom Saturday night was an abomination, because his father was always in the drag, and cross. "I'm sure I put 'em in. Every thing's gone, and they ain't here." "Look sharp, you young rascal!" "He has lost 'em out." "Lost your grandmother!" said Joe contemptuously; "or the liberty pole out on the square! Why, the bundle was not untied until after I was in the house." "Dan, if you don't find them trousers, I'll larrup you!" Poor Dan. Fairly wide awake now, he went tumbling over every thing piled on the counter, searched the shelves, and every available nook. "Somebody's stole 'em." Dan made this announcement with a very blank face. "I know better!" said his father. "You are sure you made them, Mr. Briggs," asked Joe. "Sure!" in a tone that almost annihilated both boys. "If you don't find 'em!" shaking his fist at Dan. Dan began to blubber. Joe couldn't help laughing. "Let me help you look," he said. Down went a box of odd buttons, scattering far and wide. "You Dan!" shouted his father, with some buttons in his mouth, that rendered his voice rather thick. "Just wait till I get at you. I have only six buttons to sew on." "They're not here, Mr. Briggs," exclaimed Joe. "Well, I declare! If that ain't the strangest thing! Dan, you've taken them trousers to the wrong place!" A new and overwhelming light burst in upon Dan's benighted brain. "That's it," said Joe. "Now, where have you taken them?" "I swow!" ejaculated the youth, rubbing his eyes. "None o' your swearin' in this place!" interrupted his father sternly. "I'm a strictly moral man, and don't allow such talk in my family." "Tain't swearin'," mumbled Dan. Mr. Briggs jumped briskly down from the board, with a pair of pantaloons in one hand, and a needle and thread in the other. Dan dodged round behind Joe. "You took 'em over to Squire Powell's, I'll be bound!" Another light was thrown in upon Dan's mental vision. "There! I'll bet I did." "Of course you did, you numskull! Start this minute and see how quick you can be gone." "I will go with him," said Joe. So the two boys started; and a run of ten minutes--a rather reluctant performance on Dan's part, it must be confessed--brought them to Squire Powell's. There was no light in the kitchen; but Joe beat a double tattoo on the door in the most scientific manner. "Who's there?" asked a voice from the second story window. "Dan Briggs!" shouted Joe. "Guess not," said the squire. The sound was so unlike Dan's sleepy, mumbling tone. "There was a mistake made in some clothes," began Joe, nothing daunted. "Oh, that's it! I will be down in a minute." Pretty soon the kitchen-door was unlocked, and the boys stepped inside. "I didn't know but you sent these over for one of my girls," said the squire laughingly. "They were a _leetle_ too small for me. So they belong to you, Joe?" "Yes, sir," said Joe emphatically, laying hold of his precious trousers. "Look sharper next time, Dan," was the squire's good advice. "I wish you'd go home with me, Joe," said Dan, after they had taken a few steps. "Father'll larrup me, sure!" "Maybe that will brighten your wits," was Joe's consoling answer. "But, Joe--I'm sure I didn't mean to--and"-- "I'm off like a shot," appended Joe, suiting the action to the word; and poor Dan was left alone in the middle of the road. "Why, what _has_ happened, Joe?" said Granny as he bounced in the kitchen-door. "Such a time as I've had to find 'them trousers,' as Mr. Briggs calls them! Dan had packed them off to Squire Powell's!" "That Dan Briggs is too stupid for any thing," commented Florence. "There's time to try them on yet," Joe exclaimed. "Just you wait a bit." Joe made a rush into the other room. "Don't wake up Dot," said Hal. "Oh! I'll go as softly as a blind mouse." "There, Granny, what do you think of that?" "You want a collar and a necktie, and your hair brushed a little," said Florence with critical eyes. "But aren't they stunners!" Granny looked at him, turned him round and looked again, and her wrinkled face was all one bright smile. For he was so tall and manly in this long jacket, with its narrow standing collar, and the trousers that fitted to a charm. "Oh," said Hal with a long breath, "it's splendid!" "You bet! When I get 'em paid for, Hal, I'll help you out." Florence sighed. "O Flo! I can't help being slangy. It comes natural to boys. And then hearing them all talk in the store." "Wa-a!" said a small voice. "Wa-a-a Danny!" "There!" exclaimed Hal; and he ran in to comfort Dot. But Dot insisted upon being taken up, and brought out to candle-light. The buttons on Joe's jacket pleased her fancy at once, and soothed her sorrow. "I must say, Dot, you are a young woman of some taste," laughed Joe. "Granny," said Kit, after sitting in deep thought, and taking a good chew out of his thumb, "when Joe wears 'em out, can you cut 'em over for me?" "O Kit! Prudent and economical youth! To you shall be willed the last remaining shreds of my darling gray trousers, jacket, buttons and all." They had a grand time admiring Joe. Charlie felt so sorry that she wasn't a boy; and Flo declared that "he looked as nice as anybody, if only he wouldn't"-- "No, I won't," said Joe solemnly. Granny felt proud enough of him the next day when he went to church. Florence was quite satisfied to walk beside him. "I wish there was something nice for you, Hal," said Granny in a tone of tender regret. "My turn will come by and by," was the cheerful answer. For Hal took the odds and ends of every thing, and was content. "They're a nice lot of children, if I do say it myself," was Granny's comment to Dot. "And I'm glad I never let any of them go to the poor-house or be bound out, or any thing. We'll all get along somehow." Dot shook her head sagely, as if that was her opinion also. The story of Joe's Saturday night adventure leaked out; and poor Dan Briggs was tormented a good deal, the boys giving him the nickname of Trousers, much to his discomfort. Joe discovered, like a good many other people, that whereas getting in debt was very easy, getting out of debt was very hard. He went along bravely for several weeks, and then he began to find so many wants. A new straw hat he _must_ have, for the weather was coming warm, and they had such beauties at the store for a dollar; and then his boots grew too rusty, so a pair of shoes were substituted. He bought Dot a pretty Shaker, which she insisted upon calling her "Sunny cool Shaker." She was growing very cunning indeed, though her tongue was exceedingly crooked. Hal laughed over her droll baby words; and Kit's endeavor to make her say tea-kettle was always crowned with shouts of laughter. Joe succeeded pretty well at the store, but occasionally all things did not work together for good. His margin of fun was so wide that it sometimes brought him into trouble. One day he inadvertently sold old Mrs. Cummings some ground pepper, instead of allspice. That afternoon the old lady flew back in a rage. "I'll never buy a cent's wuth of this good-for nothin', car'less boy!" she ejaculated. "He does nothin' but jig around the store, and sing songs. An' now he's gone and spiled my whole batch of pies." "Spoiled your pies?" said Mr. Terry in astonishment. "Yes, spiled 'em! Four as good pies as anybody in Madison makes. Green apple too!" "Why, I never saw your pies!" declared Joe. "I'd like to make you eat 'em all,--to the last smitch!" and she shook her fist. "But what did he do?" questioned Mr. Terry. "That's what I'm tryin' to tell you. I run in this mornin' and bought two ounces of allspice; for I hadn't a speck in the house. Seth's so fond of it in apple-pies. Well, I was hurryin' round; an' I lost my smell years ago, when I had the influenzy, so I put in the allspice; an' sez I at dinner, 'Seth, here's the fust green-apple pies. I don't believe a soul in Madison has made 'em yet! They're nice an' hot.' With that he tasted. 'Hot!' sez he, 'hot! I guess they air, and the've somethin' more'n fire in 'em too!' 'What's in 'em?' sez I; and sez he, 'Jest you taste!' an' so I did, an' it nigh about burnt my tongue off. 'Why,' sez I, 'it's pepper;' an' Seth sez, 'Well, if you ain't smart!' That made me kinder huffy like; an' then I knew right away it was this car'less fellow that's always singin' an' dancin' and a standin' on his head!" Mrs. Cummings had to stop because she was out of breath. Joe ducked under the counter, experiencing a strong tendency to fly to fragments. "I am very sorry," returned Mr. Terry. "It must have been a mistake;" and he tried to steady the corners of his mouth to a becoming sense of gravity. "No mistake at all!" and she gave her head a violent jerk. "Some of his smart tricks he thought he'd play on me. Didn't I see him a treatin' Dave Downs to loaf-sugar one day; an' bime by he gave him a great lump of salt!" Mr. Terry had heard the story of the salt, and rather enjoyed it; for Dave was always hanging round in the way. "And he jest did it a purpose, I know. As soon as ever I tasted that pepper, I knew 'twas one of his tricks. And my whole batch of pies spil't!" "No," said Joe, in his manly fashion: "I didn't do it purposely, Mrs. Cummings. I must have misunderstood you." "Pepper an' allspice sound so much alike!" she said wrathfully. "Well, we will give you a quarter of allspice," Mr. Terry returned soothingly. "That won't make up for the apples, an' the flour, an' the lard, an' all my hard work!" "We might throw in a few apples." "If you're goin' to keep that boy, you'll ruin your trade, I can tell you!" Still she took the allspice and the apples, though they had plenty at home. "You must be careful, Joe," said Mr. Terry afterward. "It will not do to have the ill-will of all the old ladies." Joe told the story at home with embellishments; and Hal enjoyed it wonderfully, in his quiet way. CHAPTER VII. THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL. Hal's chickens prospered remarkably. Five motherly hens clucked to families of black-eyed chicks; and, out of fifty-eight eggs, he only lost seven. So there were fifty-one left. They made some incursions in his garden, to be sure; but presently every thing grew so large that it was out of danger. There was plenty of work to do on Saturdays. Picking cherries and currants for the neighbors, and the unfailing gardening. It seemed to Hal that weeds had a hundred lives at least, even if you did pull them up by the roots. Sometimes he managed to get a little work out of Kit and Charlie, but they invariably ended by a rough-and-tumble frolic. Florence succeeded admirably with her embroidering. She managed to earn some pretty dresses for herself, and added enough to Hal's store to enable him to purchase a suit of clothes, though they were not as grand as Joe's. Hal and Granny took a wonderful sight of comfort sitting on the doorstep through the summer evenings, and talking over old times. Granny would tell how they did when his father, her own dear Joe, was alive, and how pretty his mother had been. "Flo's a good deal like her," she would always say; "only Flo's wonderful with her fingers. She can do any thing with a needle." "Flo's a born genius," Hal would reply admiringly. "But I'm afraid Charlie'll never learn to sew." "I can sew better myself," was Hal's usual comment. And it was true. Hal had a bedquilt nearly pieced, which he had done on rainy days and by odd spells. I expect you think he was something of a girl-boy. But then he was very sweet and nice. Florence stood by the gate one afternoon, looking extremely lovely in her blue and white gingham, and her curls tied back with a bit of blue ribbon. Dot had been in the mud-pie business; and, if it had proved profitable, she would no doubt have made a fortune for the family. "Go in the house this minute, and get washed," commanded Florence. "What a naughty, dirty child you are!" Then a carriage passed by very slowly. A young man was driving, and two ladies sat on the back seat. They looked as if they were going to halt. Florence's heart was in her mouth. She drew herself up in her most stately attitude. The young man turned; and the lady nearer her beckoned. Florence stepped out slowly. She thought, with some pride, that, if they wanted a drink, she _had_ a goblet to offer them. "My little girl," said the lady, in a soft, clear voice, "can you direct us to a blacksmith's?" "There is one on this road, rather more than a quarter of a mile farther." "Thank you." The other lady leaned over, and studied Florence. She had a worn, faded, and fretful look; but some new expression lighted up her sallow face. "Oh," she sighed, "what a beautiful girl! Now, if I had a daughter like that! I wonder if she lives in that forlorn old rookery?" "A princess in disguise;" and the young man laughed. "She was unusually lovely. At her age I had just such hair. But ah, how one fades!" The straggling auburn hair, very thin on the top, hardly looked as if it had once been "like fine spun gold." "The trial of my life has been _not_ having a daughter." Mrs. Duncan had heard this plaint very often from her half-sister, who had married a widower nearly three times her age. He had made a very liberal provision for her during her life, but at her death the fortune reverted to his family again. She had always bewailed the fact of having no children; but boys were her abomination. Mrs. Duncan's house was too noisy, with its four rollicking boys; but now that George was growing to manhood he became rather more endurable. "I do not believe the child could have belonged there," she commenced again. "Because she was so pretty?" asked George. "She doesn't look like a country girl." "But some country girls are very handsome," said Mrs. Duncan. "They do not possess this air of refinement generally. And did you observe that she answered in a correct and ladylike manner?" "Aunt Sophie is captivated. A clear case of love at first sight. Why not adopt _her_?" "It would be a charity to take her out of that hovel, if it is her home." "I shouldn't think of such a thing now, Sophie, with your poor health," said her sister. There are some natures on which the least contradiction or opposition acts instantly, rousing them to a spirit of defiance. For several years Mrs. Duncan had urged her sister to adopt a child; but she had never found one that answered her requirements. She was not fond of the trouble of small children. Now that Mrs. Duncan had advised contrarywise, Mrs. Osgood was seized with a perverse fit. "I am sure I need a companion," she returned with martyr-like air. "Take a young woman then, who can be a companion." "Here is the blacksmith's," announced George. "I suppose you will have to find some place of refuge;" and he laughed again gayly. "Where can we go?" George held a short conversation with the smith. "My house is just opposite, and the ladies will be welcome," the latter said. "It will take me about half an hour to repair your mishap." George conducted them thither. The good woman would fain have invited them in; but they preferred sitting on the vine-covered porch. Mrs. Osgood asked for a glass of water. O Florence! if you had been there! It happened after a while, that George and his mother walked down the garden. Mrs. Green felt bound to entertain this stranger cast upon her care, as she considered it. Mrs. Osgood made some inquiries presently about the house they had passed, with a small stream of water just below it. "Why, that's Granny Kenneth's," said Mrs. Green. "And who is the child,--almost a young lady?" "Why, that must be Florence. Did she have long yeller curls? If she was my gal she should braid 'em up decently. I wouldn't have 'em flyin' about." "And who is Florence?" Mrs. Osgood's curiosity must have been very great to induce her to listen to the faulty grammar and country pronunciations. But she listened to the story from beginning to end,--Joe, and Joe's wife, and all the children, figuring largely in it. "And if Granny Kenneth'd had any sense, she would a bundled 'em all off to the poor-house. One of the neighbors here did want to take Florence; but law! what a time they made! She's a peart, stuck-up thing!" If Florence had heard this verdict against all her small industries and neatnesses and ladylike habits, her heart would have been almost broken. But there are a great many narrow-minded people in this world, who can see no good except in their own way. Mrs. Osgood made no comments. Presently the carriage was repaired, and the accidental guests departed. They had a long ride yet to take. George asked if there was any nearer way of getting to Seabury. "There's a narrer road just below Granny Kenneth's,--the little shanty by the crick. It's ruther hard trav'lin', but it cuts off nigh on ter three miles." "I think we had better take it," said George. "Even that will give us a five-miles drive." So they passed the cottage again. This time Hal was feeding the chickens; Kit and Charlie swinging upon an old dilapidated apple-tree; and Florence sat by the open window, sewing. "There's your princess!" exclaimed George with a laugh. Florence colored a little at beholding the party again. Mrs. Duncan had come to Seabury, a rather mountainous place, remarkable for its pure air, for the sake of her youngest son, Arthur, who had been ill with a fever. Mrs. Osgood took an odd fancy to accompany her. The seven years of her widowhood had not been happy years, though she had a house like a palace. When she first laid off mourning, she tried Newport and Saratoga; but somehow she did not succeed in making a belle of herself, and that rather mortified her. Then she sank into invalidism; which tried everybody's patience sorely. Leaning back in the carriage now, she thought to herself, "Yes, if I only _had_ some one of my own! Sister Duncan never did understand me, or appreciate the delicacy of my constitution. Her nerves have been blunted by those great rude boys. And that girl looks so refined and graceful,--she would make a pleasant companion I am sure. But I should want to take her away from her family: I never could consent to any intimacy with them." She ventured to broach her subject to Mrs. Duncan the next day. Perhaps Mrs. Duncan had grown rather impatient with her sister's whims and fancies; and she discouraged the plan on some very sensible grounds. Mrs. Osgood felt like a martyr. Yet the opposition roused her to attempt it. One day, a week afterward perhaps, she hired a carriage, and was driven over to Madison. George had gone back to the city, so there was no question of having him for escort. Granny Kenneth was much surprised at the appearance of so fine a lady. She seized Dot, and scrubbed her face, her usual employment upon the entrance of any one. Mrs. Osgood held up her ruffled skirts as if afraid of contamination. "Is your granddaughter at home?" was asked in the most languid of voices. "Flo, you mean? No: she hasn't come from school yet. Do walk in and wait--that is--I mean--if you please," said Granny a good deal flustered, while the little gray curls kept bobbing up and down. "Here's a clean cheer;" and she gave one a whiff with her apron. Poor Flossy. She had tried so hard to correct Granny's old-fashioned words and pronunciations. "Thank you. Miss Florence embroiders, I believe." "Yes, she works baby-petticoats, and does 'em splendid." And then Granny wondered if she, the fine lady, had any work for Florence. "How glad Flo'll be, and vacation coming so soon," she thought in the depth of her tender old soul. "And she's a genius at crochetin'! The laces and shawls and hoods she's knit are a real wonder. They didn't do any thing of the kind in my young days." "You must find it pretty hard to get along," condescended Mrs. Osgood. "Yes; but the Lord allers provides some way. Joe's gone in a store,--Mr. Terry's. He's next to Florence," went on Granny in sublime disregard of her pronoun. Mrs. Osgood took an inventory of the little room, and waited rather impatiently. Then she asked for a glass of water. O Granny! how could you have been so forgetful! To take that old, thick, greenish glass tumbler when Flossy's choice goblet stood on the shelf above! And then to fill it in the pail, and let the water dribble! Granny wondered whether it would be polite to entertain her or not. But just then there was a crash and a splash; and Dot and the water-pail were in the middle of the floor. "Here's a chance!" exclaimed Kit, pausing in the doorway. "Give us a hook and line, Granny: Dot's mouth is just at an angle of ten degrees, good for a bite." "A wail, sure enough!" said Charlie. "Wring her out, and hang her up to dry." "Oh, dear!" and Granny, much disconcerted, sat Dot wrong side up on a chair, and the result was a fresh tumble. It was Hal who picked her up tenderly,--poor wet baby, with a big red lump on her forehead, and dismal cries issuing from the mouth that seemed to run all round her head. "Stay out there till I wipe up," said Granny to the others. "Then I'll get Dot a dry dress. I never did see such an onlucky child--and company too. What _will_ Flo say!" For Florence came tripping up the path, knitting her delicate brows in consternation. "Never you mind. There's a lady in the parlor who's been waitin'. Oh, my! what did I do with that floor-cloth?" "A lady?" "Yes: run right along." Luckily the door was shut between. Florence gave her curls a twist and a smoothing with her fingers, took off her soiled white apron, pulled her dress out here and there, stepped over the pools of water, and entered. Mrs. Osgood admired her self-possession, and pitied the poor child profoundly. The flush and partial embarrassment were very becoming to her. That lady did not mean to rush headlong into her proposal. She broke the ground delicately by inquiring about the embroidering; and Florence brought some to show her. "Who taught you?" she asked in surprise. "No one;" and Florence colored a little. "I did not do the first as neatly, but it is quite easy after one is fairly started." "I really do not see how you find time, with going to school;" and this persevering industry did touch Mrs. Osgood's heart. "I cannot do very much," answered Florence with a sigh. "But it will soon be vacation." "How old are you?" "I shall be fifteen the last of this month." "What a family your grandmother has on her hands!" "Yes. If my father had lived, it would have been very different." A touching expression overspread Florence's face, and made her lovelier than ever in Mrs. Osgood's eyes. "She certainly _is_ very pretty," that lady thought; "and how attractive such a daughter would be in my house! I should live my young life over again in her." For Mrs. Osgood had found that the days for charming young men were over, and prosy middle-aged people were little to her taste. No woman ever clung to youth with a greater longing. "What do you study at school?" she asked. "Only the English branches. I have been thinking of--of becoming a teacher," said Florence hesitatingly. "You would have a poor opportunity in this little town." "I might go away;" and Florence sighed again. "You have never studied music, I suppose." "No: I have had no opportunity," returned Florence honestly enough. "Do you sing?" "Yes. And I love music so very, very much! I do mean to learn by and by, if it is possible." "I wish you would sing something for me,--a little school-song, or any thing you are familiar with." Florence glanced up in amazement; and for a few moments was awkwardly silent. "I should like to hear your voice. It is very pleasant in talking, and ought to be musical in singing." Florence was a good deal flattered; and then she had the consciousness that she was one of the best singers in school. So she ran over the songs in her own mind, and selected "Natalie, the Maid of the Mill," which she was very familiar with. She sang it beautifully. Florence was one of the children who are always good in an emergency. She was seldom "flustered," as Granny expressed it, and always seemed to know how to make the best of herself. And, as she saw the pleasure in Mrs. Osgood's face, her own heart beat with satisfaction. "That is really charming. A little cultivation would make your voice very fine indeed. What a pity that you should be buried in this little town!" "Do you think--that I could--do any thing with it?" asked Florence in a tremor of delight. "I suppose your grandmother would not stand in the way of your advancement?" questioned Mrs. Osgood. "Oh, no! And then if I _could_ do something"-- Florence felt that she ought to add, "for the others," but somehow she did not. She wondered if Mrs. Osgood was a music-teacher, or a professional singer. But she did not like to ask. "There is my carriage," said Mrs. Osgood, as a man drove slowly round. "I am spending a few weeks at some distance from here, and wished to have you do a little flannel embroidery for me. When will your vacation commence?" "In about ten days,--the first of July." "I wish to see you when we can have a longer interview. I will come over again then." Mrs. Osgood rose, and shook out her elegant grenadine dress, much trimmed and ruffled. On her wrists were beautiful bracelets, and her watch-chain glittered with every movement. Then she really smiled very sweetly upon the young girl; and Florence was charmed. Some dim recollection passed over her mind. "Oh!" she said, "were you not in a carriage that stopped here some days ago. Another lady and a young gentleman"-- "Yes," answered Mrs. Osgood, pleased at being remembered. "And, my dear, I took a great fancy to you that day. You are so different from the majority of country girls, that it is a pity you should have no better chance." The longing and eloquent eyes of Florence said more than words. "Yes. I will see you again; and I may, perhaps, think of something to your advantage." There was a mode of egress through this "best-room," though Granny had brought her guest in by the kitchen way. Florence opened the door now. "What a lovely, graceful child!" thought Mrs. Osgood; and she scrutinized her from head to feet. Florence watched the carriage out of sight in a half-dream. How long she would have stood in a brown study is uncertain; but Granny came in to get some dry clothes for Dot. "What _did_ she want of you?" exclaimed Charlie, all curiosity. "And what were you singing for? Oh, my! wasn't she splendid?" "You sang like a bird," said Hal in wide-eyed wonder as well. "Did she ask you?" "Of course. You don't suppose I would offer to sing for a stranger,--a lady too?" "Did she like it?" "Yes. She thought I might--that is, if I had any opportunity--oh, I wish we _were_ a little richer!" and Florence burst into a flood of hysterical tears. "I wish we were;" and Hal gave her hand a soft squeeze. "If you could learn to play on the melodeon at church, and give music-lessons"-- The vision called up a heaven of delight to poor Flossy. "But what _did_ she want?" asked Granny in a great puzzle, putting Dot's foot through the sleeve of her dress, and tying the neck-string in garter fashion. "I do believe she is a singer herself. Maybe she belongs to a company who give concerts; but then she was dressed so elegantly." "They make lots of money," said Kit with a sagacious nod of the head. "It's what I'm going to be, only I shall have a fiddle." "And a scalp-lock." Charlie pulled this ornamentation to its fullest height, which was considerable, as Kit's hair needed cutting. "Oh! suppose she was," said Hal. "And suppose she wanted to take Flossy, and teach her music,--why, it's like your plan, you know, only it isn't an old gentleman; and I don't believe she has any little girls,--I mean a little girl who died. Did she ask for a drink, Granny?" "Yes; and then Dot pulled over the water-pail. Oh, my! if I haven't put this dress on upside down, and the string's in a hard knot. Whatever shall I do? And, Flossy, I forgot all about the gobler. I took the first thing that came to hand." "Not that old tumbler with a nick in the edge? And it is _goblet_. I do wish you'd learn to call things by their right names!" exclaimed Florence in vexation. "It's the very same, isn't it?" began Charlie, "only, as Hal said, it isn't an old gentleman. Oh, suppose it _should_ come true! And if Kit _should_ have a fiddle like black Jake." "And if you _should_ run away," laughed Hal. "I don't believe you can find a better time than this present moment. Kit, you had better go after the cows." Charlie started too, upon Hal's suggestion. Florence gave a little sniff, and betook herself to the next room. Oh, dear! How poor and mean and tumbled about their house always was! No, not _always_, but if any one ever came. Dot chose just that moment to be unfortunate; and then that Granny should have used that forlorn old tumbler. She doubted very much if the lady would ever come again. So Flossy had a good cry from wounded vanity, and then felt better. Hal took Dot out with him to feed the chickens, and Granny prepared the table. Still Florence's lady was the theme of comment and wonder for several days, although the child insisted that she only came to get some embroidering done. All further speculations seemed too wild for sober brains. "But it is so odd that she asked you to sing," said Hal. "And I do believe something will come of it." Florence gave a little despairing sniff. CHAPTER VIII. FLORENCE IN STATE. Mrs. Osgood leaned back in the carriage,--it was the very best that Seabury afforded,--and, looking out on the pleasant sunshine and waving trees, considered the subject before her. _If_ she took Florence, she would have a governess in the house, and go on as rapidly as possible with the finishing process. Music should be the first thing: the child _did_ have a lovely voice, and such fair, slender hands! In a year she would be quite presentable. How vexed all the Osgood nieces would be! They were continually hinting at visits, and would be delighted at having Aunt Osgood take them up. But somehow she had a grudge against her husband's relatives, because the property reverted to them in the end. And then she fancied herself riding out with this beautiful daughter by her side, or stopping at hotels where every one would wonder "who that lovely girl could be!" And Florence would certainly be most grateful for the change. It was a deed of charity to rescue the poor child from the life before her, with no better prospect than that of a school-teacher. She certainly had some ideas and ambitions beyond her sphere. School closed presently, and the children were wild with delight. They had a great time on examination day, and Florence acquitted herself finely. Mr. Fielder was very proud of her. "If you can go to school another year, and improve as much," he said, "I can almost promise you a very good situation." Flossy's dream in respect to her elegant lady was fading, and she came back to humbler prospects quite thankfully. What Granny was to do with the children through vacation she hardly knew. "Oh, you needn't worry!" said Charlie consolingly. "Kit and me are going out in the woods; and we'll build a stunning log-hut, or make a cave"-- "O Charlie, if you would be a little more careful! Kit and I." "I can't be always bothering! Mr. Fielder almost wears me out, so you might let me have a little rest in vacation. 'For spelling is vexation, And writing is bad: Geography it puzzles me, And grammar makes me mad.'" With that Charlie perched herself on the gate-post, and began to whistle. "If Charlie only _had_ been a boy!" groaned Florence. On Monday of the first week they washed. Florence assisted; but she hurried to get herself dressed in the afternoon, for fear some one _might_ come. And then she wondered a little what she ought to do. Embroidering and fancy work appeared to be dull just now; and she would have two months in which she _might_ earn considerable money, if it only came. For, with all her small vanities and particular ways, she was not indolent. On Tuesday they began their ironing at an early hour. There were Florence's pretty dresses and aprons, nothing very costly, but a dainty ruffle here and there added to the general grace. These same ruffles were a great trouble to some of the old ladies in Madison, "who didn't see how Granny Kenneth could let Florence waste her time in such nonsense while _she_ slaved herself to death!" Florence had twisted her hair in a knot, and her dress was rather the worse for wear; but she worked away cheerfully. Her pile of clothes was decreasing very fast. Suddenly a sound of carriage-wheels startled her; and, glancing up, she uttered a frightened exclamation. "O Granny! it's the lady again, and I look like a fright! What shall I do? Won't you go and ask her in? and you look dreadful too! Put on your other sacque. There! I'll run and tidy up a bit." She made a snatch at the brush and comb, and hurried up in the boys' room. "Oh, dear! How red I am in the face! It's too bad;" and she felt tempted to cry, but she knew that would only make matters worse. So she let down her shining hair, brushed it out, and wound it round her fingers in curls. Then Granny came plodding up stairs. "I told her you were busy, but that you'd be ready in a few minutes," she explained. "Why didn't you think to bring up one of my clean dresses?" "To be sure! which one?" "The pink calico, I guess. Oh! and the braided white apron." Down went Granny. Ah! many a step had she taken for these children, weary ones, and yet cheerfully done. Would they ever think of it? Florence was not long in making herself neat and presentable, but the flushed face still troubled her. She viewed herself critically in the cracked glass, and then ran down, pausing to fan a few moments with the cape of an old sun-bonnet, the nearest thing at hand. "_Do_ I look decent, Granny?" she said apprehensively. "To be sure you do, and nice too." Granny's eyes expressed her admiration. Florence ventured in timidly, and the lady inclined her head. "I am sorry that I have kept you waiting so long, but it was unavoidable;" and the child made a little halt to wonder if her long word sounded well. "I suppose I took you somewhat by surprise. Are you very busy to-day?" "Not very," answered Florence at random, her heart beating violently. "And quite well? but I hardly need ask the question." "I am always well, thank you," with a touch of grace. "How fortunate! Now, I have such wretched health, and my nerves are weak beyond description." Florence gave a glance of quick sympathy, not unmixed with admiration. There was something very romantic about the languid lady. "If you are quite at liberty," Mrs. Osgood began, "I should like to have you drive out with me. I have a great deal to say to you, and we shall not be interrupted." Florence could hardly credit her hearing. To be asked to ride with so grand a lady! "Oh!" and then she paused and colored. "Would you like to go?" "Very, very much indeed;" and the young face was full of pleasure. "Well, get yourself ready; and, if you will send your grandmother to me, I will explain." Florence felt as if she were in a dream. Then she wondered what she ought to wear. She had a pretty light gray dress and sacque for "Sunday best," and a new white dress; but her visitor's dress was gray, and that decided her. So she took the articles out of the old-fashioned wardrobe, and summoned Granny. Granny was dazed. "Where is she going to take you?" she asked in helpless astonishment. "I don't know. She will tell you, I suppose." "But, Flo, I have _heerd_ of girls being kidnapped or something;" and Granny's face turned pale with fear. "Nonsense!" returned Flossy with a toss of the curls. She could not even trouble herself about Granny's mispronunciation just then. "You don't know"-- "I guess she won't eat me up. Any how, I am going." Florence uttered this with a touch of imperiousness. Granny felt that she would have little influence over her, so she entered the room where the guest was seated. "Mrs. Kenneth," the lady began in her most impressive and gracious manner, "when I was here a few days ago, I took a great fancy to your granddaughter. My name is Osgood; and I am staying at Seabury with my sister, Mrs. Duncan. And although you may hesitate to trust Florence with a stranger, she will be quite safe, I assure you; and if you are willing, therefore, I should like to take her out for a few hours. I have some plans that may be greatly to the child's advantage, I think." "You'll be sure to bring her back," asked Granny in a spasm of anxious terror, which showed in her eyes. "Why, certainly! My poor woman, I cannot blame you for this carefulness;" for the worn face with its eagerness touched Mrs. Osgood. "My brother-in-law, Mr. Duncan, is a well-known merchant in New York; and I think you will confess when I return Florence this afternoon, that the ride has been no injury to her." Granny could make no further objections, and yet she did not feel quite at ease. But Florence entered looking so bright and expectant, that she had not the heart to disappoint her, so she kept her fears to herself. "You must not feel troubled," Mrs. Osgood deigned to say, as she rose rather haughtily. "You will find my promises perfectly reliable." "You needn't finish my pieces," Florence whispered softly to Granny at the door. "I shall be back time enough; and if the fire is out I'll wait till to-morrow They are my ruffled aprons, and"-- Mrs. Osgood beckoned her with a smile and an inclination of the head. Florence felt as if she were being bewitched. Granny watched her as she stepped into the carriage. [Illustration] "If she'd been born a lady she couldn't act more like one. It's a great pity"-- A few tears finished Granny's sentence. All the others were more content with their poverty than Florence. So she went back to her ironing with a heart into which had crept some strange misgiving. Hal was out; Joe never came home to dinner; so Granny gave the children a piece of bread all round, and kept going steadily on until the last ruffled apron had been taken out of the pile. Very long indeed the hours seemed. Oh, if any harm should befall her beautiful, darling Flossy! Poor Joe, in his grave, had loved her so well! Flossy meanwhile was having a most delightful time. "I am going to take you to Salem," Mrs. Osgood said, after Florence had begun to feel quite at home with her. "We will have our dinner at the hotel." Salem was the county town,--quite a pretentious place, with some broad, straight streets, several banks, and, indeed, a thriving business locality. Florence had been there twice with Mrs. Kinsey. Mrs. Osgood began to question the child about herself. Florence told over her past life, making the best, it must be confessed, of the poverty and discomforts. And yet she seemed to take rather hardly the fact of such a lot having fallen upon her. Mrs. Osgood was secretly pleased with her dissatisfaction. "I wonder how you would like to live with me?" she questioned. "I think I should enjoy having some one that I could make a companion of--as one never can of a servant." Flossy's heart beat with a sudden delight, and for the first moment she could hardly speak. "I live a short distance from New York, on the banks of the Hudson: at least, my house is there, but I travel a great deal. It would be very pleasant to have a--a friend of one's own,"--Mrs. Osgood was not _quite_ sure that it was best or wisest to say child. "Oh, it would be very delightful! If I could"--and the child's eyes were aglow with delight. "There are so many of you at home, that your grandmother would not miss one. Besides, I could do a great many nice things for you." "It is like a dream!" and Flossy thought of her wild day-dream. "And I could sew as well as embroider; and oh! I _would_ try to make myself useful," she said eagerly. Mrs. Osgood smiled. She had taken a strange fancy to this child, and enjoyed her look of adoration. They talked it over at some length, and Flossy listened with delight to the description of the beautiful house. This was altogether different from Mrs. Van Wyck's affair. Presently they arrived at the hotel. Mrs. Osgood ordered the horses to be cared for, and then entered the parlor. "Can we have a private room?" she asked with an air that Florence thought extremely elegant. "And then our dinner"-- "Will you have it brought up to your room?" "Oh, no! Perhaps I had better give my order now," and there was a languid indifference in her tone. "Yes, it would be better," replied the brisk waitress. "Well, we will have some broiled chicken, I think--are you fond of that, Florence? and vegetables--with some lobster salad and relishes." Florence had a wonderful deal of adaptiveness, and she almost insensibly copied Mrs. Osgood. They went up to the room, and refreshed themselves with a small ablution, for the riding had been rather dusty. Florence shook out her beautiful curls, and passed her damp fingers over them. "What lovely hair!" exclaimed Mrs. Osgood with a sigh: it was a habit of hers, as if every thing called up some past regret. "When I was a young girl, mine was the admiration of everybody. You would hardly think it now." "Were you ill?" asked Florence, feeling that she was expected to say something sympathizing. "My health has been wretched for years. Mr. Osgood was sick a long while, and I had so much trouble! His people were not very kind to me: they tried to make him leave the property away from me, and then they attempted to break the will. There's so much selfishness in this world, my dear!" Florence experienced a profound sympathy for Mrs. Osgood, and was quite ready to espouse her cause against any one. Already she felt in some way constituted her champion. But, as Mr. Osgood left no children, he thought it quite just that his property should go back to his own family after Mrs. Osgood's death. And, to confess the truth, he had not found his wife quite perfection. There were not many people in the dining-room when they entered. They had one end of the long table, and the colored waiter was most polite and solicitous. One by one their little dishes came on, and the broiled chicken had a most appetizing flavor. Florence acquitted herself very creditably. She was not awkward with her silver fork, and allowed herself to be waited upon with great complacency. Mrs. Osgood was wonderfully pleased, for she was watching every action. How had the child acquired so many pretty ways? By the time they reached home again it was agreed, if grandmother made no objection, that Florence should spend a month at Seabury with Mrs. Osgood. This was the better arrangement the lady thought; for, if she changed her mind, in that case she could draw back gracefully. Granny was much relieved to see them return. Mrs. Osgood deigned to enter the cottage again, and explained the matter to old Mrs. Kenneth. Florence seconded the plan so earnestly, that it was quite impossible to refuse. And somehow Granny felt very much bewildered. "Can you be ready next week?" asked Mrs. Osgood. Florence questioned Granny mutely with her eyes; but, seeing that her senses were going astray, answered for herself. "Monday, then, I will come over for you. And now, my child, good-by. I hope you have had a pleasant day." Florence thanked her again and again. Mrs. Osgood's heart was really touched. "What does she want you to do?" asked Granny, absently trying to thread the point of her darning-needle. "Why,--I'm sure I don't know;" and Flossy fell into a brown study. "To wait upon her, I suppose, and sew a little, and--I like her so much! We had an elegant dinner at Salem, and ice-cream for dessert. O Granny, if one only _could_ be rich!" "Yes," rejoined Granny with a sigh. "Tell us all about it," said open-mouthed Charlie. "Mrs. Green saw you riding by; and maybe she didn't make a time! She said you put on more airs than all Madison." "It is nothing to her," bridled Flossy. "But what _did_ you have? Lots of goodies?" "Yes, indeed. Silver forks and damask napkins and finger-bowls." "Finger-bowls?" That grandeur was altogether above Charlie's capacity. "You need not look so amazed." "What do you do with 'em." "Why, there's a piece of lemon floating round on the top; and you dip in the ends of your fingers, and wipe them on the napkin." "But can't you eat the lemon? That's what I'd do." "It would be very ill-bred." "Hum!" and Charlie's nose was elevated. "As if I'd care!" "You would if you were out with refined people." "Oh, my! How aristocrockery you are getting!" and Charlie gave a prolonged whistle, and stood on one foot. Flossy sighed a little over the supper-table. How nice it would be to live at a hotel, and have a servant to wait upon one! But every thing here was so dreadfully common and poor. And, though Flossy would have scorned the idea of living out as a servant, she fancied a position of companion or ladies' maid would be rather agreeable than otherwise. Hal was very much interested in her day's adventure. He seemed to understand it better than any of the others, and she could talk to him without the fear of being laughed at. They still sat in the moonlight, when suddenly a sharp click was heard, and a report that made them all scream. Joe, the good-for-nothing, laughed. "Wasn't that gay? Hurrah for Fourth of July!" "Is it you?" asked Granny, who had thrown her apron over her head to keep her from being shot. "And is it a musket, or a cannon?" "Why don't you frighten us all to death?" said Florence indignantly. "Oh, it's a pistol!" exclaimed Hal. "O Joe! and you'll be shot all to pieces before to-morrow night," bewailed Granny. "I'm so afraid of guns and fire-crackers! I once knew a little boy who had his hand shot off." "If he could only have had it shot on again. I mean to try that way, like the man who jumped into the bramble-bush. Or wouldn't it do to shoot the pistol off instead of my fingers." "Is it yours for good, Joe?" and Charlie's head was thrust over Hal's shoulders. "A real pistol! Let me see it." "Yes, it's mine. I bought it to keep Fourth of July with." "Why, I forgot all about Fourth of July," said Charlie in an aggrieved tone. "And I haven't a cent!" "Bad for you, Charlie." "Won't you let me fire off the pistol?" "Oh, don't!" implored Granny. "Just once more. It was splendid! I was fast asleep on the floor, and it woke me up." "Good for the pistol," said Joe. "I'll try it in the morning when you are asleep." They all had to handle the pistol, and express their opinions. Joe had bought it of Johnny Hall, for a dollar, as Johnny, in turn, wanted to buy a cannon. And the remaining half-dollar of his week's wages had been invested in fireworks. Granny sighed. But boys would be boys, and Fourth of July only came once a year. "There's to be an oration on the green, and the soldiers will be out, and it'll be just jolly! Hurray! And a holiday in the middle of the week! Mr. Terry said I needn't come to the store at all." "There'll be some music, won't there?" asked Kit. "A drum and a bass-viol, I guess. But it would be royal to go over to Salem, and hear the brass band." "What's a brass band?" was Kit's rather puzzled inquiry. "What a goose! Why, a brass band is--horns and things." "What kind of horns?" for Joe's explanation lacked lucidity. "Oh, bother! Kit, you'll burn up the ocean some day with your brightness." "Cornets," said Hal; "and something like a flute, and cymbals, and ever so many instruments." "Did you ever see 'em?" "No, but I've read about them." Kit chewed his thumb. It was one of his old baby habits. "Now I am going to load her again," said Joe, in a peculiarly affectionate tone. "It's as light as day out here." "But, Joe, if you _should_ shoot some one, or your fingers, or put your eyes out!" "Never you mind, Granny. Boys go ahead of cats for lives." Granny put her apron over her head again, and then ran in to Dot. "Bang!" "Nobody wounded," laughed Joe, "and only two or three slightly killed. The country is safe, Granny, this great and _gelorious_ country, over which the eagle waves his plumes, and flaps his wings, and would crow if he could. My soul is filled with enthusiasm,--I feel as if I should _bust_, and fly all round! There's that miserable Dot lifting up her voice." The racket had broken her slumbers, and then the children were implored to be quiet. Joe went to bed, in order to be able to get up good and early. Charlie thought she should sleep with her clothes on, so as to save the trouble of dressing. Kit sat in the moonlight chewing his thumb, and wondering if he could manage to get over to Salem to-morrow. If he could only hear that music! CHAPTER IX. FOURTH OF JULY. The children were up at the peep of dawn. Granny was awakened by something that seemed not unlike the shock of an earthquake; but Flossy, rubbing her eyes, said with a sigh,-- "Oh, dear! Joe has begun with his pistol the first thing! What does possess boys to be so noisy!" Charlie, perched astride the gate-post, her clothes considerably tumbled, and her hair unkempt, thought it splendid. "If Joe would only let her fire _once!_ Just as soon as she had a dollar she meant to buy a pistol of her own. It would always be good to keep away robbers!" Joe laughed uproariously. "Robbers indeed! There's nothing to steal here, unless it's some of the youngsters. You'd be sure to go first, Charlie!" "I shall be thankful when Fourth of July is over," said Granny in a troubled voice, while Joe was singing,-- "But children are not pigs, you know, And cannot pay the rint;" but at that remark so derogatory to patriotism, he bridled up at once. "Fourth of July's as good as Saint Patrick, or any other man. Who would be so base and ignoble of soul, and stingy of powder, as not to celebrate his birthday! when the country stretches from the north pole to the south, and is kept from bursting only by the centrifugal forces of the equator"-- Hal's rooster finished the speech by his longest and loudest crow. "Good for you! You've some patriotism, I see. You are not craven of soul, if powder doesn't come in your way. Granny, when can we have breakfast? I'm about famished with all my speech-making." Hal fed his crowd of chickens, and amused Dot, who did not quite enjoy being deprived of her morning nap. Presently they were summoned to their meal. "I'm going over to the store," announced Joe. "I want to see the Declaration of Independence read by the American eagle, and the salute fired by the Stars and Stripes, while the militia climb up their muskets and give three cheers." "Are they going to do that?" asked Charlie. "Granny, can't I go too?" "You must put on a clean dress." "Oh, dear! when I slept in mine too, so as to be ready," Charlie exclaimed, broken-hearted. "Won't you wait, Joe?" "I can't bother with girls," returned Joe. Charlie lamented her hard fate, but emerged from the hands of Florence quite a respectable looking child. Kit spent some time in adorning himself, and trying to smooth his refractory scalp-lock. He had been very quiet all the morning. "Now that they are off we can have a little peace," said Florence. Granny sighed. They were a great bother and torment, to be sure; but, after all, it was good to have the merry, noisy crew, safe and sound, and she should be glad when they returned. Hal's tastes inclined neither to fire-crackers nor sky-rockets. So he went into the garden, and began to look after his rather neglected vegetables. The chickens made bad work, it must be confessed, though the attractions of their buckwheat field were pretty strong, and Hal ingeniously repaired the fence with brush; but now and then there would be a raid. The Lima beans were doing beautifully, the corn looked promising; and, altogether, he thought the prospect was fair. Then he met with a delightful surprise. "O Granny!" and he rushed into the house. "Just think,--three of my grape-vines have beautiful long shoots on them. I haven't looked in ever so long, for I thought they didn't mean to grow. Come and see." There they were, sure enough. Hal had set out some cuttings from the neighbors, but he had been almost discouraged with their slow progress. "That's a Concord, and that's a Hartford Prolific. Don't they look lovely in their soft, pinkish green! Why, I feel as if I could give them all a hug. I'll have to put a lattice round, for fear of the chickens." So he went to work. Dot wanted to help, and brought him useless sticks, while she carried off his hammer and lost his nails. But when she looked up at him with the sweetest little face in the world, and said, "Ain't Dotty 'mart? Dotty help 'ou," he could not scold her. The dinner was rather quiet. None of the stray youngsters made their appearance. Afterward Florence dressed herself, and went to see Netty Bigelow, her dearest school-friend, and imparted to her that she was going to Seabury next Monday, to stay a month with a very elegant lady, and that she would live at a hotel. Then she described her ride to Salem, and the dinner. "Oh, how nice it must have been!" said Netty. "You are the luckiest girl I ever did know, Florence Kenneth." "I just wish I was as rich as Mrs. Osgood. It seems to me that poor people cannot be very happy." "I don't know," Netty returned thoughtfully. "The Graysons do not seem _very_ happy." "But I never saw such mean, disagreeable girls; and they are not dressed a bit pretty. If there's any thing in school they always want their share, but they never treat." "And we are poor," continued Netty; "but I'm sure we are happy." Florence felt that her friend could hardly understand the degree of happiness that she meant. She was rather out-growing her youthful companions. About mid-afternoon Hal took a walk over to the store. The old rusty cannon of Revolutionary memory had been fired on the green, the speeches made, and the small crowd dispersed. Nearly everybody had gone to Salem; but a few old stagers still congregated at the store, it being general head-quarters. Hal picked Charlie out of a group of children, in a very dilapidated condition. Her once clean dress was soiled, torn, and burned; her hands gave the strongest evidence that dust entered largely into the composition of small people; and her face was variegated by perspiration and dabs from these same unlucky hands. "O Charlie! you look like a little vagabond!" exclaimed Hal in despair. "I'm ashamed of you!" "But I've had such fun, and cakes and candies and fire-crackers and torpedoes! I wish Fourth of July would keep right straight along. I burned one of my fingers, but I didn't mind," declared the patriotic girl. "Where's Kit?" "I don't know. Joe was round this morning, but I guess he went to Salem." "You must come home with me now." "O Hal! we haven't found all the 'cissers' yet. They're almost as good as fire-crackers." Several of the children were burrowing in the grass and sand for "fusees,"--crackers that had failed to explode to the full extent of their powder. They broke them in two and relighted them. Hal was inexorable; so Charlie cried a little, and then bade her dirty companions a sad farewell. "Oh!" exclaimed Granny, as they came marching up the path, "what a sight! And your Sunday best dress, Charlie!" "Well," sniffed Charlie with a crooked face, though there were no tears to give it effect, "I'm sure I didn't want to put it on. I hate to be dressed up! Something always happens to your Sunday clothes. I couldn't help tearing it, and Jimmy Earl set off a cracker right in my lap"-- "Well, I'm glad it wasn't your eyes," said Granny thankfully. And then she took the forlorn pyramid of dirt and disorder up stairs, where she had a good scrubbing, and was re-arrayed in a more decent fashion. Anybody else would have scolded, but Granny was so glad to have her back safe and sound. Her heart was sorely anxious about Kit and Joe. She let the supper stand on the table, and they all sat on the doorstep in the moonlight; for Dot had taken a nap in the afternoon, and was bright as a new penny. And she fancied, as many mothers and grandmothers have before now, that shocking accidents had happened, and maybe they would be maimed and crippled for life. Presently they came straggling along, and Granny uttered a cry of relief. "Oh!" she said, "are you all here? Haven't you lost your hands, nor your fingers, nor"-- "Nor our noses, and not even our tongues," laughed Joe. "Here we are, pistol and all." "O Kit! where have you been? I was a most worried to death; and you look tuckered out." For Kit was pale to ghostliness as he stood there in the moonlight. "Where do you think I found him,--the small snipe? Way over to Salem!" "O Kit! did you see the fireworks and the soldiers?" exclaimed Charlie breathlessly. Kit sank down on the doorstep. "Walked all the way over there, and hadn't a penny!" "How could you Kit, without saying a word?" exclaimed Granny in a tone of mild reproach. "I could have given you a little money," said Hal tenderly. "And it's a mercy that you didn't get run over, or shot to pieces, or trampled to death in the crowd"-- "O Granny! don't harrow up our feelings," said Joe. "I was afraid you wouldn't let me go," began Kit, at the first available opportunity for slipping in a word. "And I didn't walk quite all the way there,--a man came along, and gave me a ride. I wanted to hear the music so much! The soldiers were splendid, Charlie; some of 'em with great white feathers in their hats and swords and beautiful horses and coats all over gold"-- "Wonderful hats," suggested Joe with a twinkle; for Kit had gone on with small regard to commas or accent. "They all know what I mean!" said Kit rather testily. "Don't plague him," interposed Hal. "About the music, Kit?" "Oh! I can't half tell you;" and Kit gave a long sigh. "There were drums and fifes, and those clappers--I don't remember what you called 'em, but I liked it best when the men were horning with their horns"-- Joe gave a loud outburst, and went over on his head. "Well," said Kit much aggrieved, "what are you laughing about?" "Horning! That is good! You had better write a new dictionary, Kit. It is a decided improvement upon 'toot,' and must commend itself to Flossy's attention for superior elegance. There, my dear, give me a vote of thanks;" and Joe twitched Flossy's long curls. "I don't know what you call it, then," said Kit rather sulkily. "They blew on the horns," Hal rejoined in his soothing tone, that was always a comfort in times of disturbance; "and the cornets, wind-instruments, I believe, though I don't know the names of them all. It must have been delightful." "Oh, it was! I shut my eyes, and it seemed as if I was floating on a sea, and there were all the waves beating up and down, and then a long soft sound like the wind blowing in and shaking it all to echoes. I was so sorry when they stopped. They all went into the hotel, I guess it was. By and by I wandered off a little ways, and sat on a stoop; and some one was playing on a piano. That was beautiful too. I'd like to crawl inside of something, as the fairies do, and just live there and listen forever." "And then I found him, hungry and tired, and bought him some cake," interrupted Joe. "We waited to see the fireworks, and rode home in Mr. Terry's wagon. But for that I guess he'd been sitting on the stoop yet." "And you haven't tasted a mouthful of supper!" exclaimed Granny; "and I a listenin' here, and never thinkin' of it." "I'm not much hungry," said Joe. "I was treated a time or two by the boys." But he thought he wouldn't tell that he had taken up his week's wages in advance, and spent it all. Fourth of July did not come but once a year, and a body ought to have a good time. Poor Joe had discovered, much to his chagrin, that a dollar and a half would not work wonders. It seemed to him at first that he never could get his suit of clothes paid for; then it was a hat, a pair of shoes, some cheap summer garments; and he never had a penny for Hal or any one else. In fact, he began to think that he would make more money working round for the farmers. But then the store was steady employment. He gave Charlie a glowing account of the fireworks, while Kit was eating a bowl of bread and milk; then they were glad to tumble into bed. "I'm thankful it's all over, and their arms and legs are safe, and their eyes not blown out," said Granny with fervent gratitude. Kit was pretty tired the next day, and Joe found it rather hard to make all things work together for good. Granny shed a few tears over Charlie's "best dress," and wondered how she could patch it so as to look decent. Florence, in the mean while, was much occupied with her own plans. She could hardly wait for Monday to come, and proposed to do the usual washing on Saturday, so there wouldn't be any "muss" around when Mrs. Osgood called. She was neat as a new pin as she sat awaiting her visitor. Her clothes had been looked over, and the best selected. There was nothing to pack them in, however, except a small, moth-eaten hair trunk, or a dilapidated bandbox; and the latter was Florence's detestation. "I can do them up in a paper," she said; and Charlie was sent to scour the neighborhood for the required article. Mrs. Osgood and Mrs. Duncan came together. The latter lady had laughed a little at her sister's plan at first; but, when she found it was really serious, thought it would be as well for her to try it a month. Mrs. Duncan was rather exclusive, and had a horror of crowds of poor people's children. "It would be so much better to take some one who had no relatives," she said. "I shall not adopt the whole family, you may be sure," was the response. Some of Mrs. Duncan's prejudices were surmounted by the general order and tidiness to which Florence had reduced matters; and she was wonderfully well-bred, considering her disadvantages. "I shall keep her for a month, while I remain at Seabury; and, if I should want her afterward, we can make some new arrangements," Mrs. Osgood explained. "I shall see, of course, that she has ample remuneration." Florence colored. Living with such a grand lady seemed enough, without any pay. "What are you crying for, Granny?" she asked as she followed her into the kitchen. "How ridiculous! Why, it is just as if I were going away upon a visit; and you wouldn't be sorry then." "It isn't because I'm sorry;--but--none of you have ever been away afore"-- Florence knitted her brows. How foolish to make such a fuss! "There are so many of us, that we're like bees in a hive. You ought to be glad to have me go. And I dare say I shall ride over some day"-- "To be sure. But every one is missed." Florence kissed the children all round, and was much mortified at the bundle tied up in a newspaper. "If I get any money, I mean to buy a travelling-bag," she commented internally. "Tate me too," exclaimed Dot, clinging to Florence's dress: luckily her hands were clean. "Oh! you can't go, Dotty: Charlie will show you the beautiful chickens." Dot set up a fearful cry, and wriggled herself out of Charlie's arms, and Granny took her. Florence hurried through her good-bys, and was glad to leave the confusion behind. Granny indulged in a little cry afterward, and then went to her ironing. Of course they must all flit from the old hive some time. She could hardly persuade herself that Florence was fifteen,--almost a young lady. Joe and Hal wanted to hear all the particulars that evening. Charlie dilated grandly on the magnificence of the ladies. "It's real odd," said Joe. "Flossy always wanted to be a lady; and maybe this is a step towards it. I wonder if I shall ever get to sea!" "Oh, don't!" exclaimed Granny in a pitiful voice. When Mrs. Green heard the news, she had to come over. "I don't suppose they'd ever thought on't, if it hadn't been for me," she exclaimed. "They stopped to my house while their wagon was bein' mended, and the sickly lookin' one seemed to be terribly interested in your folks; so, thinks I, if I can do a good turn for a neighbor it's all right; and I spoke a word, now and then, for Florence,--though it's a pity her name hadn't been Mary Jane. I never did approve of such romantic names for children. And I hope Florence will be a good girl, and suit; for the Lord knows that you have your hands full!" Charlie ran wild, as usual, through vacation. In one of her long rambles in the woods she found a hollow tree with a rock beside it, and her fertile imagination at once suggested a cave. She worked very industriously to get it in order; brought a great pile of leaves for a bed, and armsful of brush to cook with, and then besought Kit to run away and live in the woods. Kit tried it for one day. They had some apples and berries, and a piece of bread taken from the pantry when Granny wasn't around. They undertook to fish, but could not catch any thing; though Charlie was quite sure, that, if Joe would lend her his pistol, she could shoot a bird. "Anyhow, we'll have a fire, and roast our apples," said Charlie, undaunted. "But it's awful lonesome, I think. S'pose we don't stay all night: Granny'll be worried." "Pooh!" returned Charlie with supreme disdain. So she lighted her fire. The twigs crackled and blazed, and the flame ran along on the ground. "Isn't it splendid!" she exclaimed, "Why, it's almost like fireworks! Oh, see, Kit! that dead tree has caught. We'll have a gay old time now." Alas! Charlie's "gay old time" came to an ignoble end. Some one rushed through the woods shouting,-- "Hillo! What the mischief are you at? Don't you know any better than to be setting the woods on fire?" It was Mr. Trumbull, looking angry enough. He bent the burning tree over, and stamped out the blaze; then poked the fire apart, and crushed the burning fragments into the soft ground. A dense smoke filled the little nook. "Whose work is this? You youngsters deserve a good thrashing, and I've half a mind to take your hide off." With that he caught Kit by the arm. "He didn't do it," spoke up courageous Charlie. "He never brought a leaf nor a stick; and you sha'n't thrash him!" "What's he here for, then?" "I brought him." "And did you kindle the fire?" "Yes," said Charlie, hanging her head a little. "What for? Didn't you know that you might burn the woods down, in such a dry time? Why, I could shut you up in jail for it." That frightened Charlie a good deal. "I didn't mean to--do any harm: we thought--we'd have a little fun"--came out Charlie's answer by jerks. "Fine fun! Why, you're Granny Kenneth's youngsters! I guess I'll have to march you off to jail." "Oh, let Kit go home!" cried Charlie with a great lump in her throat. "It wasn't his fault. He didn't even want to come." Something in the child's air and frankness touched Mr. Trumbull's heart, and caused him to smile. He had a houseful of children at home, every one of whom possessed a wonderful faculty for mischief; but this little girl's bravery disarmed his anger. "I want to explain to you that a fire like this might burn down a handsome piece of woodlands worth thousands of dollars. All these large trees are sent to the sawmill, and made into boards and shingles and various things. So it would be a great loss." "I'm very sorry," returned Charlie. "I didn't know it would do any harm." "If I don't take you to jail this time, will you promise never to do it again?" Charlie shivered a little at her narrow escape. "I surely wouldn't," she said very soberly. By this time Mr. Trumbull had the fire pretty well out. "Well, don't ever let me catch you at it again, or you will not get off so easily. Now trot home as fast as you can." Charlie paused a moment, tugging at the cape of her sun-bonnet. "I'm glad you told me about burning up the woods," she said. "I didn't think of that." Mr. Trumbull laughed pleasantly. So the two walked homeward, Charlie in a more serious frame of mind than usual. "I tell you, Kit," she began at length, "out West is the place to have a cave, and fires, and all that Hal had a book about it. Sometimes children are kidnapped by Indians, and live in their tents, and learn how to make bead-bags and moccasins"-- "I don't want to go;" and Kit gave his slender shoulders a shrug. "They scalp you too." "But they wouldn't me. I should marry one of the chiefs." Then, after a rather reflective pause, "I'm glad we didn't burn down Mr. Trumbull's woods: only I guess he wasn't in earnest when he said he would put me in jail." But for all that she begged Kit not to relate their adventure to Granny, and perplexed her youthful brain for a more feasible method of running away. The house seemed very odd without Florence. The children's small errors passed unrebuked; and they revelled in dirt to their utmost content. For what with working out a day now and then, getting meals, patching old clothes, and sundry odd jobs, Granny had her poor old hands quite full. But she never complained. CHAPTER X. WHICH SHOULD SHE CHOOSE? The reality at Seabury far exceeded Florence Kenneth's expectations. The hotel was really finer than that at Salem. And then, instead of being maid, she found here a woman who waited upon Mrs. Osgood, arranged her hair, kept her dresses in order, and did the small errands. What was she to do, then? Not very much, it seemed. She read aloud, and Florence was an undeniably good reader; she embroidered a little, went every day for a ride, and absolutely sat in the parlor. It was rather embarrassing at first. "I have decided," Mrs. Osgood said to her sister, a few days afterward. "The child has a very sweet temper, and a most affectionate nature; and then she is so lovely. A perfect blonde beauty! In two years she will be able to enter society. Mrs. Deering declared yesterday that her voice was remarkable." "I hope you will not spoil her completely. She has a good share of vanity, I perceive." "It is only proper pride: the child is well-born. I know her mother must have been a lady, and Kenneth is not a common name." "I am sure I hope your _protégée_ will prove a comfort." Then Mrs. Osgood announced her plans to Florence, who was literally overwhelmed. To be adopted by so rich a lady, to have an elegant home, and become skilled in all accomplishments--was it not a dream,--her wild, improbable dream? To Florence Mrs. Osgood was an angel. True, she had seen her rather pettish, and sometimes she scolded Martha, and gave way to hysterical spasms; but these were minor faults. She drew the child to her with the sweet and not-forgotten arts of her faded girlhood, and was pleased with the sincere homage that had in it so much of wonder. Florence would love her like a daughter. "I cannot promise to leave you a fortune," she said, "but while I live you shall have every thing. I was treated very unjustly by Mr. Osgood's will; though I know he was influenced by his relatives, who grudge me every penny. They would be very glad to have some of their children live at Roselawn: I christened the place myself on account of the roses." "How beautiful it must be!" exclaimed Florence, enchanted. "It _is_ a handsome place. You would have a governess, and be taught music and French and drawing, and be introduced everywhere as my daughter. If I had one, I fancy she would look something like you, for I was called very pretty in my younger days;" and Mrs. Osgood sighed. "I can never be grateful enough," said Florence. "I shall want you to love me a great deal,--just as if I were your own mother. And when you are grown you must make me your confidant. You will marry brilliantly, of course; but you must promise that it will not be without my consent." "I shall never want to leave you!" declared Florence impulsively, kissing the thin hands. "It will be such a luxury to have your affection. My life has always been so lonely. Very few people can understand my sensitive nature, but I trust you will be able to." There was some other points not so congenial. When they came to these, Florence's heart shrank a little. For, if she chose Mrs. Osgood, the group at home must drop out of her life completely. There could be no visiting, no corresponding. Poor Florence! This was a cloud upon her bright visions. "I shall write to your grandmother occasionally to let her know that you are well; but, as my daughter, you will be in such an entirely different sphere, that the slightest intimacy would be unwise." What should she do? Would Granny think her cruel and ungrateful? Mrs. Osgood proposed to take her back to Madison to spend a few days in which to decide. As for her, it hardly appeared possible to her that the child could hesitate. And now that she had enjoyed this little taste of luxury, poverty would seem all the more repulsive. They drove over one morning. Luckily, Granny was in very tolerable order; but, oh the difference! She was so glad to see Florence, that she kissed and cried over her a little. "I want to have a talk with your grandmother," Mrs. Osgood said; and Florence betook herself to the kitchen. How dreadfully poor and mean every thing looked! Mrs. Osgood went straight about the business in hand. She described her offer in the most glowing terms, and held out all its advantages. It would relieve Mrs. Kenneth from much care and anxiety, give her one less to struggle for; and then Florence would have the position for which Nature had fitted her. Not one thing was forgotten. Granny listened like one in a dream. Flossy to be a rich lady's daughter,--to ride in a carriage, to have a piano, and be dressed in silk! Could it be true? "But oh! I can't give her up," moaned Granny. "She was poor Joe's first-born, and such a sweet, pretty baby! There never was one on 'em that I could spare." "I wish you would take counsel with some friend. I think this opportunity for Florence is too good to be thrown away." "I don't know, I'm sure. You are very kind and generous. But to part with my poor darling." The lady rose at length. "I shall leave Florence here for three days," she said. "In the mean while consider the subject well, and do not stand in the way of the child's welfare." Florence was very sorry to part with Mrs. Osgood. She walked out to the gate, and lingered there, clinging to the slender hand, and at last being kissed tenderly. "Think earnestly of my proposal. On Saturday I shall come for my answer," said Mrs. Osgood. The lady had not much fear. She knew that money was all-potent in this world; and it was quite absurd to suppose that a pretty girl would prefer toil and poverty in this hovel, to luxury and ease with handsome surroundings. "Oh dear!" and Granny's arms were around Flossy's neck. "I can't let you go away forever. And I am sure you don't want to," scanning the fair face with her fond and eager eyes. "Granny, I don't know what to say. I should so like to have an education, and to be--oh! don't cry so. If every one thinks I ought not to go,"--and Flossy's lip quivered. "I am a foolish old body," sobbed Granny. "I'm not worth minding, my dear." "Fossy tum home. What 'ou ky?" said Dot, tugging at Granny's dress. "If we could see you once in a while." Florence felt the last to be an impossibility. She had a keen perception of the difference in station, and the nameless something that Granny could not be brought to see. "You would hear about me," she said softly. Granny went back to her ironing. Florence offered to help, and arranged her own light table. But it was uncomfortable this hot summer day, and her tender hand felt as if it was blistered. She consoled herself by relating the experiences of the past month, and inwardly sighing for the luxurious life. Granny was not so stupid but that she could see the direction of the child's desires. "I don't wonder that you liked it; and she couldn't help loving you, even if I do say it. Why, a queen might be proud of you! If we knew some one to ask." "There is Mr. Howard," Florence suggested. "Sure enough. He would see all sides of it. We'll go over after the work is done;" and Granny tried to smile a little lightness into her sad face. Charlie had gone to pull weeds for a neighbor, Hal was out also, so there was only Kit to dinner. After that was out of the way, and Dot had her nap, they made themselves ready for their call. Florence tried her best to make a lady out of Granny. A queer little old woman she was, and would be to the end of the chapter. Her bonnet was dreadfully old-fashioned, and her gingham dress too short for modern requirements. Her wrinkled hands were as brown as berries, and she never _would_ wear gloves in the summer. Then, after she was all ready, she surreptitiously tied on her black alpaca apron; at which Flossy gave a sigh of despair. The parsonage was a pretty little nest, half-covered with vines, and shaded by a great sycamore. Dolly and Fred Howard were playing on the grass, and Dot started for the small group instantly. "O Mrs. Kenneth! how do you do? What a stranger you are! And here is Florence, fresh as a rose! I heard that you had run away, my child. Come and sit in the shade here: it is cooler than within doors. Mary, here are some visitors." Mrs. Howard gave them a cordial welcome, and insisted that Granny should lay aside her bonnet. She inquired if Florence had enjoyed her month at Seabury, and if she was not glad to get back again. Granny twisted her apron-strings, and glanced at the young girl uneasily. Of course she must begin somehow, but there was a great sinking at her heart. "Flossy's had a chance," she began; and then the strings were untied. "We thought we'd come and ask a little advice. It's hard tellin' what's for the best;" and Granny looked as if she might break down into a cry. "A chance for an education?" asked Mrs. Howard. "No: it's--to go for good. Flossy, you tell. I am not much of a hand at getting things straight," murmured Granny. Florence told the story in a very ladylike fashion, giving it the air of a romance. "Why, Florence, that is quite an adventure. And she wants to adopt you?" Mrs. Howard exclaimed, much interested. "Do you know any thing about this Mrs. Osgood?" asked Mr. Howard. Florence used her limited knowledge to its fullest extent. "Oh! I believe I know something about Mrs. Duncan. Dr. Carew was attending the boy. I have heard him speak of them all. Isn't Mrs. Osgood something of an invalid,--rather full of whims?" "She is not very strong," Florence admitted. "But it is a remarkable offer," rejoined Mrs. Howard. "And to have one of the family so well provided for, seems like an especial providence." "But to have her go away," said Granny. "To give her up, and never see her again!" "That does seem unkind. Perhaps it would not be quite as bad as that." Mr. Howard studied Florence attentively for a few moments. He had always considered her rather above her station. "It certainly is a generous proposal, granting every thing to be as represented. Florence will receive a superior education, and be raised above the care and drudgery of life. Yet she may have to devote many of her best years to Mrs. Osgood; and ministering to an invalid is wearisome work. It is taking her entirely away from her family, to be sure; but, putting aside love, she might never be able to help along much. Women are not extravagantly remunerated; and, if she went away to teach school, she could not do much more than take care of herself. And there would be a partial separation." Florence gave Mr. Howard a look of relief and thankfulness. "I don't want to keep her from doing whatever will be best," said Granny tremulously. "There are Joe and Hal to help along,--smart boys both. And though your strong and tender arms have kept the little flock together these many years, they will wear out by and by. And, if any accident befell you, it would be well to have some of them provided for. The important question seems to be whether what Florence can do at home will compensate for what she must relinquish. The entire separation appears to me rather unjust. You said that Mrs. Osgood proposed that you should take counsel of some one: suppose I should go to Seabury, and talk the matter over with her?" "Oh, if you would!" said Florence beseechingly. She felt that Mr. Howard was on her side, though she did not quite understand why. "Yes," rejoined Granny, catching at a straw. "You could tell her how it is,--poor Joe's children, every one on 'em so precious to me. I never had much learnin'; but I love 'em for father and mother both, and I can't bear to think of their going away. Ah, well! it's a world full of trouble, though they've always been good to me, poor dears." Mrs. Howard turned away her face to hide her tears, and presently left them to get a slice of nice fresh cake and a glass of milk for her guests. Her heart really ached for Granny. So it was settled that Mr. Howard would go over to Seabury, and learn all the particulars of the offer. Granny was very thankful indeed. Soon after, they picked up Dot, and started homeward. "You rather approve of it," Mrs. Howard said to her husband, watching the retreating figures, and smiling at Dot, who pulled at every wayside daisy-head. "Florence has her heart set upon it, that is plain to see." "And yet it seems ungrateful in her." "It would be nobler for her to stay with Granny, and help rear the others. Yet that is more than one can reasonably expect of pretty young girlhood." "She is industrious, and has many excellent points but she is a good deal ashamed of the poverty." "I wonder whether she would be any real assistance? She has a good deal of vanity, and love of dress; and no doubt she would spend most of her money upon herself. Then, in some mood of dissatisfaction, she might marry unwisely, and perhaps be more trouble than comfort to Granny. If Mrs. Osgood is in earnest, Florence would at least receive an education that might fit her for a nice position in case Mrs. Osgood tired of her." "And the life at home is not a great delight to her," said Mr. Howard with a smile. "But whether I would like to give up my brothers and sisters"-- "Florence is peculiar. Ten years from this time she may love them better than she does now." There was a noisy time in the "Old Shoe" that night. They were all so glad to have Flossy back again. Kit played on imaginary fiddles; Charlie climbed on her chair, and once came tumbling over into her lap; Hal watched her with delight, and thought her prettier than ever; Joe whistled and sang, and told her all that had occurred in the store, pointing his stories with an occasional somerset, or standing on his head to Dot's great satisfaction. "Well, that is really margaret-nificent," declared Joe, flourishing Granny's old apron on the broomstick. "Flossy, you are in luck! It is all due to your winning ways and curly hair." "If I go"--with a sad little sigh. "Go? why, of course you will! She'd be a great goose; would she not, Granny? 'Washing and ironing I daily have to do; Baking and brewing I must remember too; Three small children to maintain: Oh, how I wish I was single again!'" sang Joe with irresistible drollery. Granny laughed; but she winked her eyes hard, and something suspicious shone in them. "It would be splendid, and no mistake! To think of having a piano, and learning French, and riding in a carriage--'A coach and four and a gold galore!' And then pretty Peggy we should"-- Joe made a great pause, for something stuck in his throat. "But couldn't we ever see you?" asked Charlie. An awesome silence fell over the little group. "If you could come and see us once in a while," said Hal softly. "We would not so much mind not going _there_"-- "I'd run away and visit her," announced daring Charlie. "I'd hide about in the woods until I saw her some day, and then"-- "They'd set the dog on you." "Hum! As if I was afraid of a dog, Joe Kenneth! I'd snap my fingers in his face, and ask him what he had for breakfast. Then I'd come back home and tell you all about it." "The breakfast, or the dog?" "Joseph, I am afraid you are getting in your dotage," said Charlie with a shake of the head. "But, if I started to, I know I'd find Florence." "It is rather cruel," said Joe sturdily. "I don't see why she should want to take you entirely away from us." "We cannot look at it just as the lady does," said Hal's mild voice. "I suppose she thinks, if she does so much for Flossy, that she ought to have a good deal of love in return." "She is ashamed of us because we are poor. But maybe if we managed to get along, and grow up nicely--she wouldn't feel so--so particular about it." "I don't believe she would," exclaimed Florence. "You see, people are so different; and--I'm sure I've always wanted you to have nice manners." "So you have, Flossy," declared Joe. "And you were meant for a lady." Hal and Granny sat on the doorstep after the rest had gone to bed, crying a little, and yet finding some comfort. "It would be so nice for Florence!" Hal said in his pleading tone. "She would always have to work here, and not learn music and all those lovely things. And she has such a beautiful voice, you know, and such pretty hands, and nice, dainty ways"-- "But never to see her again!" groaned Granny. "I think we shall see her,--some time. Perhaps Mrs. Osgood might die: she is not very well, and Flossy might come back to us. Oh, yes, Granny, I do believe we shall see her again!" "I've loved you all so much!" "And we should always love you, even if we went to Japan. Then, if Flossy should have to work hard, and be unhappy, we might be sorry that we kept her out of any thing so nice." "I do believe you are right, Hal; only it's so hard to think of not seeing her again." "I'll try to make it up, dear. You will always have me." The soft young lips kissed those that quivered so piteously, and smoothed the wet, wrinkled cheek. "We'll pray about it, Granny. Somehow it seems as if God made these things plain after a while; and it is in his hands. He hears the ravens cry, poor, hungry little birdies; and he must care for us. He will watch over Florence." "O Hal, you talk like a minister! Maybe you will be one some day. And it is so sweet to have you, dear boy!" "I shall never be half good enough," he said solemnly. He crept up to his room, but laid awake a long while, watching the stars, and thinking. Florence resolved the next day that she would not go, and braced herself to martyr-like endurance. But oh, how mean and poor every thing appeared by contrast! Charlie in rags,--you never could keep Charlie in whole clothes; Dot playing in the dirt, for, though you washed her twenty times an hour, she would not stay clean; the shabby, old fashioned, tumble-down cottage,--no, Mrs. Osgood never would want any of these wild Arabs visiting her. So she shed many quiet tears. Perhaps it would be best to make the sacrifice, hard as it was. Granny saw it all. Her old eyes were not blind, and her heart smote her for something akin to selfishness. Poor, aching heart. "Flossy," she said, over her heart-break, "if Mr. Howard is satisfied, I think you had better go." "I have about decided to give it up. Perhaps it is my _duty_ to stay." Granny scanned the face eagerly, but found there no cheerful and sweet self-denial. "I've been thinking it over"--her voice broken and quavering. "Perhaps it will be best. Though I don't like to part with you, for your poor father"--and Granny's inconsequent speech ended in tears. "I'll stay home then, and do what I can; only it seems as if there were so many of us,--and the place so little, and I can't help being different, and liking music and education, and a nice orderly house"-- "No, you can't help it. Poor Joe--your father I mean--liked 'em all too. I've sometimes thought that maybe, if he'd gone away, he might have been a gentleman. He'd a master voice to sing. And God will watch over you there, and not let you come to harm. Oh, dear!" Granny covered her face with her apron, and cried softly. Mr. Howard called that evening. He had been quite favorably impressed with Mrs. Osgood's proposal. "Her connections are all reputable people," he said; "and I think she means to treat Florence like a daughter. She can give her many advantages, and she is strongly attached to her already. But she _is_ exclusive and aristocratic. She wants Florence all to herself. Still, she has made one concession: she will allow her to write home once a year." "And then I could tell you every thing!" exclaimed Florence overjoyed. "But she is resolved not to permit any visiting. To be sure, time may soften this condition; yet, if Florence goes, she ought to abide by her promise." "Yes," answered the child meekly. "It does seem a remarkable opportunity. I do not know as it would be wise to refuse." Ah, if one _could_ know what was for the best! The days flew by so rapidly, there was so much talking, but never any coming to a conclusion. Joe was loudly on Florence's side. So was Hal, for that matter; but from more thoughtful motives. And Granny was too conscientious to stand in the way of the child's advancement, much as she loved her, and longed to keep her. Then, on Friday evening they sat on the old stone doorstep, a sad group, going over the subject in low, sad tones, the pain of parting already in their voices. Granny's vehemence had subsided. Hal had Florence's soft hand in his, Kit's head was in her lap, and Charlie sat at her feet. Should she go? When all the mists and glamor of desire cleared away, as they did now in the calm star-light, with God watching up above, she felt that it would be nobler and truer to remain with them, and share the poverty and the trials. For to have them ill, dying perhaps, without looking upon their dear faces, with no last words or last kisses to remember, was more than she could bear. Would it not seem selfish to go off to luxury and indolence, when they must struggle on with toil and care and poverty? "Oh!" she exclaimed, going to Granny's arms, with a sob. "I believe I cannot leave you when it comes to absolute parting. We have been happy, in spite of the troubles and wants. I should miss you all so much! And, if I could get to be a teacher, I might help a little." Granny held her to her heart, and kissed the wet face again and again. "My dear darling, God bless you!" she said brokenly. Flossy thought herself a very heroic girl. There was a great lump in her throat, and she could not utter another word. It was a born princess turning her back on the palace. Hal and Joe eyed each other inquisitively. It was the noblest thing she could do, but would it be the wisest? CHAPTER XI. OUT OF THE OLD HOME-NEST. But then it all looked so different by daylight! The old rickety house, the noisy children, the general shabbiness, and the life of hard work and dissatisfaction, stretching out interminably. For, to the eyes of fifteen, it seems a long way to fifty; and roses are so much more tempting than thorns! Hal found her out in the garden crying. "Dear Flossy," he began tenderly, "I think you had better go, after all. When the parting is over, Granny will be reconciled, and understand that it is for the best." "But I ought to stay at home and help," she sobbed. "If I could do both"-- "That is not possible;" and Hal tried to smile away the tears in his eyes. "It looks so--so foolish not to be able to make up one's mind." "It is a hard case, and there is so much on Mrs. Osgood's side." "Hal, what would you do?" and Florence glanced up earnestly. "My darling, I think you want to go, and that you would always be unhappy and regretful if you staid. We can't help all our feelings and wants and tastes; and it seems as if you were born for a lady. That is natural too." "But I do love you all, and dear Granny"-- "We shall never doubt that," he answered re-assuringly. "We shall often sit on the old doorstep, and talk about you, and try to imagine you in the beautiful house, with the pictures and the piano, and all the nice things you will be learning. It will be just lovely for us too. Then you can write every summer." "And perhaps I shall come back when I am a woman!" At this Florence brightened wonderfully, but after a moment said, "You don't think it very selfish, Hal?" "My dear, no," replied brave little Hal. "I am sure it would be a great trial for me to give up any thing so splendid." "If you would only tell Granny--again." Hal nodded; for he couldn't say any more just then. Granny wiped the tears out of her old eyes with the corner of her checked apron, and trod upon the cat, stretched out upon the floor, who added her pathetic howl to the fund of general sorrow. So it came to pass, when Mrs. Osgood made her appearance, Florence was quite elegant and composed. The lady was very, very gracious. She expatiated on the great advantage this step would be to Florence, the pleasure to _her_, and the relief to Granny to know that one of her flock was provided for. Of course, she understood it was hard to part with her; but they had so many left, that in a little while they would hardly miss her. Then they _would_ hear about her, and no doubt come to rejoice in her good fortune. Indeed, by the time Mr. Howard arrived, she had talked them into quite a reasonable frame of mind. She promised to treat her like a daughter, educate her handsomely; so that, in case of her death, Florence would be able to take care of herself. If, at the end of the first year, she should feel unwilling to remain, Mrs. Osgood would not oppose her return. Granny was calm, but very grave, while these preliminaries were being discussed. Hal kept swallowing over great sobs that wrenched his heart at every breath. The agreement was concluded and signed. "Now, my dear, put on your hat," said Mrs. Osgood in her sweetest tone. "Brief partings are the kindest; are they not, Mr. Howard? I am much obliged for your assistance in this matter; and you must permit me to offer you a small donation for your pretty little church." Granny's tears streamed afresh; but Hal managed her with delicate tenderness. Florence kissed them all many times. Dot wanted to go in the "boofer wagon;" while Kit and Charlie looked on, with tearful, wondering eyes, not half understanding the importance of the step. Then--she was driving away. One last, long look. Was that the waving of her pretty white hand? Their eyes were too dim to see. "It seems to me that she will come back to the old house some time," said Hal, breaking the sad silence. Granny turned away, and shut herself in the best room. For a long while they heard nothing of her. But God was listening to the heart-broken prayer, which he answered in his own time and his own way. "So Flossy's gone!" exclaimed Joe soberly that night. "I can't make it seem a bit real. Air-castles don't generally turn into the substantial. After the king's ball I guess she will come home in glass slippers, and we will have her giving us loads of good advice. It is so sure to be true, Granny, that we can afford to take a little comfort meanwhile." Granny did not laugh as usual. Kit chewed his thumb vigorously, and saw piles of violins in the distance. But they confessed to being very lonesome on Sunday. Charlie declined wearing Flossy's second-best hat; for she insisted that she "felt it in her bones" that Florence would return, which Joe declared was incipient rheumatism, and that she must take a steam-bath over the spout of the tea-kettle. Yet secretly in his heart he had greater faith in the mythical sea-captain who was to take him off with flying colors. About a month afterwards they received a letter from Mrs. Osgood. Joe displayed the handsome monogram in great triumph, and begged Mr. Terry to let him run home with it at noon. They all crowded round him with eager eyes. "It's Granny's letter," he said, handing it to her. "Read it, Hal," she rejoined tremulously. Mrs. Osgood gave a delightful account of Florence; declaring that she already loved her as a mother, and, the homesickness being over, she was studying industriously. There was no doubt but that she would make a very fine musician; and it was extremely fortunate that such talent could be rescued in time to make the most of it. Then Florence added a few words, to say that she was very happy, and that it seemed like fairy-land, every thing was so beautiful. She enclosed a gift for them all, and said good-by until next year. They felt then how surely they were divided; yet they all rejoiced in Flossy's good fortune. Mr. and Mrs. Howard were very kind; but I think Hal's tender love did more towards comforting Granny than all the rest. She kept telling herself that it was foolish to grieve; yet there was a dumb ache way down in the poor old heart, an empty corner where one birdling had flown out of the home-nest. The affair had created quite an excitement in Madison. Joe pictured it in the most gorgeous style, and made Mrs. Osgood an actual fairy godmother. Mrs. Van Wyck, who still held a little grudge against her, insisted that it was not half as grand as the Kenneths represented it. "Now, Mr. Howard," she said at one of the parsonage gatherings, "is it really true? Did this woman adopt that flyaway Kenneth girl, or only take her as a sort of servant? And is she so very rich?" "Mrs. Osgood is a lady of means and position, and is connected with some of the most reliable people in New York. She has legally adopted Florence, and I was a witness to the agreement. It certainly was a rather remarkable event." "Well, she's nothing but a bunch of vanity, anyhow. She'll make one of the high-flyers, without a grain of sense, and I dare say elope with the coachman. I wish the woman joy of her bargain;" and Mrs. Van Wyck set her cap-streamers in violent motion. Autumn came on apace. Poor Granny was grievously perplexed when she entered the clothing-campaign. Florence's fertile brain and handy fingers were sorely missed. Granny did her best; but the tasty touches the child was wont to add, that transformed the commonest garb into certain prettiness, were lacking now. Still, Charlie thought it a godsend to have so many clothes all at once, having fallen heir to Flossy's discarded heritage. "Granny!" exclaimed Hal, rushing in breathless one afternoon, "Mr. Kinsey says he will take all my chickens to market! Isn't that splendid? He is going on Friday, and again next Tuesday; and he showed me how to make a crate to pack them in. Now is the very time, he says." "But we'll have to kill 'em, Hal!" exclaimed Granny aghast. "To be sure: that's the hard part of it, isn't it;" and Hal looked sober. "They seem a'most like human beings. They patter round after Dot, and talk to her in their queer fashion, and eat out of her hand. But, then, we couldn't keep them all through the winter." "We shall save the pets. There are some that I could not spare. But you must not grow chicken-hearted, Granny;" and he laughed softly at her. "Deary me! Somehow I can't bear to part with any thing any more. What a foolish old cretur!" "The dearest old creature in the world!" and Hal kissed her. "I wouldn't have you changed a mite, except, that, when you were almost a hundred, I'd like to set you back so that we could keep you always." "I sha'n't be worth it, Hal;" and she shook her head. "I shall have to stay home from school on Tuesday. I am quite anxious to know what our fortune will be, and whether it has paid." For Hal had gone back to school, as there seemed no business opening for him. Mr. Terry had raised Joe's wages; and, one way and another, they managed to get along quite comfortably. Hal tried to make up for the absence of Florence, and comforted Granny in many tender, girlish ways. He would pull her cap straight, and find her glasses and her thimble, two things that were forever going astray. Then he borrowed books from one and another to read aloud evenings; and, though Granny sat in the chimney-corner and nodded, she always declared that it was the loveliest thing in the world, and that she didn't believe but Hal would write a book some day himself, he was so powerful fond of them. To Charlie and Kit this was a great enjoyment. Indeed, it seemed as if in most things they listened more readily than they ever had to Florence. Dear, sweet-souled Hal! Your uses and duties in the world were manifold. And yet it tries our faith to see such fine gold dropped into the crucible. Is it those whom the Lord loveth? They had a great time on Thursday. Joe was up early in the morning, as he thought there was some fun in making an onslaught upon the army of chickens; so when Hal and Granny stepped over the threshold, they saw a great pile of decapitated fowls. "Why, Hal, you'll make a mint of money!" exclaimed Joe. "I suppose you mean to put it in government bonds." Hal only laughed. But he and Granny were busy as bees all day. About four o'clock Mr. Kinsey came over to see how the packing progressed. "There are just two dozen," said Hal; "and I shall have two dozen again next week." "They're beauties too! Why, I believe they go ahead of mine. You've plucked them nicely. Poultry's pretty high this year; retailing at twenty-five and twenty-eight, I heard." They weighed them, and then laid them snugly in the crate; plump and yellow, looking almost good enough to eat without a pinch of salt, Mr. Kinsey said. "Now I shall send them all over to the station, and they'll go through in the freight-train. Jim will soon be here with the wagon." Joe and Hal counted up the possible profit that evening. They had raised, with all their broods, sixty-five chickens. The actual outlay for food had been seventeen dollars; and Hal had sold eggs to the value of two dollars and a half. "It's better than keeping store, I do believe!" ejaculated Joe. "Hal, you have a genius for farming." "Does raising chickens prove it?" "If a hundred of corn-meal costs two fifty, what will the biggest chanticleer in the lot come to? There's a question for you, Granny." "Why, it would depend on--how much he weighed," said Granny cautiously. "Oh, no! it would depend on how you cooked him. In my kitchen he'd come to pot-pie, according to the double rule of a good hot fire." "You won't sell 'em all, Hal?" said Charlie anxiously. "No: we will have a little Thanksgiving for ourselves." Granny sighed. They all knew of whom she was thinking,--a sweet, fair face dropped out of the circle. Now that Flossy was gone, they remembered only her pleasant qualities; and it seemed as if Joe did not care half so much for making a noise when she was not here to be teased. Mr. Kinsey did not return until Saturday, but he came over with a smiling face. "Royal luck for you, Hal!" he said in his hearty tone. "I've half a mind to make you guess, and keep all that is over." "But I might guess high;" and a bright smile brought sunshine into the boy's face. "Try it, then." "Thirty dollars," ventured Hal, rather hesitatingly. "Though I don't believe it _is_ as much as that." "Thirty-two dollars; and the same man has spoken for your next lot. They were about the handsomest chickens in the market." "Oh! isn't that splendid?" said Hal. "Why, I can hardly believe it!" "There's the money. I've always observed that there's no eye-salve like money;" and Mr. Kinsey laughed. "You ought to have something for your trouble." "No, my fine little fellow. I shall only take out the freight. I'm glad to see you so energetic; and I do hope you will prosper as well in every thing you undertake." Hal thanked Mr. Kinsey again and again, and insisted that he should come over and do some work for the farmer; but that gentleman only laughed. "Have your second lot ready on Tuesday evening," said he, as he wished them good-day. The next was still more of a success, for they netted thirty-four dollars. Hal was overjoyed. "That certainly is 'bully!' our dear Flossy to the contrary," declared Joe. "Why, I'm so glad that I could stand on my head or the tip of my little finger. What _will_ you do with it all? Granny, was there ever so much money in this old house? It's lucky that I have a pistol to keep guard." Granny smiled, but a tear crept to the corner of her eye. "Now let us reckon it all up," said Hal. "Here is my book." Every item had been put down in the most systematic manner. They made a list of the expenses, and added the column, then subtracted it from the whole sum. "Forty-seven dollars!" "All that clear!" asked Granny in amaze. "Yes. Isn't it wonderful?" Joe could hold in no longer; but took a tour over the chairs, as if they had been a part of the flying trapeze. Hal's eyes were as large as saucers,--small ones. "I wouldn't a' believed it! But you've been very ekernomical, Hal, and used every thing, and raised so much corn"-- "And the buckwheat-field was so nice for them! If we can only keep them comfortable through the winter, and have them lay lots of eggs!" "It's astonishing how contrary they are when eggs are scarce," said Joe gravely. "What do you suppose is the reason, Charlie?" "Forty-seven dollars!" said Charlie, loftily ignoring the last remark. "Enough to buy me a fiddle," Kit remarked. "It will have to buy a good many things," said Hal. "I am so very, very thankful for it." Granny insisted that Hal should have a suit of clothes, and finally persuaded him into buying a complete outfit. That took twenty-three dollars. Then some boots for Kit, shoes for Charley, a pretty dress for Dot, a barrel of flour, and there was very little of it left. "But it was really magnificent!" said Hal with a sigh of pleasure. "I shall try it again next year, if you don't mind the trouble, Granny." Granny said that she should not. Their Christmas festival was quiet compared to the last one. Flossy had helped make them gay then, and there had been the wonderful shoe. Would any thing ever be quite as brilliant again? "It almost seems as if Flossy was dead, doesn't it?" Hal said softly to granny. "And yet I suppose she has had lots of presents, and is--very--happy." "God keep her safely," answered Granny. Before spring some changes came to Madison. Grandmother Kinsey died, having reached a good old age; and Mr. Kinsey resolved to put his pet project into execution,--removing to the West, and farming on a large scale. Everybody was very sorry to have them go. It seemed to Granny as if she were losing her best friend. Ah! by and by the world would look very wide and desolate. But the Kenneths had a little recompense for their loss. In casting about for a parting gift to Hal, fortune seemed to put an excellent one right in his way. In having some dealings with Farmer Peters, he took the small piece of land that Hal had made so profitable, and deeded it to the boy. "It is not much," he said; "but it may help along a little. I only wish you were going out West with me. That's the place for boys!" Hal almost wished that he could. "But you will come and visit us some day, I know. You are a brave, ambitious little chap, and deserve to prosper. I hope you will, indeed." Hal was a good deal astonished, and wonderfully thankful for his gift. To think of being actual owner of some land! "You beat the Dutch for luck, Hal! I never did see any thing like it," was Joe's comment. All Madison bewailed the Kinseys. They were some of the oldest settlers, and it was like removing a landmark. Mrs. Kinsey did not forget Granny, but sent her many useful articles in the way of old clothes, and some furniture that would have brought but a trifle at auction, yet served to quite renovate the little cottage. But when Granny tried to thank her kind friend, Mrs. Kinsey said,-- "I've always been glad to do what I could; for when I thought of you at your age, taking charge of all those little ones, it seemed as if every one ought to stand by you. And they will be a comfort to you, I know. God will not let you go without some reward." Granny wiped the tears from her eyes, and answered brokenly. One and another were dropping out of her world. She had hardly recovered from this blow when one night Joe came home in high glee. "The luck's changed, Hal!" he said in his laughing, breezy voice. "Just guess"-- "More wages?" "No indeed! Better still, a great sight. If you have tears, please wring out your pocket-hand_kerchers_, and prepare to shed 'em! Slightly altered from Shakspeare. I'm going to sea! Hip, hip, hurrah!" Joe swung his old hat so hard that crown and brim parted, the crown landing on the mantle-piece. "Couldn't have done better if I'd tried. I'm a dead shot, for certain!" "Going to sea?" Granny came out at that. "Yes. A cousin of Mr. Terry's has been visiting there; and we have struck up a friendship and a bargain,--Cap'n Burton. He owns a sloop that goes to Albany and around, and wants a boy who can keep books a little, and all that. It's just as jolly as a lark!" It was plain to be seen that Joe no longer stood in awe of Florence's ladylike reprimands. Granny's eyes grew larger and larger. She fairly clutched Joe's arm as she gasped,-- "Going--to sea!" "Yes, Granny. Don't get solemn new, as if you thought a shark would devour me the first thing,--body and boots. You know it always _was_ my idea, and this is real splendid! And there's no more danger than driving Mr. Terry's grocery-wagon." "But you might get drownded," Granny said awesomely. "Tell you what I'll do, Granny. Tie a rope to my leg, and fasten it to the mast. Then you know, if I fall overboard, I can haul in. There isn't a bit of danger. Why, Capt. Burton's been all his life. There, don't cry. You are the dearest old grandmother that ever was; but we can't stay under your wing forever." "You have not made your bargain?" asked Hal, surprised that another dream should come true. "Well,--almost. He's coming down here in the morning to have a talk with Granny. He will give me ten dollars a month and found, which mean, tea and fish and baccy." "Oh!" said Hal, "you won't chew tobacco?" "Sailors always do. But ten dollars a month _is_ better than eight, and my board thrown in. I'm going, Granny." Granny sighed. It was useless to endeavor to talk Joe out of his project; and so she might as well keep silence. Capt. Burton came the next morning. He had taken a wonderful fancy to Joe, and was very anxious to engage him. "He's just the kind of lad that I need," exclaimed the captain. "I want some one who is handy, and quick in figgers; who can keep my accounts for me, as my eyes are getting rather poor; and do arrants; and I've taken a 'mazing liking to him. I'll keep a good watch over him; and he can come home once in a while." "How far do you go?" asked Granny. "To Albany, mostly. Now and then I take a trip around Long Island, or up the Sound. Your boy has taken a 'mazing fancy to the sea; and he will never be satisfied until he's had a taste of salt water, in my 'pinion." "No, that I won't!" declared Joe stoutly. "We haul off in the winter 'bout three months; which'll give him a holiday. Sence he hankers after it so, you better consent, I think. Cousin Terry will tell you that I ain't a hard master." What could Granny say? Nothing but cry a little, look up Joe's clothes, and kiss him a hundred times, or more, after the fashion of Mrs. Malloy and her dear Pat. Joe was so delighted, that he could hardly "hold in his skin," as he said to Kit, who sagely advised him not to get into a cast-iron sweat,--Kit's chronic fear on remarkable occasions. There was not much time for consideration. In two days Joe was off, bag and baggage, whistling, "The girl I left behind me." And so the gay household thinned out. They missed Joe terribly. To be sure, vacation commenced after a while; and Kit and Charlie were in mischief continually, or in rags: Granny hardly knew which was worse. They had some glowing letters from Joe, who didn't believe there was any thing finer in Europe than New York and the Hudson River. Capt. Burton was a "jolly old tar;" and nautical phrases were sprinkled about thick as blackberries. Mr. Terry offered the place in the store to Hal, who consulted awhile with Granny. "I think I could make as much money by working round, and raising chickens, and all that; and then I could go to school. I believe I should like it better; and there is so much that I want to learn!" "But you know a master sight now, Hal," said Granny in admiration. So the proposal was very kindly declined. Charlie thought Fourth of July was "awful dull" this year. She lamented Joe loudly. "If she had only been a boy!" said Hal regretfully. The latter part of July, Joe came home for a flying visit. It seemed as if he had grown taller in this brief while. His curly hair had been cropped close; and he was brown as an Indian. Charlie made herself a perpetual interrogation-point; and Joe told her the most marvellous yarns that ever were invented. She soon learned every thing about the sloop, and wished that she could be a sailor, but finally comforted herself by thinking that she _might_ marry a sea-captain. Then, to crown all, they had a letter from Florence. It was written on tinted paper, and had a beautiful monogram in green and gold. She was very well, very happy; had grown a little taller than Mrs. Osgood; and was studying every thing. She could play quite well, and read French, and went to dancing-school, besides lovely little parties. Then the house was so elegant! She had never been homesick at all. Perhaps she thought it would be wrong to wish to see them; for that was never once expressed. "But I am glad she is happy," said Granny, striving to be heroic. CHAPTER XII. JOE'S FORTUNE. Hal's chickens were a success again, though it cost more for him to get them to market this fall. And, since eggs seemed to be a very profitable speculation, they concluded to winter over quite a number, mostly spring broods. Hal enlarged their house; as he had a wonderful gift, Granny declared, for building. And a very nice place it was, I can assure you. Granny still wove rag-carpets and the like, and now and then helped a neighbor at house-cleaning; but she had not worked out so much since the Kinseys went away. It troubled Hal to have her do it at all. "When I get a little older, you never shall, Granny," he would say, giving her a fond hug; and she would answer,-- "You're a great blessing, Hal. Whatever should I have done without you?" Dot grew nicely, though she was still "small for her size." Joe said. But now she kept quite well; and she was as fair as a lily, with tiny golden curls that never seemed to grow long. There the resemblance to Florence ceased. She was such an odd, old-fashioned little thing! and reminded Hal more of Granny than any one else. "It would be sweet to have her a baby always, now that she is well, and doesn't cry all the time," said Hal. "I'm sorry to have her lose all her crooked baby words. Joe use to laugh so over 'pety poket,' and 'poky hontis,' and 'umbebella tause it wained.' Dear, dear! shall we ever have such nice, gay times again, Granny, when there wasn't any thing but mush and molasses for supper, and a crowd of hungry children?" Granny sighed at the remembrance. "And yet it is a comfort to grow up, and be able to do something for you." Hal studied hard, and spent much of his leisure time in reading. Charlie was wilder than a hawk, combining Joe's love of mischief with perfect lawlessness. Mr. Fielder tried every motive of reward, and every method of punishment; and Charlie cried one moment, but laughed the next, and, what was infinitely more aggravating, made all the children laugh. If every thing else failed her, she could draw funny faces on her slate, that set every one in a titter. And then she climbed trees, jumped fences, or perched herself on a post, and made Fourth-of-July orations. She could talk Irish with a true national screech and whoop, or broken German as if she had just come over; she could make "pigs under the gate," cats in a terrible combat, and a litter of puppies under your feet that would absolutely frighten you. Nobody could see what Granny Kenneth would do with Charlie. Florence, now, had been a lady; but Charlie was a regular wild Indian. She could work like a Trojan, but she did not like it; and as for sewing--well, there was no word that could describe the performance. With all her faults, she had a warm, tender side to her character. She fought Kit's battles, and always came off triumphant. She was never cruel to any thing smaller and weaker than herself; and I think no one ever could remember her telling a lie. But as Dot said in her sage way, with a solemn shake of the head,-- "She was the worstest child we had." Joe came home the latter part of December as important as the Great Mogul himself. _We_ had been selling out the old craft, and were bargaining for a regular little beauty,--a trading-vessel to make trips between New York and the West Indies, Cuba, and all those places. The boys opened their eyes at that. Joe Kenneth actually going to Havana, to be feasted continually upon oranges, figs, cocoanuts, and bananas! Why, it was wonderful! incredible! There _was_ nothing like being a sailor, and travelling all over the world. Joe took upon himself the tallest kind of airs, confused the boys with his flying-jib and spanker and mizzen-mast and capstan and larboard and starboard, and forty other things that he knew all about, and they didn't. And then the frolics and tricks, the sailors' yarns, the storms and dangers, held them all spell-bound. Indeed, I don't believe Joe ever knew so much again in all his life. Capt. Burton followed him about a week later. "The Morning Star" had been purchased, and was being repaired a little. The captain's principal errand in Madison was to see Granny Kenneth. "Joe and me gets along tip-top," he said. "He's a sailor all over: there isn't a hair in his head but loves salt water. And I'm as glad to have him as he is to go; but, as we were making a new bargain all round, it wouldn't 'a been the thing not to come here and have a talk with you." "Yes," replied Granny with a bob of her curls, though for her life she could not have told to what she was assenting. "It's just here, you see. If the lad means to be a sailor, he can't have a much better chance. He's smart and quick in figgers, which suits me to a shaving; and I'd like to take him for the next two years. I'll give twelve dollars a month, beginning now, and look after him as if he'd a been my own son. I had a lad once,--about like him. It all came back when I was at Cousin Terry's last winter, watching him, so full of pranks and tricks, and with a smile and a pleasant word for everybody. My Dick was jest so. I took him on a trip with me, for he had a hankerin' after the sea; but his poor mother she most grieved herself sick. There wa'n't no gals to comfort her. He was all we had. So I left him home next time. I can jest see him, with the tears shining in his eyes, and a' choking over his good-by; and then how he turned round and put his face right between his mother's neck and shoulder, so's I shouldn't see him cry. Well, when I came back my poor Dick was dead and buried." Granny gave a little sob, and Capt. Burton drew the back of his hand across his eyes. "Yes, 'twas a fever. His poor mother was 'most crazy. So I tried to comfort her. 'Sweetheart,' said I, 'God is all over, on the sea as well as the land, and he's brought our Dick into a better port, though we can't understand it jest now in our grief. If we didn't know there was a wiser hand than ours in it, we couldn't bear it; but that will help to cheer a bit. But it was a hard blow." Capt. Burton wiped his eyes, and cleared the huskiness from his voice. "So I took a 'mazing fancy to this lad; and I'm proud to say I like him better'n better. He's trusty, for all his fun and nonsense, and bright as steel. So, if you'll agree, I will promise to do my best, and put him along as fast as I can, so that by the time he's a man he will be able to manage a craft of his own. He's a smart lad." Granny was glad to hear the good report; and as for the bargain,--why, there was nothing to do but to consent. She did not know as it would be any worse to have Joe go to Cuba than to Albany. "It won't be as bad," said he. "Why, I can come home every time that we're in port unloading. It's the most splendid streak of luck that I ever heard of. And, Granny, I'm bound to go to China some day." Granny consented inwardly, with a great quaking of the heart. "And you'll have the green-house, Hal! Wasn't it funny that we should plan it all up in the old garret?" Hal's eyes sparkled with a distant hope. "Can't girls _ever_ go to sea?" asked Charlie. "Oh, yes! they can go to see their friends and take tea, or go to Europe if they have money enough." "I did not mean that!" she said with contempt. "Tell you what, Charlie," and there was a sly twinkle in Joe's eye: "there is something that you can do if you would like to be a boy." "What?" and Charlie was on tiptoe. "Why, there's a kind of mill somewhere; and they put girls in it, and grind 'em all up fine, and they come out boys!" "O Joe!" "Fact," said Joe solemnly. "I wonder--if--'twould--hurt much?" and Charlie considered on her powers of endurance. That was too much for Joe, and even Hal joined the laugh. "I knew it wasn't true," said Charlie, red with anger and disappointment. "But I do hate to be a girl, and you having all the fun and going everywhere." "Well, you can run away. There is a bright opening for your future." "You see if I don't!" returned Charlie. So Joe went off again in capital spirits. At Capt. Burton's suggestion he told Granny that he meant to give her half his pay; which she, simple soul, thought the noblest thing in the world. "I mean to do a good deal for you by and by, Granny. I'll be a captain some day, and make oceans of money." "It is nice to have Joe settled and in good hands," Hal said after he was gone. "And I hope we'll all be an honor to you, Granny." "You've been a comfort since the day you were born," was Granny's tremulous answer. They found Joe's six dollars a month a great help; and then the two were missed out of the dish, as well as the household circle. Hal still kept to his thoughtful ways, reading and studying, and planning how he should make his wants and his opportunities join hands. For somehow he did mean to compass the green-house. Joe's letters and stories were wonderfully entertaining. He began to lose the boy's braggadocio: indeed, the facts themselves were interesting enough, without much embellishment. One by one the islands came in for a share. Moro Castle and all the old Spanish fortifications, the natives who were so new and peculiar, the different modes of life, the business, the days and nights of listless, lovely sailing, the storms and dangers, gave a great variety to his life. Now and then he brought them some choice fruits; and, while Charlie and Kit devoured them, Hal used to sit and listen to the description of orange-groves, and how pine-apples and bananas grew. It was something to have been on the spot, and looked at them with your own eyes,--ever so much better than a book. Thus the months and years ran on. Joe was past sixteen, tall, and, though not thin, had a round, supple look, and could dance a break-down to perfection. He did not practise standing on his head quite so much, but I dare say he could have done it with equal grace. He was just as droll and as merry as ever; and you would always be able to tell him by the twinkle in his fun-loving eye. In fact, Joe Kenneth was "somebody" at Madison. Hal was much smaller of his age. Charlie began to evince symptoms of shooting up into a May-pole, and being all arms and legs. She was still thin, lanky indeed, and always burned as brown as a berry, except a few weeks at mid-winter; and her eyes looked larger than ever; while her hair was cropped close,--she would have it so, and, to her great disgust, it seemed as if it was actually turning red. "Because you always ran in the sun so much," Hal would say. They heard from Flossy, who was happy and prosperous,--a great lady indeed. She had elegant dresses, and went to grand parties, had created a sensation at Saratoga, been to Niagara Falls, and expected to spend the winter at Fifth-avenue Hotel. Ah, how far she had drifted beyond them! They could not cross the golden river that flowed between. Did she ever long for them a little? Would she be glad to drop down upon them in all her glory and beauty, and be kissed by the dear old lips that prayed daily and nightly for her welfare? There came some quite important changes to Madison. A new railroad was projected, that would shorten the distance to the intervening cities, and bring it within an hour's ride from the great emporium, New York. Then began a great era of activity. Streets were laid out around the station; quite an extensive woollen-mill was put in operation, which caused an influx of population. The old sawing-mill was enlarged, so great became the demand for lumber; the Kinsey farm was divided into building-lots, some rather elegant mansions were raised, and a new church erected. The Kenneth place was rather out of range of all this. "But our little farm may be quite valuable by and by," declared Hal. "It would be astonishing, Granny, if you were to become a rich woman before you died." "I'll have to live a good long while;" and Granny gave her cracked but still pleasant little laugh. Joe remained nearly two years and a half with Capt. Burton, when the crowning good fortune of his life, as he thought it, occurred. This was nothing less than an opportunity to go to China, his great ambition. It almost broke Granny's heart. To have him away two or three months had appeared a long while; but when it came to be years-- "Of course I shall return," declared Joe. "Did you ever hear of a fish being drowned, or a bad penny that didn't come back? And then for a silk gown, Granny, and a crape shawl! You shall have one if you are a hundred years old, and have to hobble around with a crutch." "I'd rather have you than a hundred silk gowns." "And I expect you to have me. The very handsomest grandson in the family. If you are not proud of me, Granny, I shall cut you off with a shilling, and wear a willow garland all the days of my life, in token of grief." So he kept them laughing to the latest moment; and, after all, it was not so very different from the other partings. But he declared, if Granny didn't live to see him come home, he never should be able to forgive her. Hal actually went down to New York to see him off, and had a pleasant visit with Mrs. Burton. It was a great event in the boy's life. "I didn't think there ever could be quite such a splendid place!" he said on his return. "And the great beautiful bay, with its crowds and crowds of shipping, looking like flocks of birds in the distance; but the people almost frightened me, for it seemed as if one could never get out of the tangle. Then the park is just like fairy-land. And I found a place where a man buys cut-flowers, especially all kinds of beautiful white ones. And, Granny, one _could_ make a good deal of money with a hot-house." "I hope you'll have it," Granny answered; though, truth to tell, she had no very clear ideas upon the subject, except that Hal of all others deserved to have his dream come true. Hal had treated himself to a book on gardening, and another on floriculture. He was fifteen now,--a steady, industrious little chap; and the farmers round were very glad to have him when they were in a hurry or ran short of help. For Hal had a good many very sensible ideas, and sometimes quite astonished the country people who went on in the same groove as their fathers and grandfathers. To be sure, they laughed and pooh-poohed a little; but, when his plans proved more fortunate in some respect, they admitted that he had an old head on young shoulders. "I'm going to have some nice hot-beds for next spring," he said to Granny. "I'm sure I can sell early lettuce and radishes, and some of those things." So he worked on, spending his leisure days in improving his own little garden-spot. The place had begun "to blossom like a rose," dear Joe said. There were honeysuckle and roses trained over the house, making it a pretty little nest, in spite of want of paint and a general tumbling into decay. Over the kitchen part crept clusters of wisteria; and in front there were two mounds of flowers, making the small dooryard bright and attractive. The chickens had to be kept by themselves, on Hal's farm. Every day he felt thankful for that little plot of ground. Mr. Terry was glad to take all their eggs, for Hal managed that they should be large and choice. "And if I should have a hot-house by the time Joe comes back, it will be just royal!" Granny smiled. Poor dear Hal! One day he was working out in the hayfield, gay as a lark; and Farmer Morris said his boys did as much again work when Hal was there. The last load was going home. Hal mounted to the top, calling merrily to the group, when the horses gave a sudden start. It seemed as if he only slid down, and the distance was not very great; but he lay quite still. They waited for a laugh or a shout, and then ran; but Hal's face was over in the grass. Great brawny Sam lifted him up, uttering a sharp cry; for Hal was deathly white, and could not stand. A deep groan escaped the lips that had laughed with gladness only a moment ago, and were now drawn to a thin blue line. They crowded round with awe-stricken faces. "Oh, he isn't dead!" "No, I guess not;" and Sam's voice had a quiver in it, as if tears were not far off. "O father, father!" Mr. Morris hurried to the spot. "Poor Hal! Let's take him home, and send for a doctor. I wouldn't had it happen for a hundred dollars! It'll about kill his grandmother." Hal gave another groan, but did not open his eyes. "Can't we rig up some kind of a litter? for, if he's hurt much, it will never do to carry him by hand. Run get a shutter, Sam. Dick, go and bring a hatful of water. Poor boy! I'd rather it had been one of my own." Dick flew to the brook, and brought back some water, with which they bathed the small white face. Then Sam made his appearance, with a shutter on his shoulder. "Raise him softly, so. Dick, run after Dr. Meade as fast as you can go. We'll take him home." They lifted him with tender hands; but both soul and body were unconscious of pain. Sam brushed away some tears with his shirt-sleeve, and Farmer Morris spread his linen coat over the silent figure. It was some distance to Mrs. Kenneth's. Charlie was firing stones at a mark; but she rushed to the gate and screamed, "Granny, Granny!" When Granny Kenneth saw them with their burden, a speechless agony seized every pulse. She could not even utter a cry. "He isn't dead," Farmer Morris hurried to say. "But it's a sad day's work, and I'd a hundred times rather it had been my Dick." "O Hal, my darling! The greatest comfort your poor old Granny had! No, I can't have him die. Oh! will God hear us, and pity me a little? I've had a sight o' troubles in my day, but this"-- They laid him on Granny's bed, and washed his face with camphor, feeling of the limp wrists, and chafing the cold hands. A little quiver seemed to run along the lips, deepening into a shudder, and then a groan which they were thankful to hear. "No, he isn't dead. Thank God for that!" Fortunately Dr. Meade was at home, and he lost no time in coming over immediately. Mr. Morris and the doctor stripped off Hal's clothes, and began to examine the limbs. The arms were all right,--ankles, knees, ah, what was this! Hal opened his eyes, and uttered an excruciating cry. Granny rocked herself to and fro, her poor old brain wild with apprehension, for his pain was hers. "The trouble's here,--in the thigh. Not a break, I hope; but it's bad enough!" Bad enough they found it,--a severe and complicated fracture, and perhaps internal injuries. "Do your best, doctor," said Mr. Morris. "I'm going to foot this bill; and if any thing'll save him"-- He sent Sam back for some articles that they needed, and tried patiently to understand the full extent of the injury. Part of the time Hal was unconscious. And after a long while they laid him on his back, bandaged, but more dead than alive. "My wife will come over and stay with you," Mr. Morris said to Granny. "She's a master hand at nursing." Dot hid herself in the shadow of Granny's skirts, clinging fast with her little hands; and Kit and Charlie huddled in the corner of the kitchen window-sill, crying softly. No one wanted any supper, except the chickens, who asked in vain. All night Granny prayed in her broken, wandering way. God had her own dear Joe up in heaven. Flossy was gone; little Joe was on the wide ocean; and how could she live without her precious Hal! Not but what he was good enough to be an angel, only--only--and the poor heart seemed breaking. God listened and answered. The August weather was hot and sultry; and Hal had to battle with fever, with dreadful languor and mortal pain. He used to think sometimes that it would be blessed to die, and have a little rest, but for Granny's sake!-- After the first fortnight the danger was over, and the case progressing fairly. Hal's back had received some injury, that was evident, and recovery would be tedious. But Granny was so thankful to have him any way. Everybody was very kind. Mr. and Mrs. Howard came often; the Terrys sent in many luxuries; Sam Morris drew a cord of wood, sawed, split, and piled it; and there was nothing wanting. But Hal lay there white and wan, his fingers growing almost as thin as Dot's little bird's claws. "I can't understand why it had to happen to you, Hal," Granny would exclaim piteously. "Now, if it had been Charlie, who is always sky-larking round; but you, the very best one of 'em all!" Hal would sigh. He couldn't exactly understand it, either. But somehow--God was so much greater than them all; and he _did_ keep watch, for it was better to be lying here than in the churchyard yonder. Mr. Fielder had gone away, and Hal felt the loss sorely. He was a little afraid of Mr. Howard, and could not seem to talk of his plans and his flowers, and ask any question that puzzled him; though Mr. Howard kindly sent him entertaining books, and used to drop in for a chat now and then. September passed. Hal was still unable to sit up, and he began to grow weary of the confinement. "Granny," he said one day, "I believe I'll have to be a girl, and learn to make myself useful. I could knit a little once, or I might sew patchwork. There is no one to laugh at me." "Dear heart, so you shall," replied Granny. So she cut him out a pile of pretty bright calicoes begged of the dressmaker. And then he knit Charlie a pair of yarn mittens, and crocheted some edging for Dot's white apron. Indeed, Dot was a great comfort to him. She used to climb up on his bed with her "Red Riding Hood," or "Mother Goose Melodies," and read him stories by the hour. Then she would twine her fingers in his soft brown hair to make him "pretty," as she said, and cuddle him in various ways, always ending with a host of kisses and, "Dotty so sorry for you, Hal!" For she was still a little midget, and cried so dreadfully the first day she went to school that they let her stay home. Hal had taught her a great deal; but she was so shy that she would hardly say a word to a stranger. Charlie began to improve a little, it must be confessed; though she had fits of abstraction, when she salted the pan of dish-water in the closet, and threw the knives and forks out of doors, and one day boiled the dish-cloth instead of the potatoes, which Hal fancied must be army-soup; and sometimes, without the slightest apparent cause, she would almost laugh herself into hysterics. "What _is_ the matter?" Granny would ask. "Are you out of your head?" And Charlie would answer, "I was only thinking." "I'd like to get inside of her brain, and see what was there," Hal would sometimes remark. The chickens had to be made ready and taken to market this year without any of Hal's assistance. And then he began to wonder if he ever would get well? Suppose he did not? CHAPTER XIII. FROM GRAY SKIES TO BLUE. They were pretty poor, to be sure,--poor as in the hardest of times. There were the chickens, and Granny could make a bit of broth for Hal; but Kit and Charlie raced like deers, and had appetites. After Granny bought them clothes and shoes, the funds were rather low. Hal guessed at it all, but Granny never made any complaints. He had begun a tidy in red-and-white diamond-shaped blocks; but it seemed to grow upon his hands; and one day when Dot called it a beautiful _bedcrilt_, for her tongue still had a few kinks in it, a new idea crept into his brain. "Do you think it would make a pretty spread?" he asked Mrs. Howard rather timidly, during a call. "Why, it would, to be sure, and so serviceable! It is a bright idea, Hal." "Do you suppose I could sell it?" "If you want to--yes." "I can't do any thing else," said Hal with a sigh; "and if I have to stay here all winter." For Hal's back was so weak that he could only be bolstered up in the bed, and he had not walked a step yet. Mrs. Howard thought a moment, then said,-- "Finish it Hal, and I will see that it is sold." So Hal went on hopefully. Granny bewailed the fact that she had done nothing all the fall to help along. They missed their allowance from Joe; but they had heard from him in his usual glowing and exuberant fashion. Mrs. Howard took a trip around Madison one morning, and held sundry mysterious conferences with some of her neighbors, returning home quite well pleased. "I am so glad I thought of it!" she said to her husband; and he answered, "So am I, my dear." One afternoon early in December she went over to Mrs. Kenneth's. Dot had been clearing up under Hal's instructions, and they looked neat as a pin. After she found that her visitor intended to remain, Granny put on a fresh calico dress and a clean cap; and they had a nice old-fashioned time talking, which Hal enjoyed exceedingly. Mrs. Howard had brought a basket full of various luxuries,--some nice cold tongue, and part of a turkey, besides jellies and cake. Quite a little feast, indeed. Hal begged them to have tea in the best room, where he lay; and he enjoyed it almost as much as if he could have sat up to the table. Kit and Charlie were delighted with the feast. Then they settled every thing again, and Granny stirred the fire. The wind whistled without, but within it was bright and cheerful. Hal felt very happy indeed. It seemed as if God's strong arms were about him, helping him to bear the weariness, as he had been strengthened to bear pain. Presently there was a tramping up the path, and a confusion of voices. "Some one is coming;" and Hal raised himself. "I am almost sorry--we were having such a nice, quiet time." A knock at the door, which Granny opened. Kit, in the glowing chimney-corner, rubbed his eyes; and it would have been hard to tell which was the sleepiest, he or the old gray cat. "O-o-h!" exclaimed Charlie; and then she darted to Hal. "A whole crowd of 'em!" A crowd, sure enough. It was something of a mystery to know how they were going to get in that small place. There was Dr. and Mrs. Meade, Mr. Howard, Mr. and Mrs. Morris, and the boys, all the Terrys,--indeed, half Madison, Hal thought. Mrs. Howard laughed a little at Hal's puzzled face. "Oh!--I guess"-- Granny in the other room was quite overcome. Parcels and bags and boxes, shaking of hands, and clattering of tongues. "It isn't exactly Christmas, Hal," began Mr. Morris; "but Santa Claus does sometimes lose his reckoning. So we thought we'd all drop in." "And give me a surprise-party," said Hal. "Exactly. Why, you look quite bright, my boy!" Hal was bright enough then, with cheeks like roses, and lustrous eyes. Dr. Meade sat him up in the bed. One and another came to shake hands, and say a pleasant word; and in a few moments the whole group were laughing and talking. There was skating already over on the pond, the boys told him; they were going to have a Christmas exhibition; Jim Terry had received a letter from Joe; and all the small gossip that sounds so pleasant when one is shut within doors. Then Mrs. Howard brought out the bedspread. None of the boys laughed at Hal, you may be sure; and the older people thought it quite wonderful. Mrs. Morris declared that she'd really like to have it. "It is for sale," said Hal with a little flush. "Let's take shares!" exclaimed Sam. "Now's your chance, mother: how much will you give?" "A right good plan," returned Mrs. Meade. After a little discussion they adopted it. There were twenty-six people who subscribed a dollar; and then the slips of paper were arranged for drawing. The younger portion were considerably excited; and Hal's face was in a glow of interest. So they began. One after another took his or her chance; and, when it was through, they all opened their slips of paper, looking eagerly at each other. Clara Terry blushed scarlet; and Sam's quick eyes caught the unusual brilliancy. For the cream of the affair was, that Clara expected to be married in a few weeks. Dr. Meade guessed also, and then they had a good laugh. Hal was delighted. "It went to the right one," said Mr. Morris. "So much towards housekeeping, Clara." "I shall always think of Joe as well as you," she said in a soft whisper to Hal, holding the thin fingers a moment. After that they had a pleasant time singing. Hal was very fond of vocal music. It seemed to him about the happiest night of his life. Then the crowd began to disperse. "I have thought of something new, Hal," said Dr. Meade. "I sent to New York this morning for a small galvanic battery, to try if electricity will not help you. We shall have you around yet: do not be discouraged." "Everybody is so kind"--and Hal's voice quivered. "This has been a lovely surprise party." After they were gone Charlie began to count up the spoils; and every exclamation grew longer and louder. There was a large ham, a fine turkey, tea and coffee and butter, flour, rice, farina, cake and biscuit, a bag of apples, and some cans of fruit. "We shall live like kings," said Granny, with a little sound in her voice that might have been a sob or a laugh. "And only this morning I was a wondering how we _should_ get along." "And twenty-six dollars. Why, it is almost as good as being a minister, and having a donation-party." "God doesn't forget us, you see," said Hal with great thankfulness. He finished the spread a few days afterward, and sent it to Miss Clara; and then Mrs. Meade brought him the materials to make her one. The fracture had united; but there seemed such a terrible weakness of the muscles in Hal's back, that Dr. Meade had become rather apprehensive. But, after using electricity a few weeks, there _was_ an improvement. And one day Hal balanced himself upon two crutches. "That's red hot!" ejaculated Charlie. "O Charlie! worthy follower of Joe, what will you do when you get to be a young lady?" "Oh, dear! I wish I didn't have to be one;" and Charlie began to cry. "I'll wear a big stone on top of my head." "I am afraid it is too late. You are as tall as Granny now." Hal gained slowly. All this time he was thinking what he should do? for he had a presentiment that he might never be very strong again. No more working around on farms; and, though there were some sedentary trades in cities, he would meet with no chance to attain to them. So he must have the green-house. By spring he was able to go about pretty well. But he looked white as a ghost, quite unlike the round rosy Hal of other days. "Kit," said he, "you'll have to be my right-hand man this summer. Maybe by another Christmas we might have the violin." "O Hal! I'd work from morning till night," and the eager eyes were luminous. "Well, we'll see." Charlie was seized with a helpful fit also. After the garden was ploughed, they all planted and hoed and weeded; and, as it was an early season, they had some quite forward vegetables. One day Hal went over to Salem, and invested a few dollars in tuberoses, besides purchasing some choice flower-seeds. Then he stopped into a small place where he had noticed cut-flowers, and began to inquire whether they ever bought any. "All I can get," said the man. "Flowers are coming to be the rage. People think they can't have weddings or funerals without them." "But you want white ones mostly?" "White ones for funerals and brides. There are other occasions, though, when colored ones are worth twice as much, and as much needed." "You raise some?" said Hal. "All I can. I have a small green-house. Come in and see it. Did you think of starting in the business?" Hal colored, and cleared his voice of a little tremble. "I believe I shall some time," he said. The green-house was not very large, to be sure, now quite empty, as the flowers were out of doors. "I wonder how much such a place would cost?" Hal asked with some hesitation. "About a thousand dollars," replied the man, eying it rather critically. "Have you had any experience with flowers?" "Not much;" and Hal sighed. A thousand dollars! No, he could never do any thing like that. "The best way would be to study a year or two with a florist." "I suppose so." Hal was quite discouraged, for that appeared out of his power as well. "There is not so great a demand for flowers in summer, you know; but in winter they are scarce, and bring good prices. Still, some of the choicer kinds sell almost any time; fine rosebuds, heliotrope, and such things." After a little further talk, Hal thanked the man, and said good-by with a feeling of disappointment. A hot-house was quite beyond his reach. However, he did mean to have some early vegetable beds for another spring--if nothing happened, he said to himself, remembering his last summer's plans. Not that he was idle, either. He did a good deal in the lighter kinds of gardening. The new houses required considerable in the way of adornment; and Dr. Meade spoke a good word for him whenever opportunity offered. He had so much taste, besides his extravagant love for flowers; and then he had studied their habits, the soil they required, the time of blossoming, parting, or resetting. And it seemed as if he could make any thing grow. Slips of geranium, rose-cuttings, and indeed almost every thing, flourished as soon as he took it in hand. The new railroad brought them in direct and easy communication with another city, Newbury. Hal took a journey thither one day, and found a florist and nurseryman who conducted operations on quite an extensive scale. But still it was expensive in the start. He had thought of mortgaging the place; but the little money he could raise in that way would hardly be sufficient; and then, if he was not prosperous, they might lose their little home. At midsummer they heard some wonderful news about Florence. Mrs. Osgood wrote that she was going to marry very fortunately, a gentleman of wealth and position. She sent love to them, but she was very much engrossed; and Mrs. Osgood said they must excuse her not writing. She enlarged considerably upon Florence's brilliant prospect, and appeared to take great pleasure in thinking she had fitted her for the new position. "Oh!" said Granny with a sigh, "we've lost her now. She will be too rich and grand ever to come back to us." "I don't know," returned Hal. "She did owe Mrs. Osgood a good deal of gratitude; and it was right for her to be happy and obedient when she was having so much done for her. But now she may feel free"-- "She has forgotten us, Hal: at least, she doesn't want to remember;" and Granny wiped her eyes. "I can't quite believe it. She had a good heart, and she did love us. But maybe it's best anyway. We have been unfortunate"-- Hal's voice trembled a little. Granny rocked to and fro, her old method of composing her mind when any thing went wrong. And, though she could not bear to blame Flossy, there was a soreness and pain in the old heart,--a little sting of ingratitude, if she had dared to confess it. "Hal," said Dr. Meade one day, "they are going to start a new school over at the cross-roads. It's a small place, and probably there will not be more than twenty or thirty scholars,--some of the mill-children. If you would like to teach it, I am pretty sure that I could get it for you." "Oh, if I could!" and Hal's eyes were all alight. "To be sure you can. The salary is very small"--and Dr. Meade made a long pause. "Even a little would help along," was Hal's reply, his heart beating with a strange rapidity. "There can't be any appropriation made for it, you see, as there will be no election till spring. But four hundred dollars have been subscribed, and the committee had a fancy that they might get a lady for that." "I'd take it," said Hal. Four hundred dollars looked like quite a fortune to him. "It may get up to four hundred and fifty, though I would not like to promise. It _is_ a small sum." "But there's always Saturday to yourself, and nights and mornings," was Hal's hopeful reply. "Well, I will propose you, then. I shall be on the examining committee." "How kind you are!" and Hal's smile was most grateful. Still Hal was in so much doubt about his good fortune that he didn't say a word to Granny until the examination was over and he was sure of the appointment. "It's just royal, isn't it?" and his eyes danced with delight. "I was wondering what we should do this winter, when there would be no gardening, unless I went to work in one of the mills." "And you'd like this better? O Hal! it does seem as if the good God was watching over us, and always sent something along in the right time." "He does, Granny, I am sure." "For, when we were nearly out last winter, there was that splendid surprise-party. I never can get over it, Hal. And your _bew_tiful quilt, that I don't believe another boy in the world could have done. O Hal! you're such a comfort!" And Granny wiped her poor old eyes. The first pea-vines were pulled up; and then Hal began to prepare for his spring bed. It was vacation; and Charlie and Kit went into the experiment with a great deal of zeal. First Hal dug two trenches about twelve feet long, and four feet apart. He laid in these the stones the children brought in a wagon that he had manufactured for Dot a long while before. He piled them up like a wall, sifted sand between them, and then banked up the outside, making one edge considerably higher than the other. Around it all, at the top, he put a row of planking about twelve inches high, and fixed grooves for the sashes to slide across. Then he lowered the ground inside, and enriched it with manure, making quite a little garden-spot. Charlie wanted to have something planted right away; and she did put in surreptitiously some peas, morning-glories, and a few squash-seed. "I don't know but we might make another," said Hal, surveying it with a good deal of pride. "Oh, do!" exclaimed Charlie. "It's such fun!" Kit didn't mind, if Hal would only tell him a story now and then. Mozart's childhood that he had read in a stray copy of an old magazine, fragments of Mendelssohn, and all the floating incidents he could recall of Ole Bull. When these were exhausted, Hal used to draw a little upon his imagination. They had a wonderful hero named Hugo, who was stolen by gypsies when he was a little boy, and wandered around in the German forest for years, meeting with various adventures, and always playing on a violin to solace himself when he was cold, or tired, or hungry, or beaten. And, though Hal often declared that he couldn't think of any thing more, Kit pleaded so wistfully with his luminous blue eyes and soft voice, that Hugo would be started upon his travels again. When the frames were done, Hal went to see Mr. Sherman, the carpenter at Madison, to find what the sashes would cost. "There's an odd lot up in the loft," he said to the boy. "They are old-fashioned; and nobody seems to want any thing of that kind, except now and then for a kitchen. I'll sell 'em cheap, if you can make 'em answer." So they were sent down to the Kenneths. Hal worked over them a few days, and found that he could make them serviceable, only there would not be quite enough. He was very handy; and soon fitted them in their places. "Now, that's what I call smart," exclaimed Mr. Sherman. "Why, Hal! you'd make a good carpenter. Tell you what I'll do. I'm in an awful hurry; and, if you'll come over and work for me a spell, we will quit square." Hal was delighted, and accepted at once. "How lucky it all comes round, Granny!" he said in a gratified tone. "And I've been thinking"-- "I'll be bound it's a bright idea;" and Granny gave her little chirruping laugh. "I was considering about the loom-room, Granny. You'll never weave any more carpets; it's too hard work: and then Mr. Higgins wants to set up in the business. He asked me about our loom the other day." "No, I sha'n't never weave no more;" and Granny sighed, not at the confusion of negatives, but at the knowledge that old things were passing away. "And it would make such a beautiful flower-room, lying to the south and west!" Joe would have said, "What! the loom?" But dear, rollicking Joe was not there to catch anybody tripping in absence of mind. "So it would. Yes, you shall have it, Hal." For Granny would have given him her two eyes, if it would have done him any good, and been satisfied to be led about by a dog and a string all the rest of her life. They ran up stairs to survey. The afternoon sun was shining in at the windows, covering half the floor. "Oh, it _would_ be splendid! We can put up a little stove here; and I can have it for a kind of study besides. And a room full of flowers!" The tears fairly stood in Hal's eyes. There was not much time to lose; for in ten days school would begin. And now Hal considered what he must do. The windows came almost down to the floor, the ceiling being low. But it would not do to have all the flowers stand on a level, as the sun would not reach them alike. And then a brilliant idea occurred to Hal. He went over to Mr. Sherman's, and gathered some pieces of joist that had been sawed off, and thrown by as nearly useless. He found eight that he made of a length, about three feet high, and bespoke a number of rough hemlock-boards. Out of these he made a sort of counter, with the joists for support; and then, nailing a piece all round, he had quite a garden-bed. This was to stand back from the windows, and have slips and various seeds planted in it. Charlie and Kit helped bring up the soil to fill it. Then Hal bought, for a trifle, a lot of old butter-tubs and firkins that Mr. Terry was not sorry to be rid of. He sawed them down just the height he wanted; and they made very good flower-pots for some of the larger plants. They were so beautiful, that it would be a shame to leave them out to perish in the cold blasts. "And somehow they seem just like children to me," he said, his brown eyes suffused with tenderness. On the last Saturday he cast up his accounts, and took a small inventory. "We shall have potatoes and vegetables for winter; and we have a barrel of flour, and a hundred of meal, besides lots of corn for the chickens; then my salary will be a little more than thirty-six dollars a month, counting eleven months; and fifty dollars for our poultry." "Why, we'll be as rich as kings!" was Granny's delighted reply. "You're a wonderful boy, Hal!" "And if I could sell some flowers! Anyhow, there will be the spring things. It does look a little like prosperity, Granny." "I'm so thankful!" and Granny twisted up her apron in pure gratitude. "Charlie had better go to school again. I wish she could learn to be a teacher; for she never will like to sew." "No," replied Granny, with a solemn shake of the head. "And she is getting to be such a large girl! Well, I suppose something will come. It has to all of us." CHAPTER XIV. A FLOWER-GARDEN IN DOORS. Hal went to school bright and early the first Monday in September. It was about a mile to the place called the "Cross-roads," because from there the roads diverged in every direction. An old tumble-down house had been put in tolerable order, and some second-hand desks and benches arranged in the usual fashion. Just around this point, there was quite a nest of cottages belonging to the mill workmen. The children straggled in shyly, eying the new master. Rather unkempt, some of them, and with not very promising faces, belonging to the poorer class of German and English; then others bright and tidy, and brimming over with mirthful smiles. By ten o'clock sixteen had assembled. Hal gave them a short address, made a few rules, and attempted to classify them. They read and spelled a little, at least those who were able, when the bell on the factory rang out the hour of noon. Three new ones came after dinner. Hal labored faithfully; but it _was_ a relief to have the session close. Before the week ended, however, the prospect became more inspiriting. There were twenty-three scholars, and some whom it would be a pleasure to teach. But, after all, it was not as delightful as working among the flowers,--the dear, beautiful children who gave only fragrance and loveliness continually. He had been so tired every night, that he could do nothing but rest; and so he was glad to have Saturday come. "It seems early to take them in," he said, surveying the garden so full of glory. "But there is a good deal to do; and I shall have only one day in the week." Kit took the wheelbarrow, and trundled off to the woods for some more good soil; for Hal had to be economical, since he could not afford to buy every thing. They were out of debt, and had a little money,--very little indeed; but there were some pears and grapes to sell. Hal's Concord and Rogers hybrid had done beautifully; and two of the new-comers in Madison had offered to take all he had, at ten cents a pound. "I could get more in the city," he said; "but there would be the time and trouble of going. And grapes are heavy too: it doesn't take many bunches to weigh a pound; and ten pounds come to a dollar." But on this day he went at his roses. He had obtained quite a number of slips of hybrid monthlies, mostly tea-roses; and they were doing nicely. Some had blossomed once, and others were just showing bud. These he meant to transplant to his bed up stairs. Careful and patient, he took up the most of them so nicely, that I don't believe they knew they were moved, until they began to look around for their companions. Dot ran up stairs and down, and was most enthusiastic. "It will be _so_ lovely to have a garden in the house!" was her constant ejaculation. By noon he had all the small roses in,--five white ones, four pink, and about a dozen of different shades of deep velvety red. In this soil he had used an abundance of powdered charcoal. Then came half a dozen young heliotropes. "Now, I am going to save the rest of the space, and shall plant sweet-alyssum and candytuft, and some mignonette. I guess we have done about enough for one day," he said to Granny and Dot. Charlie and Kit were lolling under the trees, resting from their labors. Now and then they had a merry outburst; but Charlie had grown strangely quiet. She would sit lost in thought for hours together, unless some one spoke to her; and then she would take to reading in the same absorbed manner. "Hal," she said one evening, "what do you know of drawing?" "A little more than the old woman who could not tell a cow from a rosebud;" and Hal smiled with quiet humor. "I wish some one would teach me!" "They do not have any drawing at school?" "No, only at the academy. Belle Hartman is learning; but I don't care any thing about flowers and such." Faces and grotesque situations were Charlie's passion. She could see the ludicrous side so quickly! "You might practise at home, evenings." "But paper costs a good deal. Oh, I wish I had some money!" "Well Charlie, be patient. Something may come around by and by." "Oh, dear!" and Charlie sighed. "I wish some one would come along and adopt me; but then I'm not handsome, like Flossy. I suppose she is having a splendid time. It seems to me that she might write just a little word." Hal thought so too. As the months went on, he began to feel bitterly disappointed. Ah! if they could but see her once,--their beautiful Florence. Through the course of the month Hal managed to get his flowers in very nice order,--several fuchsia that were in splendid bloom, two large heliotropes, an elegant and thrifty monthly carnation, and a salvia that was a glory in itself. But alas! that drooped and withered: so Hall trimmed it down. Besides this, some rose and balm geraniums, a tub full of callas, and ten of his tuberoses, that he had saved for winter blossoming. The other two had been a source of untold comfort to him. Then he had an exquisite safrano, and two chromatilla roses. "Why it's quite a green-house," he said delightedly. "Now, if I can only make them blossom all winter!" The first spare Saturday he went over to Salem to see Mr. Thomas. He was rather diffident, and did not like to explain his economical arrangements, but said that he was likely to have some flowers for sale. Mr. Thomas took him through his green-house again; and, though there were a great many more plants, Hal thought he could show almost as much bloom. "I'll take your flowers," he promised, "provided you do not have too many, and if we could manage it this way: sometimes I receive a large order nearly a week beforehand, and I could let you know, in order that you might bring me all you had which were really fine. And, to be frank with you, I cannot afford to pay as much as you might get at Newbury or New York." "I should like to know some of the prices," Hal remarked. "It depends a good deal upon the demand and the season; but prices never vary a great deal." They went round, and Hal learned a good deal in the course of his tour. "Do you know of any place in Newbury where I could dispose of flowers?" he asked. "There is a Mr. Kirkman,--one brother keeps a confectionery, and the other supplies flowers. But perhaps I may be able to do as well by you. However, I will give you his card." Hal and Mr. Thomas parted very good friends; and the florist gave him some valuable advice. "That fellow will succeed," he said to himself, watching Hal's retreating figure. "His whole soul is in the flowers; and he blushes over them as if they were a sweetheart. Looks pale and delicate, though." Truth to tell, Hal had been working pretty hard. The school _was_ a great tax upon him; and the labor with his plants had been severe. Kit and Granny tried to save him all they could in the way of getting in winter vegetables, and looking after the chickens. Ten days after his visit to Salem, he received a little note from Mr. Thomas on this wise. "Bring me on Thursday morning, if you have them, three dozen roses, assorted colors, heliotrope, and fine sprays of fuchsia, if yours are still in bloom." "F. THOMAS." Hal was delighted. Through September they had managed to get along on the proceeds of their garden, and the fruit; but his first month's pay had to go for clothes. It almost broke Granny's heart to take it. "Why, I shall earn some more!" Hal exclaimed with his gay laugh. "It is just what it is for, Granny, to spend. I'm thankful to be able to earn it." It was the middle of October now; and there had been some severe frost already. Tender out-doors plants were a mass of blackened ruins. "You will have to go over for me, Charlie," said Hal, "because I cannot leave school. The stage starts at nine." Charlie was in ecstasies. She rose by daylight on Thursday morning, to curl her hair, Kit said; and could hardly wait for Hal to cut and pack the flowers. "I am sure I shall be left!" she declared twenty times at least. Hal thought of it all the way to school. It seemed different from any other earnings, and gave him an exquisite pleasure. His own lovely darlings, his dream actually coming to pass. Charlie was superbly generous, and left the stage at the Cross-roads, when she might have ridden half a mile farther. The children were just being dismissed: so she rushed in full of excitement. "O Hal! he said they were lovely, and the carnations magnificent. He wondered how you raised them. They were a great deal prettier than his." Hal blushed like a girl. He had sent the carnations at a venture. "And here's the bill and the money." Charlie was as proud as if it had been her own. Hal's fingers trembled as he opened it. There they all were:-- Three dozen Roses $1.50 Two dozen Heliotrope .75 Fuchsias .75 One dozen Carnations .48 ----- $3.48 "Oh!" exclaimed Hal with a glad cry: "it's just splendid! And he liked them all?" "Yes. There's going to be a great wedding in Salem. Such hosts and hosts of flowers! And Jim Street took me for fifteen cents!" "So there's more than three dollars profit," Hal returned. "Now you must run home, Charlie, and get some dinner. I have not enough for two." "I don't see why I can't stay. I should like to see your school, Hal, when all the children are in." "But Granny will be troubled. Yes, you had better go, Charlie. You have been so good this morning, that you must not spoil it all. And then she'll be glad to hear." Charlie went reluctantly. Granny was overjoyed The three dollars looked as large to her as a hundred would have to many a one. Hal could hardly wait until four o'clock. He hurried home, and ran up stairs; but the poor flowers had been shorn of their crown of glory. "I can't bear to look at 'em," said Granny with a quiver in her voice. "The poor dear things, that seemed jest like human creeturs! I used to talk to 'em every time I came in." "But they'll soon be lovely again; and it pleases me so much to think that I can make a little money. I shall have the green-house some day; and you won't have any thing to do but walk round in it like a queen." Granny smiled. Every plan of Hal's was precious to her. The heliotrope appeared to be the better for the pruning; and some of the tuberoses shot up a tall spike for buds. Then Hal had a few demands from the neighbors round. Mr. Thomas's next call was early in November, when he asked Hal to bring all the flowers that were available. It being Saturday morning, he went in with them himself, and became the happy recipient of five dollars and a quarter. Then he took a ramble in a bookstore, and, being attracted by the first few pages of "Charles Auchester," purchased the book. Kit went nearly wild over it. Hal read it aloud; and he held his breath at the exquisite description of Charles's first concert, and the tenderness and sweetness of the Chevalier. Though part of it was rather beyond their comprehension, they enjoyed it wonderfully, nevertheless. The little room up stairs became quite a parlor for them. The stove kept it nice and warm; and they used to love to sit there evenings, inhaling the fragrance, and watching the drowsy leaves as they nodded to each other: it seemed to Hal that he had never been so happy in the world. He ceased to long for Florence. They did very well on their chickens this year, clearing forty dollars. Granny thought they were quite rich. "You ought to put it in the bank, Hal! it's just a flow of good luck on every side." And, when he received his pay for November, he actually did put fifty dollars in the bank, though there were a hundred things he wanted with it. The latter part of December Hal's flowers began to bloom in great profusion. The alyssum and candytuft came out, and the house was sweet with tuberoses. There being more than Mr. Thomas wanted, he took a box full to Newbury one Saturday morning, and found Mr. Kirkman, to whom the flowers were quite a godsend. Eight dollars! Hal felt richer than ever. He had set his heart upon buying some Christmas gifts. At first he thought he would break the fifty dollars; but it was so near the end of the month that he borrowed a little from Dr. Meade instead. He came home laden with budgets; but both Kit and Charlie were out, fortunately. "Now, Granny, you _will_ keep the secret," he implored. "Don't breathe a hint of it." Very hard work Granny found it. She chuckled over her dish-washing; and, when Dot asked what was the matter, subsided into an awful solemnity. But Wednesday morning soon came. They all rushed down to their stockings, which Kit and Charlie had insisted upon hanging up after the olden fashion. Stockings were empty however, as Santy Claus' gifts were rather unwieldy for so small a receptacle. Kit started back in amazement. A mysterious black case with a brass handle on the top. "O Hal! you are the dearest old chap in the world; a perfect darling, isn't he Granny? and I never, never can thank you. I've been thinking about it all the time, and wondering--oh, you dear, precious fiddle!" Kit hugged it; and I am not sure but he kissed it, and capered around the room as if he had lost his senses. Charlie's gift was a drawing-book, a set of colored pencils, and a new dress; Granny's a new dress; and Dot's a muff and tippet, a very pretty imitation of ermine. How delighted they all were! Kit could hardly eat a mouthful of breakfast. Granny gave them a royal dinner. Altogether it was almost as good as the Christmas with "The old woman who lived in a shoe." Yet there were only four of them now. How they missed the two absent faces! Shortly after this they had a letter from Joe. He had actually been at Canton, seen John Chinaman on his native soil in all the glory of pigtail and chop-stick. Such hosts of funny adventures it would have been hard to find even in a book. He meant to cruise around in that part of the world until he was tired, for he was having the tallest kind of sport. February was very pleasant indeed. Hal stirred up the soil in his cold frames, and planted some seeds. His flowers were still doing very well, the slips having come forward beautifully. On the whole, it had proved a rather pleasant winter, and they had been very happy. Granny declared that she was quite a lady. No more weaving carpet, or going out to work,--nothing but "puttering" about the house. She was becoming accustomed to the care of the flowers, and looked after them in a manner that won Hal's entire heart. Easter was to fall very early. Mr. Thomas had engaged all Hal's flowers, and begged him to have as many white ones as possible. So he fed the callas on warm water, with a little spirits of ammonia in it, and the five beautiful stalks grew up, with their fairy haunt of loveliness and fragrance. Dot used to look at them twenty times a day, as the soft green turned paler and paler, bleaching out at last to that wonderful creamy white with its delicate odor. Outside he transplanted his heads of lettuce, sowed fresh seeds of various kinds, and began to set slips of geranium. On cold or stormy days they kept the glass covered, and always at night. It was marvellous, the way every thing throve and grew. It seemed to Hal that there was nothing else in the world so interesting. Kit had begun to take lessons on his violin; but he soon found there was a wide difference between the absolute drudgery of rudiments, and the delicious dreams of melody that floated through his brain. Sometimes he cried over the difficulties, and felt tempted to throw away his violin; then he and Hal would have a good time with their beloved Charles Auchester, when he would go on with renewed courage. After Easter the flowers looked like mere wrecks. Hal cut most of the roses down, trimmed the heliotrope and fuchsias, and planted verbenas. His pansies, which had come from seed, looked very fine and thrifty, and were in bud. So he mentioned that he would have quite a number of bedding-plants for sale. Indeed, the fame of Hal's green-house spread through Madison. It was a marvel to everybody, how he could make plants grow in such a remarkable fashion, and under not a few disadvantages. But he studied the soil and habits minutely; and then he had a "gift,"--as much of a genius for this, as Kit's for music, or Charlie's for drawing. But with these warm spring days Hal grew very pale and thin. It seemed to him sometimes as if he could not endure the peculiar wear and anxiety of the school. There were thirty-five scholars now; and, although he tried to keep respectable order, he found it very hard work. He had such a tender, indulgent heart, that he oftener excused than punished. His head used to ache dreadfully in the afternoon, and every pulse in his body would throb until it seemed to make him absolutely sore. The gardening and the school were quite too much. "Granny," said Charlie one evening, "I am not going to school any more." Granny opened her eyes in surprise. "I am going to work." "To work?" It was astonishing to hear Charlie declare such sentiments. "Yes,--in the mill." "What will you do?" "Sarah Marshall began last fall: it's cleaning specks and imperfections out of the cloth; not very hard, either, and they give her four and a half a week." "That's pretty good," said Granny. "Yes. I shall have to do something. I hate housework and sewing, and--I want some money." "I'm sure Hal's as good as an angel." "I don't want Hal's. Goodness knows! he has enough to do, and it's high time I began to think about myself." Granny was overwhelmed with admiration at Charlie's spirit and resolution, yet she was not quite certain of its being proper until she had asked Hal. "I wish she wanted to learn dressmaking instead, or to teach school; but she isn't proud, like Flossy. And now she is growing so large that she wants nice clothes, and all that." Yet Hal sighed a little. Charlie somehow appeared to be lacking in refinement. She had a great deal of energy and persistence, and was not easily daunted or laughed out of any idea. "Though I think she will make a nice girl," said Hal, as if he had been indulging in a little treason. "We have a good deal to be thankful for, Granny." "Yes, indeed! And dear, brave Joe such a nice boy!" Hal made a few inquiries at the mill. They would take Charlie, and pay her two dollars a week for the first month, after that by the piece; and, if she was smart, she could earn three or four dollars. So Charlie went to work with her usual sturdiness. If they could have looked in her heart, and beheld all her plans, and known that she hated this as bitterly as washing dishes or mending old clothes! On the first of June, Hal took an account of stock. They had been quite fortunate in the sale of early vegetables. The lettuce, radishes, and tomato-plants had done beautifully. For cut-flowers he had received fifty-two dollars; for bedding-plants,--scarlet and other geraniums, and pansies,--the sum had amounted to over nine dollars; for vegetables and garden-plants, eleven. They had not incurred any extra expense, save the labor. "To think of that, Granny! Almost seventy-five dollars! And on such a small scale too! I think I could make gardening pay, if I had a fair chance." Dr. Meade admitted that it was wonderful, when he heard of it. "I'm not sure that a hot-house would pay here in Madison, but you could send a great many things to New York. Any how, Hal, if I were rich I should build you one." "You are very kind. I shouldn't have done as well, if it had not been for you." "Tut, tut! That's nothing. But I don't like to see you growing so thin. I shall have to prepare you a tonic. You work too hard." Hal smiled faintly. "You must let gardening alone for the next six weeks. And the school isn't the best thing in the world for you." "I've been very thankful for it, though." "If you stay another year, the salary must be raised. Do you like it?" "Not as well as gardening." "Well, take matters easy," advised the good doctor. The tonic was sent over. Hal made a strong fight against the languor; but the enemy was rather too stout for him. Every day there was a little fever; and at night he tossed from side to side, and could not sleep. Granny made him a "pitcher of tea," her great cure-all,--valerian, gentian, and wild-cherry,--in a pitcher that had lost both handle and spout; and, though he drank it to please her, it did not appear to help him any. It seemed to him, some days, that he never could walk home from school. Now and then he caught a ride, to be sure; but the weary step after step on these warm afternoons almost used up his last remnant of strength. "Now," said Dr. Meade when school had ended, "you really must begin to take care of yourself. You are as white as if you had not an ounce of blood in your whole body. No work of any kind, remember. It is to be a regular vacation." Hal acquiesced from sheer inability to do any thing else. The house was quiet; for Dot never had been a noisy child since her crying-days. She was much more like Florence, except the small vanities, and air of martyrdom, that so often spoiled the elder sister's sacrifices,--a sweet, affectionate little thing, a kind of baby, as she would always be. Her love for Hal and Granny was perfect devotion, and held in it a strand of quaintness that made one smile. She could cook quite nicely; and sewing appeared to come natural to her. Hal called her "Small woman," as an especial term of endearment. But they hardly knew what to make of Charlie. Instead of launching out into gayeties, as they expected (for Charlie was very fond of finery), she proved so economical, that she was almost stingy. She gave Granny a dollar a week; and they heard she was earning as much as Sarah Marshall already. In fact, Charlie was a Trojan when she worked in good earnest. "What are you going to do with it all?" Hal would ask playfully. "Maybe I'll put it in the bank, or buy a farm." "Ho!" said Kit. "What would you do with a farm?" "Hire it out on shares to Hal." "You are a good girl, Charlie; and it's well to save a little 'gainst time o' need." Which encomium of Granny's would always settle the matter. Hal did not get better. Dr. Meade wanted him to go to the seaside for a few weeks. "I cannot afford it," he said; "and I shouldn't enjoy it a bit alone. I think I shall be better when cool weather comes. These warm days seem to melt all the strength out of me." "Well, I hope so." Hal hoped so too. He was young; and the world looked bright; and then they all needed him. Not that he had any morbid thoughts of dying, only sometimes it crossed his mind. He had never been quite so well and strong since the accident. For Granny's sake and for Dot's sake. He loved them both so dearly; and they seemed so peculiarly helpless,--the one in her shy childhood, the other on the opposite confine. He wanted to make Granny's life pleasant at the last, when she had worked so hard for all of them. But God would do what was best; though Hal's lip quivered, and an unbidden tear dropped from the sad eye. O Florence! had you forgotten them? CHAPTER XV. HOW CHARLIE RAN AWAY. "Where is Charlie?" asked Hal as they sat down to the supper-table one evening. "She didn't go to work this afternoon, but put on her best clothes, and said she meant to take a holiday." "Well, the poor child needed it, I am sure. To think of our wild, heedless, tomboy Charlie settling into such a steady girl!" "But Charlie always was good at heart. I've had six of the best and nicest grandchildren you could pick out anywhere, if I do say it myself." Granny uttered the words with a good deal of pride. "Yes," said Kit: "we'll be a what-is-it--crown to your old age." Granny laughed merrily. "Seven children!" appended Kit. "You forgot my fiddle." "Eight children!" said Dot. "You forgot Hal's flowers." Hal smiled at this. "I may as well wash the dishes," exclaimed Dot presently. "I guess Charlie will stay out to tea." After that they sat on the doorstep in the moonlight, and sang,--Dot with her head in Hal's lap, and Hal's arm around Granny's shoulder. A very sacred and solemn feeling seemed to come to them on this evening, as if it was a time which it would be important to remember. "I do not believe Charlie means to come home to-night," Hal said when the clock struck ten. "But she has on her best clothes. She wouldn't wear 'em to the mill." So they waited a while longer. No Charlie. Then they kissed each other good-night, and began to disperse. Hal looked into the deserted flower-room, which was still a kind of library and cosey place. The moonlight lay in broad white sheets on the floor, quivering like a summer sea. How strange and sweet it was! How lovely God had made the earth, and the serene heaven above it! Something on the table caught his eye as he turned,--a piece of folded paper like a letter. He wondered what he had left there, and picked it up carelessly. "_To Granny and Hal._" Hal started in the utmost surprise. An unsealed letter in Charlie's handwriting, which had never been remarkable for its beauty. He trembled all over, and stood in the moonlight to read it, the slow tears coming into his eyes. Should he go down and tell them? Perhaps it would be better not to alarm them to-night. Occasionally, when it had rained, Charlie spent the night with some of the girls living near the mill: so Granny would not worry about her. O brave, daring, impulsive Charlie! If you could have seen the pain in Hal's heart! He brought the letter down the next morning. "How queer it is that Charlie stays!" said Dot, toasting some bread. "O Hal! what's the matter?" "Nothing--only--You'll have to hear it sometime; and maybe it will all end right. Charlie's gone away." "Gone away!" echoed Granny. "Yes. She left a letter. I found it last night in the flower-room. Let me read it to you." Hal cleared his throat. The others stood absolutely awe-stricken. "DEAR GRANNY AND HAL,--You know I always had my heart set on running away; and I'm going to do it now, because, if I told you all my plans, you would say they were quite wild. Perhaps they are. Only I _shall_ try to make them work; and, somehow, I think I can. I have sights of courage and hope. But, O Granny! I couldn't stay in the mill: it was like putting me in prison. I hated the coarse work, the dirt, the noise, and the smells of grease, and everybody there. Some days I felt as if I must scream and scream, until God came and took me out of it. But I wanted to earn some money; and there wasn't any other way in Madison that I should have liked any better. I've had this in my mind ever since I went to work. "I can't tell you all my plans,--I don't even know them myself,--only I am going to try; and, if I cannot succeed, I shall come back. I have twenty-five dollars that I've saved. And, if I have good luck, you'll hear that too. Please don't worry about me. I shall find friends, and not get into any trouble, I know. "I am very sorry to leave you all; but then I kissed you good-by,--Hal and Kit this morning, when I said it softly in my heart; and Dot and you, dear Granny, when I went away. I had it all planned so nicely, and you never suspected a word. I shall come back some time, of course. And now you must be happy without me, and just say a tiny bit of prayer every night, as I shall for you, and never fret a word. Somehow I feel as if I were a little like Joe; and you know he is doing beautifully. "Good-by with a thousand kisses. Don't try to find me; for you can't, I know. I'll write some time again. Your own queer, loving. "CHARLIE." "Well, that's too good!" said Kit, breaking the silence of tears. "Charlie has the spunk--and a girl too!" "Oh!" sobbed Granny, "she don't know nothing; and she'll get lost, and get into trouble." "No, she won't, either! I'll bet on Charlie. And she was saving up her money for that, and never said a word!" Kit's admiration was intense. "It's about the drawing; and she has gone to New York, I am almost sure," said Hal. "Don't cry, Granny; for somehow I think Charlie will be safe. She is good and honest and truthful." "But in New York! And she don't know anybody there"-- "Maybe she has gone to Mrs. Burton's. I might write and see. Or there is Clara Pennington--they moved last spring, you remember. I'm pretty sure we shall find her." Hal's voice was strong with hope. Now that he had to comfort Granny, he could see a bright side himself. "And she has some money too." "She'll do," said Kit decisively. "And if that isn't great! She coaxed me to run away once and live in the woods; but I think this is better." "Did you do it?" asked Dot. "Yes. We came near setting the woods on fire; and didn't we get a jolly scolding! Charlie's a trump." So they settled themselves to the fact quite calmly. Charlie had taken the best of her clothes, and would be prepared for present emergencies. Before the day was over, they had another event to startle them. Dr. Meade tied his old horse to the gate-post, and came in. Granny was taking a little rest in the other room; and Dot was up stairs, reading. "Better to-day, eh?" said the doctor. "I believe I do feel a little better. I have not had any headache or fever for several days." "You'll come out bright as a blue-bird next spring." "Before that, I hope. School commences next week." "Then you have heard--nothing?" "Was there any thing for me to hear?" Hal looked up anxiously; and the soft brown eyes, in their wistfulness, touched the doctor's heart. "They've served you and me a mean trick, Hal," began the doctor rather warmly. "Some of it was my fault. I told the committee that you would not take it next year under five hundred dollars." "It's worth that," said Hal quietly. "Yes, if it is worth a cent. Well, Squire Haines has had a niece staying with him who has taught school in Brooklyn for eight or ten years,--a great, tall sharp kind of a woman; and she was willing to come for the old salary. She's setting her cap for Mrs. Haines's brother, I can see that fast enough. The squire, he's favored her; and they've pushed the matter through." "Then Miss Perkins has it!" Hal exclaimed with a gasp, feeling as if he were stranded on the lee-shore. "Exactly. And I don't know but it is best. To tell the truth, Hal, you are not strong, and you did work too hard last year. You want rest; but you'll never be able to go into the battle rough and tumble. I may as well tell you this." "Do you think I shall never"--Hal's lip quivered. "The fall gave you a great shock, you see; and then the confinement in school was altogether wrong. You want quiet and ease; and I do think this flower-business will be the very thing for you. I've been casting it over in my mind; and I have a fancy that another spring I'll be able to do something for you. Keep heart, my boy. It's darkest just before the dawn, you know." "You are so kind!" and the brown eyes filled with tears. "It will all come out right, I'm pretty sure. This winter's rest will be just the thing for you. Now, don't fret yourself back to the old point again; for you have improved a little. And, if you want any thing, come to me. We all get in tight places sometimes." Hal repeated this to Dot and Granny; and when Kit came home he heard the "bad news," over which he looked very sober. "But then it might be worse," said Hal cheerily; for he was never sad long at a time. "We have almost a hundred dollars, and I shall try to make my flowers more profitable this winter." And the best of all was, Hal _did_ begin to feel better. The terrible weakness seemed to yield at last to some of the good doctor's tonics, his appetite improved, and he could sleep quite well once more. At this juncture Kit found an opening. "They'll take me in the melodeon-factory over at Salem," he announced breathlessly one evening. "Mr. Briggs told me of it, and I went to see. I can board with Mr. Halsey, the foreman; and oh, can't he play on the violin! He will go on teaching me, and I can have my board and four dollars a month." "Well, I declare!" ejaculated Granny. "What next?" "Then you won't have me to take care of this winter. I'm about tired of going to school, and that's nice business. I can come home every Saturday night." "Yes," said Hal thoughtfully. "I do believe Mr. Halsey's taken a great liking to me. He wants you to come over, Hal, and have a talk." So Hal went over. The prospect appeared very fair. Kit had some mechanical genius; but building melodeons would be much more to his taste than building houses. "It has a suggestion of music in it," laughed Hal. So the bargain was concluded. About the middle of September, Kit started for Salem and business. But oh, how lonely the old house was! All the mirth and mischief gone! It seemed to Granny that she would be quite willing to go out washing, and weave carpets, if she could have them all children once more. There was plenty of room in the Old Shoe now. One bed in the parlor held Dot and Granny. No cradle with a baby face in it, no fair girl with golden curls sewing at the window. Tabby sat unmolested in the chimney-corner. No one turned back her ears, or put walnut-shells over her claws; no one made her dance a jig on her hind-legs, or bundled her in shawls until she was smothered, and had to give a pathetic m-i-a-o-u in self-defence. Oh, the gay, laughing, tormenting children! Always clothes to mend, cut fingers and stubbed toes to doctor, quarrels to settle, noises to quell, to tumble over one here and another there, to have them cross with the measles and forlorn with the mumps, but coming back to fun again in a day or two,--the dear, troublesome, vanished children! Many a time Granny cried alone by herself. It was right that they should grow into men and women; but oh, the ache and emptiness it left in her poor old heart! And it seemed as if Tabby missed them; for now and then she would put her paws on the old window-seat, stretching out her full length, and look up and down the street, uttering a mournful cry. One day Dot brought home a letter from the store directed to Hal. "Why, it's Charlie!" he said with a great cry of joy and confusion of person. "Dear old Charlie!" He tore it open with hasty, trembling fingers. "DEAR HAL AND GRANNY,--I'm like Joe, happy as a big sunflower! I can't tell you half nor quarter; so I shall not try, but save it all against the time I come home; for I _am_ coming. Every thing is just splendid! It wasn't so nice at first, and one day I felt almost homesick; but it came out right. Oh, dear! I want to see you so, and tell you all the wonderful things that have happened to me,--just like a story-book. I think of you all,--Hal in his school, Granny busy about the house, Dot, the little darling, sweet as ever, and a whole roomful of flowers up-stairs, and Kit playing on his violin. Did you miss me much? I missed the dear old home, the sweet kisses, and tender voices; but some day I shall have them again. I never forget you a moment; but oh, oh, oh! That's all I can say. There are not words enough to express all the rest. Don't forget me; but love me just the same. A thousand kisses to all you children left in the old shoe, and another thousand to Granny. "Your own dear CHARLIE." Hal's eyes were full of tears. To tell the truth, they had a good crying-time before any of them could speak a word. "Dear, brave Charlie! She and Joe are alike. Granny, I don't know but they are the children to be proud of, after all." "Where is she?" asked Granny, wiping her nose violently. "Why, there isn't a bit of--address--to it; and the post-mark--begins with an N--but all the rest is blurred. She means to wait until she comes home, and tell us the whole story; and she will not give us an opportunity to write, for fear we will ask some questions. She means to keep up her running away." They were all delighted, and had to read the letter over and over again. "She must be in New York somewhere, and studying drawing. I've a great mind to write at a venture." "And she will come home," crooned Granny softly. "I'm glad she thinks us all so happy and prosperous," said Hal. I shall have to tell you how it fared with Charlie and not keep you waiting until they heard the story. She had indeed followed out her old plan. Child as she was, when she went to work in the mill she crowded all her wild dreams down in the depths of her heart. No one ever knew what heroic sacrifices Charlie Kenneth made. She was fond of dress, and just of an age when a bright ribbon, a pretty hat, and a dozen other dainty trifles, seem to add so much to one's happiness. But she resolutely eschewed them all. Week by week her little hoard gained slowly, every day bringing her nearer the hour of freedom. She planned, too, more practically than any one would have supposed. And one evening she smuggled a black travelling-bag into the house, hiding it in a rubbish-closet until she could pack it. She seized her opportunity at noon, to get it out unobserved; and, putting it in an out-of-the-way corner, dragged some pea-brush over it, that gave it the look of a pile of rubbish. Then she dressed herself, and said her good-bys gayly, but with a trembling heart, and went off to take her holiday. Charlie tugged her bag to the depot, and bought a ticket for Newbury. Then she seated herself in great state, and really began to enjoy the adventure. She wondered how people could spend all their lives in a little humdrum place like Madison. At Newbury she bought a ticket for New York. Then she sat thinking what she should do. A family by the name of Wilcox had left Madison two years before, and gone to New York. The mother was a clever, ignorant, good-hearted sort of woman, of whom Charlie Kenneth had been rather fond in her childish days. Mary Jane, the daughter, had paid a flying visit to Madison that spring, and Charlie had heard her describe the route to her house in Fourteenth Street. This was where she purposed to go. The cars stopped. The passengers left in a crowd, Charlie following. If they were going to New York, she would not get lost. So the ferry was crossed in safety. Then she asked a policeman to direct her to City Hall. A little ragged urchin pestered her about carrying her bag, but it was too precious to be trusted to strangers. She saw the Third-avenue cars; but how was she to get to them? The street seemed blocked up continually. By and by a policeman piloted her across, and saw her safely deposited in the car. Charlie paid her fare, and told the conductor to stop at Fourteenth Street; but, after riding a while, she began to look out for herself. What an endless way it was! and where _did_ all the people come from? Could it be possible that there were houses enough for them to live in? Ah! here was her corner. She turned easterly, watching for the number. There was Mrs. Wilcox's frowsy head at the front basement window; and Charlie felt almost afraid to ring at the front-door, so she tried that lowly entrance. "Come in," said a voice in response to her knock. It was evident she had grown out of Mrs. Wilcox's remembrance, so she rather awkwardly introduced herself. "Charlie Kenneth! The land sakes! How you have growed! Why, I'm right glad to see you. How is Granny and all the children, and all the folks at Madison?" Charlie "lumped" them, and answered, "Pretty well." "Did you come down all alone? And how did you find us? Mary Jane'll be powerful glad to see you. Ain't you most tired to death luggin' that heavy bag? Do take off your things, and get rested." Charlie complied. Mrs. Wilcox went on with her endless string of questions, even after she rose to set the supper-table. "And so Florence is married. Strange you've never heard about her. She's so rich and grand that I s'pose she don't want to remember poor relations. And Hal's been a teachin' school! Why, you're quite gettin' up in the world." Mary Jane soon made her appearance. A flirting, flippant girl of sixteen, rather good-looking, and trimmed up with ribbons and cheap furbelows. She appeared glad to see Charlie, and all the questions were asked over again. Then Mr. Wilcox came in, washed his hands and face, and they sat down to supper. Before they were half through, Tom and Ed came tumbling in, full of fun and nonsense. "Boys, be still!" said their father; which admonition they heeded for about the space of ten seconds. Mary Jane rose from the table as soon as she had finished her supper. "Charlie'll sleep with me, of course," she said. "Bring your bag and your things up stairs, Charlie." Charlie followed her to the third story,--a very fair-sized room, but with an appearance of general untidiness visible everywhere. "You can hang up your clothes in that closet," indicating it with her head. "Did you go to work in the mill, Charlie?" "Yes." "Didn't you like it?" "Not very much," slowly shaking out her clean calico dress. "I shouldn't, either. What did you earn?" "Sometimes four dollars and a half." "I earn six, week in and week out. Then I do a little overwork every day, which gives me Saturday afternoon. Charlie, why don't you stay?" Mary Jane was taking down her hair, and turned round suddenly. "I thought I would;" and Charlie blushed. "I've saved up a little money, enough to pay my board for a few weeks, until I can find something to do." "Flower-making is first-rate. Some of the girls earn ten dollars a week. I've only been at it a year, you see. They pay a dollar a week while you're learning. Shall I try to get you in?" "I don't know yet," was the hesitating answer. "What makes you wear your hair short, Charlie?" "Why--I like it so. It's no trouble." "But it's so childish!" Mary Jane was arranging a wonderful waterfall. On the top of this she hung a cluster of curls, and on the top of her head she tied in a bunch of frizettes with a scarlet ribbon. "Now, that's what I call stylish;" and she turned round to Charlie. "If I was you, I'd let my hair grow; and, as soon as it is long enough to tie in a little knot, you can buy a waterfall." Charlie was quite bewildered with these manifold adornments. Then Mary Jane put on a white dress, a red carved ivory pin and ear-rings, and presented quite a gorgeous appearance. "Charlie, I've been thinking--why can't you board here? I pay mother two dollars a week, and you could just as well have part of my room. Mother wanted me to let the boys have it, because there were two of them; but I wanted plenty of room. Yes: it would be real nice to have you here. I'll ask mother. I know you can find something to do." A great load seemed lifted from Charlie's heart. Then they went down to the next floor. The boys had the hall bedroom, and the back room was used by the heads of the family. There were two large pantries between, and then a front parlor. Charlie was quite stunned; for the place appeared fully as gorgeous as Mary Jane. A cheap Brussels carpet in bright colors, the figure of which ran all over the floor; two immense vases on the mantle, where grotesque Chinese figures were disporting on a bright green ground; a rather shabby crimson plush rocker; and some quite impossible sunsets done in oil, with showy wide gilt frames. Mrs. Wilcox had purchased them at auction, and considered them a great bargain. Then Mary Jane, with a great deal of giggling and blushing, confessed to Charlie that she had a beau. "A real nice young man," clerk in a dry-goods store, Walter Brown by name, and that he came almost every evening. "You can't help liking him," was the positive assertion. "I wish you didn't have short hair, nor look so much like a little girl; for you are as tall as I am." Which was very true; but Charlie felt herself quite a child, and very much startled at the idea of beaux. Mary Jane took out some embroidery, and did not deign to revisit the kitchen. A trifle after eight Mr. Brown made his appearance, looking neat as a pink, and nearly as sweet with perfume. For the first time in her life, Charlie was painfully bashful. When he proposed a walk to an ice-cream saloon, she would fain have remained at home; but Mary Jane over-ruled. The walk was quite pleasant, and the cream a positive treat. Charlie said some very bright things, which Mr. Brown appeared to consider exceedingly funny. Then they rambled around a while; and when they returned, Mary Jane lingered at the hall-door to have a little private talk, while Charlie ran up stairs. Mrs. Wilcox sat in the parlor fanning herself, and eagerly questioned the child as to where they had been, and how she liked New York. Tired and excited, Charlie went to bed at last; but she could not sleep. The strange place, the tinkle of the car-bells, the noises in the streets, and, most of all, her own thoughts, kept her wakeful. She could hardly believe that she had achieved her great ambition, and actually run away. On the whole, it was rather comical. Had they found her letter yet? What did Hal and Granny think? Would they be very much worried? And if she only _could_ find out something about pictures, and begin to work in good earnest at the right thing. It was as much to her as the flowers were to dear Hal. God bless and keep them all! CHAPTER XVI. ALMOST DISCOURAGED. Charlie was really tired on Friday, and did not feel equal to making any effort; so she assisted Mrs. Wilcox with the housework, and tidied up Mary Jane's room until one would hardly have known it. But every thing seemed so strange and new. Late in the afternoon she gained courage to say,-- "Did Mary Jane tell you, Mrs. Wilcox, that--I'd like to stay?" "Yes. And so you _really_ came to York to get something to do! I s'pose there's such a host of you at home!" Charlie swallowed over a lump in her throat. Perhaps she was not a little glad that Mrs. Wilcox did not suspect her unorthodox manner of leaving Madison. "I mean to find something to do. And if you would board me"-- "Now, Charlie Kenneth! first you stay and make a visit, and see what you can find, before you talk of payin' board. Thank Heaven! I never begrudged any one a meal's vittles or a night's sleep. Your poor old grandmother's slaved herself half to death for you, and I'm glad to see you have some spunk." "Then, you'll let me stay?" and a soft flush of relief stole over Charlie's face. "Stay!" rather indignantly. "No one ever heard of Hannah Wilcox turnin' people out o' doors. Your Granny has done more than one good turn for me." "But I've saved some money to pay my board"-- "I won't take a cent of it till you get to work, there, now! Jest you never fret yourself a word. It'll all come right, I know." "I'm very much obliged," said Charlie, feeling as if she would like to cry. "Mary Jane spoke of a chance of getting you at the flowers. It's light, easy work,--I tell her jest like play. But you must have a visit first." On Saturday Mary Jane came home at noon. "I do think Charlie Kenneth's earned a holiday," said Mrs. Wilcox. "I couldn't begin to tell the things that girl's done this mornin'. Swept and dusted, and helped me clean the closet"-- "Then you're in clover, mother;" and Mary Jane laughed. "I never could bear to do housework." "A great kind of a wife you'll make." "That will be some one else's look out;" and Mary Jane tossed her head in a curiously satisfied manner. They took a promenade on Broadway in the afternoon. Charlie was delighted; and the shop-windows entertained her beyond description. They bought some trifles,--a pair of gloves, a collar, and a ribbon or two,--and Charlie found that money absolutely melted away. She had spent four dollars. She summoned courage to question Mary Jane a little, but found her exceedingly ignorant on the great topic that absorbed her. "I believe girls do color photographs in some places, but then you'd have to know a good deal to get a situation like that. I guess only rich girls have a chance to learn drawing and painting." "But when it comes natural," said Charlie slowly. "Well, I'll ask _him_;" and Mary Jane smiled, and nodded her head. "_He_ knows most every thing." "Are you going to marry him?" Charlie asked innocently, understanding the pronoun. "Oh, I don't know!" with a toss of the head. "I mean to have some fun first. Some girls have lots of beaux." Charlie colored. She had not the judgment or the experience to assist her in any sort of analysis; but she _felt_ that these Wilcoxes were very different from their household. They had always been poor, lived in an old tumble-down cottage, with a bed in the parlor; were a noisy, frolicksome, romping set; given to slang, Flossy's great abhorrence; and yet--there was a clean, pure element in them all,--a kind of unconscious refinement. Florence's fine-ladyisms had not been entirely useless or wasted. Refinement was the idea floating so dimly through Charlie's brain. In after years she understood the force of Hal's example, and the many traits Joe had laughed at as being girlish. But now she could only feel that there was a great gulf between her and Mary Jane; that the latter could _not_ enter into her hopes and ambitions. However, Charlie's drawings were brought to Mr. Brown for inspection. "Why, you're a regular genius!" he exclaimed in surprise. Charlie colored with delight, and every nerve seemed to expand with precious hope. "It is a great pity that you are not a man." "Why?" and Charlie opened her large eyes wonderingly. "Because then you could do something with your talent. All these comic pictures in papers are designed by men; and they sometimes travel about, writing descriptions of places, and drawing little sketches to go with them. It is capital business." "That is what I should like;" and Charlie's face glowed. "But girls and women never do it. It's altogether out of their sphere. You see, that is one of the disadvantages." Mr. Brown uttered this dogmatically. "But if they know how, and can do it"-- "They couldn't travel about alone, running into dangers of all kinds. And it is just here. Now, some of these sketches are as good as you see in the papers; but no one would think of buying them of a woman, because it is men's work." Charlie winked the tears out of her eyes. The argument was crushing, for she could not refute the lameness of the logic; and she had always felt sore about being a girl. "They teach women to draw and paint down here at Cooper Institute," he said presently. "But I suppose it costs a good deal?" and Charlie sighed. "Yes." "These things are for rich people," said Mary Jane with an air of authority. Charlie could not summon heart to question further: besides, she had some ideas in her brain. Maybe she _might_ sell her pictures to some newspaper. Any how, she would try. She began the week with this determination. On Monday she dressed herself carefully, and gave her face a rather rigorous inspection. It _did_ look very little-girlish. And somehow she wished her hair wasn't short, and that she could be handsome. Who ever heard of such dark eyes and light hair, such a peculiar tint too,--a kind of Quaker-drab; not golden nor auburn nor chestnut. Well, she was as she grew, and she couldn't help any of it. By dint of inquiring now and then, she found her way about pretty well. Her first essay was in the office of an illustrated paper. The man listened to her story with a peculiar sharp business air, and merely said,-- "No: we don't want any thing of the kind." Charlie felt that she could not say another word, and walked out. She stood a long while looking in the window of a print-shop, and at last ventured again. This person was less brusque. "My little girl," he said, "we never do any thing with such matters. We buy our pictures, printed or painted, or engravings, as the case may be, from all parts of the world. Many of them are copies from different artists well known to fame. It costs a great deal for the plate of a picture." Which explanation was quite unintelligible to Charlie. She rambled on until she came to a bookstore. There being only a boy within, she entered. "Do you ever buy any pictures for books?" she asked. "Books allus have pictures in 'em," was the oracular reply. "But who makes them?" "Why, engravers, of course;" with supreme astonishment at her ignorance. "And they--do the thinking,--plan the picture, I mean?" "What?" asked the boy, as if Charlie had spoken Greek. "Some one must have the idea first." He could not controvert it, and stared about helplessly. "Are there any lady engravers?" "No, I guess not;" scratching his head. "And who makes these little pictures of children like this girl teaching the dog to read, and this one with the flowers?" "Oh, I know what you want!" exclaimed the boy. "We gets 'em down in Ann Street. There's some girls working in the place. Do you know where Ann Street is?" Some of Charlie's old humor cropped out. "No, nor Polly Street, nor Jemima Street." The boy studied her sharply, but preserved a sullen silence, strongly suspecting that he was being laughed at. "Will you please tell me?" quite meekly. "And--the man's name." The boy found a card, and directed her. Charlie trudged on with a light heart. The place was up two flights of very dirty steps. Mr. Balcour had gone out to dinner, and she was rather glad of an excuse to rest. In the adjoining room there were three girls laughing and chatting. Now, if she could come here to work! When Mr. Balcour entered, Charlie found him a very pleasant-looking man. She made known her errand with but little hesitation. "It is something of a mistake," was the smiling answer. "My business is coloring prints, flower-pieces, and all that. Sometimes they are sent to me, but these little things I buy by the hundred or thousand, and color them; then picture-dealers, Sunday-schools, &c., come in here to purchase." With that he displayed cases of birds, flowers, fancy scenes, and tiny landscapes. "Oh, how beautiful they are!" and she glanced them over with delight. "I should like to do them!" "Do you know any thing about water-coloring?" "No;" rather hesitatingly, for she was not at all certain as to the precise nature of water-coloring. "I keep several young ladies at work. It requires taste, practice, and a certain degree of genius, artistic ability." "I meant the first thought of the picture," said Charlie, blushing. "Some one must know how it is to be made." "Yes, certainly." "If you would look at these"-- She opened her parcel, and spread them before him. "Did you do them?" He asked the question in astonishment. "Yes," was Charlie's simple reply. He studied her critically, which made her warm color come and go, and she interlaced her fingers nervously. "My child, this first thought, as you call it, is designing. You have a very remarkable genius, I should say. How old are you?" "Fifteen." "You have had some instruction!" Charlie concluded it would be wiser to say that she had, for there was the drawing-book and Hal. "You wish to do this for a living?" he asked kindly. "Oh, if I could! I like it so much!" and there was a world of entreaty in Charlie's tone. Mr. Balcour had to laugh over some of the drawings, for the faces were so spirited and expressive. "I will tell you the very best thing for you to do. Enter the School of Design for women. The arrangements, I believe, are very good; that is, there is a chance to earn something while you are studying." "Oh!" Charlie's face was fairly transfigured. Mr. Balcour thought her a wonderfully pretty girl. "It is at Cooper Institute, Third Avenue and Seventh or Eighth Street. I really do not know any thing about it, except that it does profess to assist young students in art." "I am so much obliged to you;" and Charlie gave him a sweet, grateful smile. "I should like to hear a little about you!" he said; "and I hope you will succeed. Come in some time and let me know. Do you live in the city?" "No; but I am staying with some friends on Fourteenth Street." "Not far from Cooper Institute, then." "No, I can easily find it." They said good-by; and Charlie threaded her way up to City Hall with a heart as light as thistle-down, quite forgetting that she had missed her dinner. Then, by car, she went up to Cooper Institute. And now what was she to do? I told you that Charlie had a great deal of courage and perseverance. And then she was so earnest in this quest! She inquired in a china-store, and was directed up stairs. It was very odd indeed. First she stumbled into a reading-room, and was guided from thence to the art-gallery by a boy. The pictures amused and interested her for quite a while. One lady and two gentlemen were making copies. By and by she summoned courage to ask the lady which was the school, or study-room. "School of Design?" "Yes," timidly. "It is closed." Charlie's countenance fell. "When will it be open?" "About the first of October." The child gave a great sigh of disappointment. "Were you thinking of entering?" "I wanted to see--if I could." "Have you painted any?" "No: but I have been drawing a little." "You are rather young, I think." Then the lady went on with her work. Charlie turned away with tears in her eyes. A whole month to wait! Mrs. Wilcox plied her with questions on her return, but Charlie was not communicative. After a night's rest she felt quite courageous again. She would see what could be done about engraving. Poor Charlie! There were no bright spots in this day. Everybody seemed cross and in a hurry. One man said coarsely,-- "You needn't tell me you did them things by yourself. You took 'em from some picturs." So she came home tired and dispirited. Mary Jane had a crowd of gay company in the evening, and Charlie slipped off to bed. Oh, if she could only give Dot a good hug, and kiss Hal's pale face, and hear Granny's cracked voice! Even the horrible tuning of Kit's fiddle would sound sweet. But to be here,--among strangers,--and not be able to make her plans work. Charlie turned her face over on the pillow, and had a good cry. After all, there never could be anybody in this world half so sweet as "The old woman who lived in a shoe!" On Wednesday it rained. Charlie was positively glad to have a good excuse for staying within doors. She helped Mrs. Wilcox with her sewing, and told her every thing she could remember about the people at Madison. "How strange it must look,--and a railroad through the middle of it! There wa'n't no mills in my time, either. And rows of houses, Mary Jane said. She'd never 'a' known the place if it hadn't been for the folks. Dear, dear!" Mary Jane came home in high feather that night. "I found they were taking on some girls to-day, Charlie; and I spoke a good word for you. You can come next Monday. I don't believe you'll make out much with the pictures." "You were very good;" but Charlie's lip quivered a little. "It will be ever so nice to have company up and down! and you'll like it, I'm sure." Mary Jane, being of a particularly discursive nature, was delighted to have a constant listener. "Well, that was better than nothing," Charlie thought. She might work a while, and perhaps learn something more definite about the School of Design. "For I'll never give it up, never!" and Charlie set her resolute red lips together, while her eyes glanced into the future. The following morning was so lovely, that she felt as if she must have a walk. She put on her white dress and sacque, and looked as fresh as a rose. She would go over on Broadway, where every thing was clean and lovely, and have a delightful time looking at the shop-windows and the beautiful ladies. It was foolish to take her pictures along, and yet she did it. They really appeared a part of her life. On and on she sauntered, enjoying every thing with the keenest relish. The mellow sun, the refreshing air that had in it a crisp flavor, the cloudless sky overhead, and the bright faces around, made her almost dance with gladness. She stood for a long while viewing some chromos in a window,--two or three of children, which were very piquant and amusing, and appealed to her love of fun. Obeying her impulse she entered, and stole timidly around. Two gentlemen were talking, and one of the faces pleased her exceedingly. A large, fair, fresh-complexioned man, with curly brown hair, and a patriarchal beard, snowy white, though he did not appear old. A young fellow came to her presently, and asked if there was any thing he could show her. "I should like to see the gentleman--when he is--disengaged." That speech would have done credit to Florence. The youth carried the message, and the proprietor glanced around. Not the one with the beautiful beard, and Charlie felt rather disappointed. They talked a while longer, then he came forward. "You wished to see me?" Charlie turned scarlet to the tips of her fingers, and stammered something in an absurdly incoherent fashion. "Oh! you did not interrupt me--particularly," and he smiled kindly. "What can I do for you?" "Will you tell me--who made the first design--for--those pictures in the window,--the children, I mean?" "Different artists. Two, I think, are by ladies." "And how did they get to do it? I mean, after they made the sketch, who painted it?" "Those are from the original paintings. The artist had the thought, and embodied it in a sketch." "But suppose no one wanted to buy it?" "That _has_ happened;" and he smiled again. "Why? Have you been trying your hand at pictures?" "Yes," answered Charlie in great doubt and perplexity. "Only mine are done in pencil. If you would look at them." Charlie's eyes were so beseeching, that he could not resist. She opened her small portfolio,--Hal's handiwork. The gentleman glanced over two or three. "Did you do these yourself?" "Yes;" and Charlie wondered that she should be asked the question so frequently. "Who taught you?" "My brother, a little; but I think it comes natural," said Charlie in her earnestness, knowing no reason why she should not tell the truth. "Darol, here is a genius for you!" he exclaimed, going back to his friend. Charlie watched them with throbbing heart and bated breath. She was growing very sensitive. "That child!" "Come here, little girl, will you?" said Mr. Darol, beckoning her towards them. "Who put the faces in these?" "I did;" and the downcast lids trembled perceptibly. "How long have you been studying?" "Oh! I could always do that," answered Charlie. "I used to in school. And some of them are just what did happen." "This,--Mr. Kettleman's troubles?" and he scrutinized her earnestly. "There was a man working in the mill whose name was Kettleman, and he always carried a dinner-kettle. But I thought up the adventures myself." Charlie uttered this very modestly, and yet in a quiet, straightforward manner, that bore the impress of sincerity. The first picture was Mr. Kettleman purchasing his kettle. A scene in a tin-shop; the seller a round, jolly fellow, about the shape of a beer-cask; and Mr. Kettleman tall and thin, with a long nose, long fingers, and long legs. He was saying, "Will it hold enough?" The faces _were_ capital. In the second Mrs. Kettleman was putting up her husband's dinner. There were piles and piles of goodies; and his cadaverous face was bent over the mass, the lips slightly parted, the nose longer than ever, and asking solemnly, "Can you get it all in, Becky?" The third showed a group of laughing men round a small table, which was spread with different articles. One fellow held the pail up-side-down, saying, "The last crumb." The head of Mr. Kettleman was just in sight, ascending the stairs. Lastly the kettle tied to a dog's tail. Mr. Kettleman in the distance, taller, thinner, and exceedingly woebegone, watching his beloved but unfortunate kettle as it thumped over the stones. There were many irregularities and defects, but the faces were remarkable for expression. Mr. Darol laughed heartily. "How old are you?" asked Mr. Wentworth, glancing curiously at the slender slip of a girl. "Fifteen." "You don't look that." "You have a wonderful gift," said Mr. Darol thoughtfully. "Oh, that is real!" exclaimed Charlie eagerly, as they turned to another. "My brother was in a store once, and sold some pepper for allspice. The woman put it in her pie." "So I should judge from her husband's face;" and they both laughed again, and praised Charlie to her heart's content. By degrees Mr. Darol drew Charlie's history from her. She did not conceal her poverty nor her ambition; and her love for her one talent spoke eloquently in every line of her face. "My child, you have a remarkable genius for designing. The school at Cooper Institute will be just the place for you. Wentworth, I think I shall take her over to Miss Charteris. What is your name, little one?" "Charlie Kenneth." "Charlie?" in amaze. "It was Charlotte, but I've always been called Charlie." "Just the name for you! Miss Charlie, you have a world of energy and spirit. I know you will succeed. And now it would give me great pleasure to take you to the studio of an artist friend." The tears came into Charlie's eyes: she couldn't help it, though she tried to smile. "Oh!" with a tremulous sob, "it's just like a dream. And you are so good! I'd go with one meal a day if I could only draw pictures!" And Charlie was lovely again, with her face full of smiles, tears, and blushes. Earnest, piquant, and irregular, she was like a picture herself. It seemed to Charlie that in five minutes they reached Miss Charteris's studio; and she stood in awe and trembling, scarcely daring to breathe. For up to this date she had hardly been able to believe that any woman in the world besides Rosa Bonheur had actually painted pictures. "I have brought you a new study, Miss Charteris. A romance and a small young woman." "Well, Paul Darol! I don't believe there is your equal in the world for picking up the lame and the halt and the blind, and the waifs and strays. What now?" and Miss Charteris laughed with such a musical ripple that Charlie turned and answered her with a smile. "First look at these, and then let me tell you a story." "Very fair and vigorous sketches;" and Miss Charteris glanced curiously at Charlie. Then Mr. Darol began with the story, telling his part first, and calling in Charlie to add sundry helps to the other. "And so, you see, I ventured to try your good temper once more, and bring her to you." "What shall I do,--paint her? She might sit for a gypsy girl now, but in ten years she will be a handsome woman. What an odd, trustful child! This promises better than some of your discoveries." "Well, help me to get her into the School of Design, and make a successful genius of her. She is too plucky for any one to refuse her a helping hand." Miss Charteris began to question Charlie. She had a vein of drollery in her own nature; and in half an hour Charlie was laughing and talking as if she had known her all her lifetime. What pleased Mr. Darol most was her honesty and unflinching truth. She told of their poverty and struggles, of the love and the fun they had shared together; but there was a little tremor in her voice as she said, "We had one sister who was adopted by a rich lady." The matter was soon settled, being in the right hands. Charlie was registered as a pupil at the school; and Miss Charteris taught her to re-touch photographs, and found her an opportunity to do a little work. It was something of a hardship to go on boarding with Mrs. Wilcox; but they were so fond of her, and so proud of what they could not understand! So you do not wonder, I fancy, that Charlie's letter should be such a jubilate. Ah, if she could only earn a little money to take back with her! She saw Miss Charteris and Mr. Darol quite often. He was like a father, but sweeter and dearer than any one's father she had ever known. When she went home, she meant to coax Hal to return with her, just for the pleasure of meeting such splendid people; "for he is the best of all of us," she used to say to Miss Charteris. Ah, Charlie, if you dreamed of what was happening in the Old Shoe! CHAPTER XVII. LOST AT SEA. The autumn was unusually warm and pleasant, without any frost to injure the flowers until the middle of October. Hal enlarged his green-house arrangements, and had a fine stock of tuberoses. He had learned a good deal by his experiments of the past year. He had been careful not to overwork; since he was improving, and took every thing moderately. But at last it was all finished,--the cold frames arranged for spring, the plants housed, the place tidy and in order. The loss of the school had been a severe disappointment to Hal. He was casting about now for some employment whereby he might earn a little. If Mr. Sherman would only give him a few days' work, now and then, they could get along nicely; for Granny was a most economical manager, and, besides, there was eighty dollars in the bank, and a very small family,--only three of them. Hal came home one day, and found Granny sitting over a handful of fire, bundled in a great shawl. Her eyes had a frightened look, and there was a blue line about her mouth. "Why. Granny dear, what is the matter?" he asked in alarm, stooping over to kiss the cold wrinkled cheek. "I d-d-don't know," the teeth chattering in the attempt to speak. "I b-b-lieve I've got a chill!" "Oh, so you have, poor dear child!" and Hal was as motherly as the old gray hen outside. "You must go to bed at once. Perhaps you had better bathe your feet, and have a bowl of hot tea." "And my head aches so! I'm not used to having headache, Hal." She said this piteously, as if she fancied Hal, who could do every thing in her opinion, might exorcise the pain. "I'm very sorry, dear," stroking the wrinkled face as if she had been a baby. "Now I'll put some water on to heat." "O Hal, I'm so cold! 'Pears to me I never shall be warm again." "Yes, when I get you snug in the bed, and make you some nice tea. What shall it be,--pennyroyal?" "And a little feverfew." Hal kissed the cold, trembling lips, and went about his preparations. The water was soon hot; and he put a little mustard in the pail with it, carrying it to the bedside in the other room, and leading poor Granny thither. The place was steaming presently with the fragrance of pennyroyal. Hal poured it off into a cool bowl, and gave Granny a good drink, then tucked her in the bed, and spread the shawl over her; but still she cried in her pitiful voice,-- "I'm so cold, Hal!" After the rigor of the chill began to abate, a raging fever set in, and Granny's mind wandered a little. Then Hal was rather alarmed. Granny had never been down sick a day in her life, although she was not so very robust. "Dot, darling, you must run for Dr. Meade," Hal said, as the child came home from school. "Granny is very ill, I am afraid." Dr. Meade was away, and did not come until eight in the evening. "I fear it is going to be a run of fever, Hal," he began gravely. "At her time of life too! But we'll do the best we can. There is considerable fever about." Hal drew a long breath of pain. "You will be the best nurse in the world, Hal;" and the doctor smiled, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder re-assuringly. Hal winked away some tears. They lay quite too close to the surface for a man's nature. "I'll leave her some drops, and be in again in the morning. Don't worry, my dear boy." Granny could hardly bear to have Hal out of sight, and wanted to keep hold of his hand all the time. Dot prepared the supper, but they could taste nothing beyond a cup of tea. "Dot," he said, "you must go up stairs and sleep in my bed to-night. I shall stay here to watch Granny." "But it will be so--lonesome!" with her baby entreaty. "It is best, my darling." So Dot kissed him many times, lingering until after the clock struck ten, when Hal said,-- "My birdie's eyes will be heavy to-morrow." Granny was worse the next day. Indeed, for the ensuing fortnight her life seemed vibrating in the balance. Everybody was very kind, but she could bear no one besides Hal. Just a little delirious occasionally, and going back to the time when they were all babies, and her own dear Joe lay dying. "I've done my best for 'em, Joe," she would murmur. "I've never minded heat nor cold, nor hard work. They've been a great blessing,--they always were good children." For Granny forgot all Charlie's badness, Joe's mischief, and Dot's crossness. Transfigured by her devotion, they were without a fault. Ah, how one tender love makes beautiful the world! Whatever others might think, God had a crown of gold up in heaven, waiting for the poor tired brow; and the one angel would have flown through starry skies for her, taking her to rest on his bosom, but the other pleaded,-- "A little longer, for the children's sake." At last the fever was conquered. Granny was weak as a baby, and had grown fearfully thin; but it was a comfort to have her in her right mind. Still Hal remarked that the doctor's face had an anxious look, and that he watched him with a kind of pitying air. So much so, that one day he said,-- "You think she _will_ get well, doctor?" "There is nothing to prevent it if we can only keep up her appetite." "I always feed her," returned Hal with a smile, "whether she is willing to eat or not." "You are a born nurse, as good as a woman. Give her a little of the port wine every day." Then the doctor turned to the window, and seemed to glance over towards the woods. "Quite winterish, isn't it? When have you heard from Joe?" "Not in a long time. Letters do not come so regularly as they used. I think we have not had one since August. But he writes whenever he can, dear Joe. The last time we received three." "Yes," in a kind of absent way. When Dr. Meade started to go, he kept his hand for several minutes on the door-latch, giving some unimportant directions. "God bless you, Hal!" he said in a strained, husky tone, "and give you grace to bear all the trials of this life. Heaven knows, there are enough of them!" What did the doctor mean? Hal wondered eagerly. That evening Mr. and Mrs. Terry dropped in for a friendly call. "When did you hear from Joe last?" asked Mr. Terry. "In August." "Wasn't expecting him home, I suppose?" "Not until next summer. Has any one heard?" and there was a quiver in Hal's voice. "I don't know of any one who has had a letter;" and Mr. Terry appeared to be measuring his words. "Joe was a nice bright lad, just as full of fun as an egg is full of meat. Cousin Burton took a wonderful fancy to him; though I suppose he'd have gone off to sea, any way. If it had not been Burton, it would have been some one else." "Yes. Joe always had his heart set upon it." "Father and Joe used to get along so nicely. We never had a boy we liked better. He was a brave, honest fellow." It seemed almost as if Mrs. Terry wiped a tear from her eye. But Granny wanted to be raised in the bed, and some way Hal couldn't think until after they were gone. He was thankful to see the doctor come in the next morning. "Oh!" he exclaimed in a low tone, "you were talking of Joe yesterday: has anybody heard from him, or about him?" The hand that clasped the doctor's arm trembled violently. "Hal, be calm," entreated the doctor. "I cannot! Oh, you _do_ know,--and it's bad news!" "My dear boy--O Hal!" and he was folded in the doctor's arms. "Tell me, tell me!" in a yearning, impatient tone, that seemed to crowd its way over sobs. "God knows it could not have hurt me more if it had been one of my own! But he was a hero--to the last. There isn't a braver young soul up in heaven, I'll answer for that. Here--it's in the paper. I've carried it about with me three days, old coward that I've been, and not dared to tell you. But it's all over the village. Hush,--for Granny's sake. She must not know." Hal dropped on the lounge that he and Granny had manufactured with so much pride. He was stunned,--dead to every thing but pain, and that was torturing. The doctor placed the paper in his hands, and went into the other room to his patient. Yes, there it was! The words blurred before his eyes; and still he read, by some kind of intuition. "The Argemone" had met with a terrific storm in the Indian Ocean; and, though she had battled bravely, winds and waves had proved too strong. All one night the men had labored heroically, but in vain; and when she began to go down, just at dawn, the life-boats were filled, too few, alas! even if there were safety in them. Nothing could exceed the bravery and coolness of the young second mate. The captain lay sick below; the first mate and the engineer were panic-stricken; but this strong, earnest voice had inspired every one through the fearful night. When it was found that some must be left behind, he decided to stay, and assisted the others with a courage and presence of mind that was beyond all praise. The smile that illuminated his face when he refused to step into the already overladen boat was like the smile of an angel. They who saw it in the light of the gray dawn would never forget. One boat drifted in to Sumatra, the other was picked up by a passing vessel. But the few who remained must have perished in any case, and among them no name so deserving of honor as that of Joseph Kenneth. Hal read it again and again. Joseph Kenneth! Was that dear, laughing Joe, with his merry eyes, and the sauciest trick of winking in the corner of one; little Joe who had stood on his head, played circus, and, with the aid of a few old shawls, been lion, tiger, elephant, and camel; dear Joe, who had cuddled up in bed cold winter nights and almost smothered him,--Hal; who had made ghosts out of the bolster, and frightened Kit half to death! Why did he think of these foolish things now? Oh, this brave Joseph Kenneth never could be their little Joe! God surely would not give Granny this pain and anguish to bear at the last! A hand was laid on Hal's shoulder. "Oh! it can't be true"-- "There's just one chance out of a thousand. Hal, it seems to me the saddest thing I ever heard, and yet so grand. You see what the passengers said of him. Ah, I think he did not need to knock long at St. Peter's gate!" The doctor wiped his eyes. "But--never to have him--come back"-- "He has drifted into a better port, my dear boy: that must be our comfort. We shall all cross the river by and by; and it is never so hard for the one who goes, as for those who stay and bear the pain and loneliness. And some time it will be sweet to remember that he gave his brave young life for others." Hal's eyes were tearless, and there was a hard, strained look in his face. "Don't tell Granny now. She couldn't bear it." "No;" and Hal's voice was full of pathetic grief. "And oh, Hal, be comforted a little! I know there is an overwhelming anguish in it; but for the sake of those still left"-- "Yes." Hal's ashen lips quivered. The doctor brushed away the soft hair tumbled about his forehead, and held the cold hand in his. "God has some balm for every ache, my boy." Hal sat there until Granny called for something, every moment growing more incredulous. But a heavy weight hung about his heart, even though he refused to believe. It seemed as if there could not be despairing certainty before to-morrow. When Kit came home on Saturday night, and just threw his arms around Hal's neck, sobbing as if his heart had broken, it gave a strange reality to the grief and sorrow. "I heard it on Monday,--the loss of 'The Argemone.' How proud Joe was of her! And my heart's been aching for you every day. The cruel thing of it all is, never to have him come home again." Dot had to be taken into confidence then; but she was a discreet little thing, and quite to be trusted. She did not suffer so deeply, for Joe was only a pleasant dream to her; and she tried to comfort Hal with her sweet, winsome ways. Granny _did_ improve slowly. She began to sit up in the rocking-chair, walk to the window and look out, and occasionally smile, in her faint, wan fashion. They would never hear the merry chirruping laugh again, Hal thought. But all the details of life had to be gone through with, as usual. There was the poultry to be prepared for market; for this source of their income could not be overlooked. In fact, Hal and Dot were not quite as economical managers as Granny; and then every thing was very high. They required more luxuries in sickness, and Hal would not stint. But, when this was gone, there would be the money for the flowers, and their little hoard in the bank still remained unbroken. It was not any fear of want that troubled Hal. The old dreams and ambitions seemed to be slipping away. Sometimes even the idea of attaining to a green-house failed to charm; though he still loved his flowers passionately, and they comforted him as nothing else could have done. One day Granny thought of Joe. "Have we had a letter since my illness?" she asked. "No," answered Hal faintly. "Not since--let me see,--it was August." Hal made no reply. "Why--it's strange! He never did such a thing before! Hasn't any one heard?" "I believe not." Hal turned his head, and went on with some writing. "Seems to me you take it pretty easy," said Granny, a little vexed. "Joe never was the one to forget his home folks. Hal, something's happened: mark my words!" Poor Hal brushed away a tear. Then Granny gave Dot a mysterious confidence, and asked her to inquire of Mr. Terry. "He always wrote to them, and they must know." Dot said, in return, that they had not received a letter. Granny then began to worry in desperate earnest, and besieged every visitor with questions and surmises. Hal was in a sore strait. Of course she must know sometime. She made herself so nearly sick, that Dr. Meade saw the danger and harm, and felt that she had better know the truth. "Will you tell her?" faltered Hal. He undertook the sorrowful office. Tenderly, kindly, and yet it was a cruel wound. "Oh, it cannot be!" she cried. "God wouldn't take him from me now that I'm old and sick and helpless! Let me see the paper." They complied with her request, but the doctor had to read it. Her old eyes could not see a word. "Oh, oh! Drowned in the sea! And I never wanted him to go! My poor darling! who was always so bright, so happy, and who loved his poor old Granny so well! Let me go back to bed now: I don't want to live. They're all up in heaven,--_my_ Joe, and little Joe, and poor Dora. There is no use of staying here." Hal soothed her with fondest love and caresses; but nothing could change the longing in her heart, the weary look in the eyes that seemed to be discerning the shore beyond, and the sad voice with its one refrain, "Poor, dear Joe!" After that she failed rapidly. Hal scarcely left her. She used to ask him to read all the old letters over again, from the first boyish pride that so exulted in the trip to Albany. And she would recall some act of tenderness, or a gay prank at which they all had laughed. One evening Hal felt unusually weary. There had been a warm rain for two days, with most un-December-like weather. A fire felt absolutely uncomfortable. He generally slept down on the lounge now, to be near if Granny wanted any thing. Before retiring he paid his flower-room a visit. Every thing was doing splendidly. So far business had not been very brisk; but that morning he had received an order for the next week,--Christmastide,--for all the flowers he could cut. "Dear sweet children," he said, talking softly to himself. "If I could only have put some in _his_ coffin, and on his grave! but to think of him lying in the sea, with the endless music over his head, and the shells tangled in his hair. O Joe! it doesn't seem a bit true, and I never can make it so." Yet he knew in his heart that it was; and he tried to remember that Joe was up in heaven, past all pain and care, ready to welcome them as they came, one by one,--Granny first. It would be easier to give her up, because she was going to be with darling Joe. He left the door against the hall open, it was so warm; then he took a last look at Granny, and dropped on his couch. It was a long while before he fell asleep, and then he slumbered soundly. Once he awoke with a shiver, and reached out for the blanket he had thrown off earlier in the night. The light in the window roused him at length. How oddly it looked, and oh, how cold! Why, the panes were frosted with a thousand fairy devices! And then Hal sprang up, hurried into his clothes, and ran to the flower-room. The windows were white with frost, and the thick papers rolled to the top. Worst of all, the fire had gone out! For a moment Hal stood in blank despair. His beautiful buds that were to be out in a few days, his tender, delicate plants! How had it happened? There must have been more ashes in the bottom of the stove than he thought; and the fire, being weak, had not kindled at all. He tore it out with eager hands. Not a spark remained. The stove was as cold as a stone. But there was no time to waste in grief. Hal kindled his fire, and then began to drench his plants. Something might be saved. Presently Dot's little feet pattered up the stairs. "How we all slept!" she said. "And oh, dear! its as cold as Greenland, after the beautiful summer weather. But Hal, dear, what is the matter?" "My fire went out." "Will it hurt the plants?" "Some of them;" and his voice had a great tremble in it. "Oh, it is too bad, Hal! doesn't every thing seem to happen to us?" and tears sprang to the fond eyes. Hal gave a long, pained sigh. "Can't you save any of them?" "Yes: some, I think. It might have been worse." Dot kissed him tenderly,--it was all she could do. Then she ran down, and began to prepare breakfast. The sun was rising; and Hal dropped the papers to keep it dark for the present, and allowed his fire to come on gradually. At first he began to take hope, for the flowers held up their heads crisply. Alas! by noon they showed signs of drooping; and before night the buds of the tuberoses began to be slightly discolored. Poor Hal could have cried out of pure sorrow. He loved them all so dearly, and it almost seemed to him as if they suffered as well. But the next day the ruin was plainly established. He went about with his scissors, clipping here and there. The heliotrope displayed a mass of blackened clusters; but it could be trimmed for new blossoming. Many of the more forward, choice rosebuds were ruined but the plants were not deeply injured. The bouvardias were quite spoiled; but the mignonette and alyssum were unharmed. Hal cut a few the day before Christmas, and sent them over to Mr. Thomas. It was such a sore loss and disappointment, that it hung around him like a heavy burden. They had been counting on the money with so much pleasure. "Never mind," exclaimed Dot cheerfully. "We will not have any extra Christmas. Granny will not be able to sit up, and there'll be no one home but Kit." Hal brushed away a tear. To tell the truth, he felt miserably lonesome, and sick at heart. Every day the sense of loss grew upon him. He had given up hope for Granny; though she was no worse, and perhaps had improved a little in appetite. But then she did not care to get well. And the faces lost out of the home group made such a sad break. They had received two more hopeful little notes from Charlie; but, if she was happy and prosperous, would she not be weaned away, like the one other. Joe, in his deep sea-grave, had always been tender and true. "Christmas isn't much to us now," Hal answered, recalling the old gayety. "Yet it is too bad to put such black shadows in your life, my darling." "The sun has never been so bright for me, you know," Dot said, in her sweet, soft voice, in which there was not a touch of complaint. "It seems as if the path had grown shady before I came to it, so I don't miss the gayety. And, while I can have you and Granny, I'll be quite satisfied." "You are a comfort and a treasure. I'm so glad to have _you_, Dot, though you were a wee baby and always sick. Now and then a neighbor used to say,--'What a blessing it would be if that child should die!' But Granny never thought so." Dot nestled closer. The morning had been cloudy, and about ten o'clock it commenced snowing. They did their housework, and prepared their simple dinner. "I had resolved to go to town to-day, and buy some Christmas," said Hal. "I believe we never were quite so blue before." "I don't suppose Kit will be able to get home this evening," Dot said slowly. "No." "Then we'll keep it by ourselves, Hal. It will not be so very bad." "But to have no little gifts,--and Granny sick in bed"-- "It will not be a merry Christmas for us, dear; but there may be something pleasant in it." Hal sighed sorrowfully. Oh, for the sweet, lost childhood! CHAPTER XVIII. A SONG IN THE NIGHT. It snowed steadily all day; and evening closed around them in the midst of this soft, noiseless storm. The roads were beginning to be blocked up, the houses were hooded in ermine, and no one passed by the windows. Not a soul had been in that day. So, after the lamp was lighted, they drew closer together. Hal read a while from a book of poems that Mrs. Howard had lent him. "It is nearly bed-time," he said at length. "I don't feel a bit sleepy." "Hal," began Granny, stretching out her thin hand, "don't leave me. I feel so strange." "Worse, my own dear?" "Not in pain, but sort of restful, as if I'd come to something--no, I'm not afraid, Hal. I've been praying all along that I might die, and maybe it's coming. I'm a poor old body, not worth much,--and Joe's _there_, you know." She gave her head a feeble nod. Hal swallowed over a great sob. "When will it be Christmas?" "To-morrow." "Maybe I'll be up among the angels,--a poor, ignorant, foolish old body like me! It's wonderful to think of! But Joe'll be there, to take his dear Granny by the hand, and keep her from stumbling, and making mistakes, and doing all the things that would shame or vex any one. And Christ loved us all, you know. He died for us. I think I've understood it better since Joe stood there on the ship, refusing to get into the boat lest he might swamp it. He died for some one: not in _that_ fashion, for he didn't have any sins to bear, and wasn't reviled and wounded; but still he gave his sweet life,--his dear life that was so much to me." Dot crept up to the bed. "After I'm gone you and Dot'll love each other. It will be sad for a little while, but God will remember you, and bring you comfort. I've cried to him a' many times, when it's been dark all round; and, when all other friends fail, you'll find him true and strong. I've done the best I could. It's been poor enough; but then I never had learnin' and all that to help me. I took you when you were all little chaps, motherless and fatherless, and I've tried to keep you together. But they've strayed off, Hal. There's only you and Dot to give Granny a last kiss." Dot was sobbing on Granny's pillow. "Don't, deary, don't," in her quivering, entreating voice. "We must all die some time. God knows when it's best. And I ain't of any use now, my work's all done. I'd like to see 'em all again, Hal,--dear little things; only I never can believe they are all men and women. And, if Flossy comes back, give her my love. She was so pretty, with her long golden curls! I don't wonder the grand lady liked her. And Charlie,--Charlie was such a good girl all last summer, working like a woman! Yes--if I could only see 'em once more!" Hal wiped away his fast falling tears. It seemed too hard that Granny's unselfish life should not be crowned at the last. To die here, almost alone! "You remember the old Christmas, Hal? The last time we were all together! Ah, how sweet it was! And the presents, and the old shoe full!" Granny's voice sunk to a tremble of delight. "It was so happy, so merry! All of 'em laughing and talking, and their bright pretty faces full of fun. But--maybe--I'll see 'em all in heaven. Don't cry, Dot." Hal drew her to his breast, and soothed her with tender kisses. Then he sat down in the old rocker, and took her on his knee. "There never was such a Christmas, never! I was so glad to have you all, so proud of you! And I've done my best"-- "Yes, Granny, God, who watches over all things, will bear witness to that. You were mother and father to us. And how you have toiled and worried and made sacrifices, how you have loved us, will all be written in the Great Book. I'm glad you are going to have a reward there." "I shall see Joe." Then she was quiet for a long while. "I can't remember any thing about the Christmas," said Dot with much perplexity. "Tell her, Hal. I'll listen; and it will seem all fresh again," pleaded Granny in a faint, far-off voice. "You were such a weeny little thing, and couldn't talk plain; but then you had always been sick." "And cross," Kit says. "You did use to cry--sometimes; and then at others you were like a little lamb. All children cry occasionally." Dot felt, somehow, as if she had not outgrown the trick yet; but the tears fell close to Hal's heart. "But about the Christmas?" "Oh, yes!" Then Hal began. The preparations beforehand, the secrecy and plotting, the stockings stuffed to overflowing, and the wildest of merriment the next morning. It appeared to Dot that she could see it like a picture. "And O Hal, that we should be so lonely now! Hasn't God let us slip out of his mind for a little while?" "I think not, my darling." "But how _can_ you always believe? Why did God let Joe die, when we wanted him so much; and Flossy go away? And all the other things,--the sweet pretty flowers that were frozen?" "My dear child, we cannot answer the questions. Trials always appear very hard to those who have them to bear; but maybe God gives us one to save us from some other that would be a great deal harder. And with it there is grace to endure." "As when you were hurt. I wonder that you could be so patient, Hal!" and the little arms crept up around his neck. "It was part my nature, you know. I used to be sorry at school, that I wasn't like the other boys; for, somehow, I never _was_: but, when God knew what I would have to bear, he made me patient, and almost girlish, loving to stay in the house, and all that. If I'd been like Joe, I should have fretted sorely when I found I should never be able to go to sea. He was so full of life and energy, you know, so ambitious, that it would almost have killed him. It was best to have it happen to me." Dot sighed, her small brain being greatly puzzled. "But I don't see why every one cannot be happy and prosperous. Isn't there enough to go round to all?" "God knows best. And, when it troubles me sorely, I think of the little Christ-child, who was born eighteen hundred years ago, all goodness and sweetness and meekness, and of the trials he had to bear for our sakes. All the lowly life, the reviling, the unbelief, the persecution, the being homeless, and sometimes almost friendless, and at the last the shameful death. We shall never have all that, my darling; and so we ought to bear our lesser sorrows patiently." Dot made no answer. "My darling," said Hal, glancing at the clock, "ought you not to go to bed? It is almost midnight." "And you?" reaching up to kiss the dear face. "I am going to stay here by Granny." Dot looked into his face with great awe. "Hal, I've never seen any one die; but I want to stay too. There's only just you and I; and she'll want us to kiss her for the last time, when the angels come." Hal pressed the little face in his trembling hands, but could not deny the wistful eyes. Then he rose, and looked at Granny. She had fallen into a peaceful slumber. It did not seem as if she could die just then; and yet, at this hour of rejoicing, some souls were slipping out of the world. He came back to his seat, and to his little sister. Dot's head was pillowed on his knee, and presently she began to drowse. Poor little bairn! So he kept his vigil by himself, thinking over the old days, when they were all here. Oh, if Granny could have seen them once more! If the brave and lovely men and women could come back to the old home-nest, all outgrown,--and he smiled sadly to himself,--just to clasp each other's hands, and glance into each other's eyes, to speak some word of comfort and blessing, to smooth the path of the dear heart yonder, who had given herself for them without stint or grudging, a holier sacrifice than even a mother's love. His mind was sorely troubled when he thought of Florence. Since childhood she had "lain in the roses and lilies of life." They had borne the burden and sorrow, the trials, the deprivations, days of toil, nights of anxious care about the future. And it seemed as if none of them had been especially prospered. She had gone to luxury at a bound. Where was she to-night? Did any remembrance of them ever cross her soul, amid her wealth and pleasure? Poor Joe again! It was the sad refrain to which his life would be forever set, like a strain of minor music. He loved Joe so dearly! There was such a soreness, such an aching and longing in his heart, that it sometimes seemed as if he could stretch out his arms, and search among the tangled seaweed until he found Joe, and lift him out of his cold bed. One bright dream broken off in the middle. There had been so much to take up his attention this winter, that he had hardly felt anxious for Charlie. Her cheerful little notes were like stray sunbeams, and she _had_ promised to come back. Ah, if it could only be in time to say good-by to Granny! Now and then he shut his eyes, and breathed a tender prayer,--that God would keep them all; that, no matter how far they strayed from each other, they might never stray from him. The lamp burned dimly in the room beyond. Granny still slept peacefully, and Dot's baby hand was fast clasped in his. All was still to awesomeness. Even the storm without must have ceased. "Hal," called the dear voice. Gently as he laid Dot down, the movement woke her. "Give me a little drink, Hal, please," Granny asked. He brought her some wine. "I wonder if there is any thing that I could eat?" "I left some chicken-broth on the stove to keep warm, and there is a little jelly." "I've had such a nice sleep, Hal! I feel so rested! It was almost like being in heaven, for Joe seemed to have his arms around my neck. Is it morning?" "Almost." "Oh!" exclaimed Dot, "it is clear and beautiful, with hosts of stars! I wonder if any shepherd watches them and thinks"-- "'In Bethlehem of Judea,'" said Granny in a chanting tone. "'Unto you is born a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.'" "How strange it seems! Christmas morning!" Hal brought the chicken and the jelly. Granny ate remarkably for her. Then he placed his fingers on her pulse. It certainly _was_ stronger. "I do think she is better," he said to Dot, who had followed him to the kitchen. "O Hal! maybe she won't die. I never saw anybody"-- "She was nervous last night, thinking so much of Joe," rejoined Hal softly in the pause that Dot did not finish. "I'm so glad to have her better!" "Children," Granny said when they came back, "it is Christmas morning, and you ought to sing. Everybody keeps Christmas." Dot glanced up in tearful surprise. What was she thinking of,--angels in heaven? "They sang on the plains of Judea, you know." An awesome chill crept over Hal. Was this the change that sometimes preceded the last step over the narrow river? Had Granny received that solemn call? "Sing," she said again. "Some of the bright Christmas hymns." Hal's heart was throbbing up to his throat. He did not know whether he could trust his voice. "What shall it be, Dot?" She thought a moment. "'Wonderful Night,'" she answered. "But, oh! I feel more like crying. I can't help it." The two voices rose tremblingly in the beautiful carol. "Wonderful night, Wonderful night! Angels and shining immortals, Thronging the heavenly portals, Fling out their banner of light. Wonderful, wonderful night!" They sang until they forgot sorrow and toil and poverty, and the great fear that overshadowed them. The soft voice of the child Dot growing stronger, and the pain in Hal's slipping away, changing into faith and trust. For, as he sung, he grew wonderfully calm, even hopeful. "It's like heaven, children! I've been thinking it all over, and God _does_ know best. If they were all here, it would be harder for me to go." The two kissed each other amid fast falling tears. When they glanced up again a faint streak of dawn stole in at the window. "How strange!" exclaimed Dot. "We have not been to bed at all, only I had a nap on your knee." Then very softly,-- "Merry Christmas, Hal." "Merry Christmas to you, my little darling." Then Hal looked at the fires, and hurried them up a trifle. How lovely it was without! Over the whole earth lay a mantle of whitest ermine. Tree and shrub were robed in fleecy garments,--arrayed for this Christmas morning. As the sun began to quiver in the east they sparkled with a thousand gems. It seemed like the beginning of a new life. Why, he could not tell, but he never forgot the feeling of solemn sweetness that stole over him as he stood by the window in the flower-room, looking over to the infinite, fancying that earth and heaven met this morning; the fine gold of the one blending with the snowy whiteness of the other. So pure was the soul of the little child born eighteen hundred years ago. Within, it was all fragrance and beauty. The plains of the Orient could not have been more odorous in that early dawn. Unconsciously he hummed over two or three lines,-- "Midnight scarcely passed and over, Drawing to this holy morn; Very early, very early-- Christ was born." They went about their simple homely duties, as if some unbidden guest had entered, whose presence filled the space out of which a dear face had vanished. "Granny _is_ better, I am sure," Dot said, preparing some breakfast for her. "I am so thankful!" "Listen to the church-bell! How faintly it comes ploughing through the snow; but oh, how sweet! Hal, I can't help feeling happy. I wonder if it is wrong, when we were so sad last night?" Something floated through Hal's brain,--"Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." He brushed a tear away from his eye; but it was tenderness rather than sorrow. While Dot was cooking her dainty breakfast, Hal took a turn at shovelling snow, clearing the old doorstep, and part of the path. It made his cheeks rosy, and the fresh crisp air took the tired look out of his eyes. "Granny has been asking for you," Dot said, as he came in. He warmed his hands, and entered the room. Dot lingered by the window, glancing up and down the unbroken road. Not a sound anywhere. It absolutely seemed to her as if a little bird ought to come out of the snowy trees, and sing. Something attracted her attention,--a man striding along, muffled up to the ears, looking this way and that, as if considering how best to extricate himself from the last plunge, and make another. No, it was not Dr. Meade,--no one for them thus early in the morning. Still she looked, and smiled a little. The strong, manful tread was good to behold. When he reached the house, he paused, appeared to be considering, then wheeled about. She laughed this time. He placed his hand on the gate-post, and leaped over. It was such a boyish, agile spring! In the path he stamped off the snow, came straight to the door, and knocked. Dot started, and opened it. A tall, laughing fellow, with a bronze brown beard and swarthy cheeks, lighted with a healthful glow of crimson. What was there so oddly familiar in the laughing eyes? For an instant he did not speak. Dot began to color with embarrassment, and half turned to summon Hal. "Oh, it's Dot, little Dot! And you have forgotten me!" The rich, ringing voice electrified Hal. He made a rush in a blind, dazed way; for the room swam round, and it seemed almost as if he were dying. "Oh, it isn't Joe! dear old Joe!" And then Hal felt the strong arms around him. The glowing cheek was against his, and there were tears and kisses, for Hal was crying like a baby. I've done my best with him, I want you to observe; but I'm afraid he will be a "girl"-boy to the end. But nothing ever was so sweet as that clasp; and Joe's love on this side of the shining river seemed the next best thing to the infinite love beyond. "Oh, I can't believe it!" he sobbed. "Did God raise you from the sea, Joe? for we heard"-- "Yes," with a great tremble in the tone. "It's just like being raised from the dead. And oh, Hal, God only knows how glad I am to come back to you all!" Hal hid his face in the curly beard, and tried to stop the tears that _would_ flow in spite of his courageous efforts. There was a call from the other room,--a wild, tender cry,--and the next instant Joe was hugging Granny to his throbbing, thankful heart. You could hear nothing but the soft sobs that sounded like summer rain, blown about by the south wind. Ah, how sweet, how satisfying! What was poverty and care and trouble and loss, so long as they had Joe back again? "Oh!" cried Granny, "I'm willing to die now. I've seen him, my darling!" "Why, Granny, that would be blackest ingratitude. Here I've lived through all my narrow escapes, and they have been enough to kill any ten men, and, by way of welcome, you talk of dying. Why, I'll run back, and jump into the sea!" "She has been very sick," said Hal. "But she means to get well now. Dear old Granny! We couldn't keep house without you." They knew well enough then that it was Joe, and not a Christmas ghost; for no one ever did have such a rich merry voice, such a ringing laugh, and oh, the dear bright eyes, shining like an April sky! Granny looked him all over. How he had changed! A great strong, splendid fellow, whose smiling face put new hope into one. "I almost feel as if I could get well," she said weakly. "Of course you will; for, Granny, I have the silk gown, and we'll have just the jolliest time there has ever been in this little shanty. But where are all the rest?" "Kit is at work in Salem, and he meant to come home last night; but I suppose the storm prevented." "It was terrible! I've travelled night and day to reach home by Christmas. And last night, when the trains had to go at a snail's pace, or were snowed in, I couldn't stand it, so I took a sleigh; but we lost the road, and twenty other things; and then the horse gave out: it was such fearful, wearing work. And, when I came in sight of Terry's old store, I wouldn't stop, but trudged on afoot; for I wanted you to know, first of all, that I was safe and alive." "It's just like a dream; and oh, Joe, the merriest Christmas there ever can be!" "Where's that midget of a Charlie?" "Ran away! It's very funny;" and Hal smiled, with tears in his eyes. "But you know where she is?" "I think she is in New York,--I'm pretty sure; and she has promised to come home." "Well, that beats my time! Ran away! She threatened to do it, you know. And here I've forgotten all about little Dot! You don't deserve to be kissed nor made much of, you small woman, when you never gave me a word of welcome, but, instead, a cold, unfriendly stare. You don't remember Joe, who broke his delicate constitution carrying you round on his back to keep you from crying." With that he caught her up, and perched her on the edge of Granny's bed. She was very shy, and turned a brilliant scarlet. This great strange fellow their dear, sweet Joe? She could not believe it! "And you really were not drowned," said Granny, still anxious. "Not exactly," with a droll twinkle of the eye. "We heard"-- "Yes, the brave little 'Argemone' went down, and she was a beauty. But such a frightful storm! You can form no idea of it. Some day I'll tell you all. Our time is too precious for the long story now." "And you wouldn't get in the boat," said Granny, her pale washed-out eyes alight with pride. "There were three young fellows of us besides the sick captain, and we had no wives nor babies; so it seemed right that we should give the others the first chance. It was a miracle that they were saved. I never thought they would be. We lashed ourselves to some timbers, and trusted the winds and waves. What those days and nights were I can never tell you! I know now what that brave old soldier and sailor, St. Paul, meant when he said, 'A day and a night have I been in the deep.'" Hal gave the sun-browned hand a tender squeeze. "An Arabian trading vessel picked us up at last. We thought Jack was dead, but after a long while he revived. We were all perfectly exhausted. I could send no word, and then I resolved to come home just as soon as I could. I fancied you would hear of the loss. Did that make Granny ill?" "No, she was sick before." "But I'll get well now," she rejoined humbly. "I didn't want to, you know. Heaven seemed so much better." Joe bent over and kissed her, wondering if he ever could repay the tender love. "Have you ever heard from"-- There was no need of a name. "She was married more than a year ago. I wrote that to you. There have been no tidings since." "Are you going to have any breakfast?" asked Dot. "My muffins will be spoiled." "Yes, indeed! I'm hungry as a bear. Granny, shall I carry you out?" She laughed in her old cracked, tremulous fashion, good to hear. To Hal it seemed the beginning of a new life. "I guess I'll lie still and think a bit, for I can't make it true. It's just as if we watched for him last night, Hal, and to-day is a day of great joy." Dot's coffee and muffins were delightful. Then she broiled over a little of the chicken that had been left from the day before, and they had quite a sumptuous breakfast. "How odd it seems to have Dot any thing but a baby!" laughed Joe. "It's quite ridiculous for her to set up housekeeping. Small young woman, you can't impose upon me." "But she is royal at it;" and Hal gave her a fond smile. "Now tell me all that has happened: I'm crazy to know. I believe I've not heard a word in six or eight months," declared Joe. So Hal went back to the summer,--losing the school, Charlie's running away, Granny's illness, Kit's going to Salem, the mishap of the flowers, even the vigil of last night, when they believed Granny dying. "But it _will_ be a merry Christmas," Joe said with a great tremble in his voice. "And you can never guess how glad I am to be safe and alive, to comfort you all. Dear, dear Granny!--the best and bravest heart in the wide world, and the most loving." CHAPTER XIX. IN THE OLD HOME-NEST AGAIN. They sat over their breakfast, and talked a long while. And then, after another glimpse at Granny, they went up to see the flowers, which had begun to recover rapidly from their misfortune. "Why, Hal, it's a perfect little green-house, and oh, how fragrant! There are some tuberoses coming out. What an awful shame about that cold night! So you have wrecks on the land as well as on the sea?" "I don't mind now. Your return makes up for all the misfortunes. We will have enough for some bouquets to-day;" and Hal's face was one grateful smile. "And what will we have for dinner?" asked Dot. "It ought to be a feast. I wonder if Kit will get home in time? Oh, I'll tell you! we will not have our dinner until about three." "Sensible to the last, Dot. Why, it is almost ten now; and our breakfasts have just been swallowed." "We will have some chickens," exclaimed Hal. "And a cranberry pie." "Who is to make it,--you, or Hal?" laughed Joe. "He used to be my very dear Mrs. Betty. I don't know how we should ever have lived without him. Hal, I must confess that there's some rare good fortune in store for me. I had to stop a while in New York; and to think I should stumble over one of the very men who was last to leave 'The Argemone.' And he tells such a marvellous story! I suppose every thing looked different out there in the storm and darkness and night, with death staring us in the face; for, after all, I only did my duty, and our poor captain lying sick too! I don't mean ever to go very far away while--while Granny lives; but there's nothing like the sea for me!" "Oh!" exclaimed Hal, with a soft little sigh. "Well, the upshot of it was, that they, the owners, and this Mr. Parker, made me take a little gift,--five hundred dollars. I know where I can get enough more to build a real green-house. You see, the fall off the hay-wagon did for you; and you'll never be a great hulking fellow like me, fit to take the rough and tumble of life." Hal clasped the arm that was thrown protectingly around him. "No, you'll never be very strong; and you shall have the green-house. That will set you up for old age even." "Dear, noble Joe!" "Not half as noble as you. I often used to think of you, Hal, out there, miles and miles away, amid all manner of strange sights; and it was my one comfort that you'd always stand by Granny. What comrades you have been! And after this, you see, I shall be able to do my share." Hal winked away some tears. "Here's where we used to sleep. Oh! did you dream then that I'd be so tall I should have to go round, bowing my head to every doorway, just as if I believed in Chinese idols? And here's the old garret, where we dreamed our dreams. Hal, my darling, I'm glad to see every old board and crack and crevice in this blessed place!" They went down presently. Joe stole off to Granny again, while Hal and Dot went about their household affairs. Hal soon had a couple of chickens for roasting. Dot made some savory dressing, stirred up her fire, baked her pie first, and then put the chickens in the oven. Hal shovelled away the snow, and took out two beautiful heads of celery, crisp and creamy. Dr. Meade dropped in. You may imagine his rejoicing. They made him promise over and over again, that he would not tell a single soul in Madison. They wanted this dear Christmas Day to themselves. "He's a hero to be proud of, Granny," exclaimed the doctor delightedly. "Such a great stalwart fellow, with a beard like a Turk, and a voice like an organ! Why, he overtops us all! Dot, if I were in your place, I should give his pockets a wide berth; for he could stow away such a weeny thing before your disconsolate friends would miss you." Dot laughed, as if she wasn't much afraid. "The excitement has not hurt Granny?" queried Hal. "No, indeed! It's better than quarts of my tonics, and gallons of port wine. She only wanted a good strong motive to give the blood a rush through her veins." "I was quite afraid last night." "She'll weather it through, and come out in the spring like a lark. O Hal, my dear boy, God is wonderful! 'And so He bringeth them to the haven where they would be.'" "Yes. I've been thinking of it all the morning." "Merry Christmas, everybody. Not a word will I say." Joe was still watching by the window, when another sleigh stopped, and a brisk little figure sprang out, running up the walk. He opened the door. "Hillo!" he cried. "Here comes Kit, scalp-lock, fiddle, and all." "Oh!" in the utmost wonder and amazement, glancing around as if suddenly bereft of his senses. "Oh, it isn't Joe, raised out of the sea! It can't be!" "Pity the poor fishes," said Joe comically. "Think of the banquet to which they might have asked all their relations." And then Kit was in his arms, crying and laughing; and, if Joe's head had not been securely fastened, it never could have stood the pressure. "Oh, dear darling old Joe! How were you saved? What _did_ Granny say?" And then the little goose had to go and cry over Granny. "You have really achieved a fiddle," exclaimed Joe at length. "Kit, my dear, you are on the high road to fame." "Not very _high_," returned Kit. "But it's splendid to have. Hal gave it to me, and I can play quite well." "We shall have to give a party some day,--a golden wedding for Granny." "Or a golden Christmas. O Joe! I can't believe it a bit. I was awfully disappointed last night when it stormed, and they said I shouldn't come home. I thought how lonely Dot and Hal would be this morning." The two smiled at each other, remembering the Christmas hymns in the gray dawn. Dot's dinner began to diffuse its aroma around the room. What with boiling and baking, she had her hands full. "Let us put both tables together," she said to Hal "It will give us so much more room. And it's to be a regular feast." "Over the prodigal son," rejoined Joe. "Kit, here, who spends his substance in fiddles and riotous living." "No: it is Dot who does the latter." Dot laughed. "You will not complain, when I ask you to share the riotous living," she said. The tables were set out, and Dot hunted up the best cloth. White enough it was too. Then the plates: how many were there? For somehow her wits seemed to have gone wool-gathering, and she had a misgiving lest some of them might disappear. "Oh!" Kit gave a great cry, dashed open the door, and flew down the walk, his scalp-lock flying, until he went head first into a snowbank. "Kit's demented, and there's a girl at the bottom of it," said Joe. "O Kit! you've gone the way of mankind early." "It's Charlie!" almost screamed Dot, following as if she had been shot out of a seventy-four pounder. "Charlie! Oh, what a blessed, blessed Christmas!" They dragged Charlie in,--not by the hair of her head, for that was hardly long enough. Charlie, in a pretty brown dress and cloak, a squirrel collar and muff, a jaunty hat with green velvet bands and a green feather. She was quite tall, and not so thin; and a winter of good care had completed the bleaching process commenced at the mill. She was many shades fairer, with a soft bloom on her cheek, while her mouth no longer threatened to make the top of her head an island. "O Hal! and where's Granny? And"-- She paused before Joe. "Why, Charlie, you're grown so handsome that you really don't know your poor relations." "It's Joe! What a great giant! Oh! when did he come?" "And we thought him drowned," said Dot, half crying. "We heard it ever so long ago! It was so splendid to have him come back!" "Shut the door," exclaimed Hal. "Why, I thought it was dreadful cold," said Kit, glancing round at the wide open door. "Cold isn't any word for it! If we had a cast-iron dog we should have to tie him to the stove-leg to keep his hair from freezing off. It's lucky I wear a wig." "You're the same old Joe," said Charlie, laughing. "But where have you been, Charlie?" "In New York. I've such lots and lots to tell you. But oh, I must see Granny!" So Granny had to be hugged and kissed, and everybody went to look. They all talked and laughed and cried in the same breath; and nobody knew what was said, only they were all there together again, and Granny was alive. "I intended to come home yesterday, but it stormed so fearfully; and to-day there were so many detentions, that I began almost to despair. But I had some Christmas for darling Granny, and I couldn't wait. See here,"--and Charlie began to search her pockets energetically. "Fifty dollars, Granny; and I earned it all my own self, besides ever so much more. And I'm going to be a--a"-- "Genius," said Kit. "Hooray for Charlie!" "It's all about the pictures. Mr. Darol sold some designs for me, and I wanted Granny to have the money; but I never dreamed that she had been sick. And did you miss me much? I never told Mr. Darol about it until yesterday. I suppose it wasn't right. And oh! Granny, I'm sorry if I've given you the least mite of pain; but all the time I've been as happy as Joe's big sunflower." "We shall set Granny crazy," said thoughtful Hal. "Oh, my dinner!" and Dot flew to the stove-oven like the "moon-eyed herald of dismay." There was no damage done. The chickens were browned to a turn. She took them out on a dish, and made her gravy, and then Hal came to help with the vegetables. Potatoes, onions, carrots stewed with milk dressing, cranberry sauce, celery,--altogether a fit repast for anybody's Christmas dinner. "If Granny could only come?" "I've been thinking that we might take her up a little while at dessert. She asked to sit up before Charlie came. What a day of excitement!" "O Hal! it's all lovely. And I can't help thinking how good God was _not_ to let her die in the night, when we were to have such a happy day. He saw it, with the angels keeping Christmas around him; didn't he, Hal?" said little Dot. "Yes, my darling." "And I'm so full of joy! I can't help crying every other minute! And to think of that magnificent Charlie earning fifty dollars!" Hal went to summon the "children," and explain to Granny, that if she would be very quiet, and take a good rest, she might get up when the dessert was brought on. The old woebegone look had vanished from her face, and the faded eyes held in their depths a tender brightness. She assented rather unwillingly to the proposal, for she could hardly bear them out of her sight an instant. Hal closed the door between, but she begged him to open it again. "I'd like to hear you talk. I'll lie still, and never say a word." A happy group they were, gathered round the table. Dot was perched up at the head, and Hal took the opposite end, to do the carving. They had time, then, to look round and see how pretty Charlie was growing. The contact with refinement, and, in a certain sense, society, had improved her very much. If any thing, she had grown still farther out of the Wilcox sphere. Then she had to tell her story. "You really don't mean Mary Jane Wilcox?" interrupted Joe. "Why, we used to go to school together!" "I never thought of them," said Hal, "when I was considering where I could write. Then Granny was taken sick, and the bad news about Joe,--and somehow I had a fancy that you were safe." "Mrs. Wilcox has been like a mother. She _is_ good, and I do like her; but, somehow, she is not our kind, after all. But oh, if you could only see Mr. Darol! I am going to stay a whole week, and he is coming out here. I told them all about you, Hal." Hal colored a little. "I'm glad I went, and made a beginning. There is ever so much hard work before me; but it is what I like. I am actually studying wood engraving. And Miss Charteris found me some work to do in my leisure time. She is as lovely as she can be, and a real artist. Think of her getting five hundred dollars for a picture!" "And if you should ever do that!" said Kit admiringly. "No: I haven't that kind of genius. But they all do say that my talent for designing is remarkable; and I shall be able to earn a good deal of money, even if I do not get as much at one time. I'm so glad, and so thankful!" They all looked at brave Charlie; and, somehow, it didn't seem as if she were the little harum-scarum, who never had a whole dress for six consecutive hours, who ran around bare-headed and bare-footed, and was the tint of a copper-colored Indian. Why, she was almost as elegant as Flossy, but with a nobler grace. There was nothing weak about her. You felt that she would make a good fight to the end, and never go astray in paths of meanness, deceit, or petty pride. Then they had to tell what had happened to them. She had all the rejoicing over Joe, without any of the pain and anguish. For, now that he was here, she could not imagine the bitter tears which had been the portion of the household. How gay they were! There was no china on the table, no silver forks, no cut-glass goblets; but the dinner was none the less enjoyable. There never were such roasted chickens, nor such cranberry sauce, nor such celery! And certainly never such glad and loving hearts. The sorrows and successes drew them the more closely together. What if Granny had let them stray off years ago, to forget and grow cold! Ah! she had her reward now. Every year after this it would pour in a golden harvest. "We will have our dessert in style," said Hal. "Kit, please help take off the dishes, for I know Dot must be tired." "I will too," responded Charlie promptly. They gathered up the fragments, and carried them in the pantry, took away the dishes, brushed off the cloth, and then came the crowning glories. First, two beautiful bouquets, with a setting of crisp, fragrant geranium leaves; then a dish of apples, rosy-cheeked and tempting. "It is fortunate that I made a good large pie," said Dot with much complacency. Hal bundled Granny in a shawl; but, before he could help her out of bed, Joe's strong arms had borne her to the kitchen. Hal brought the rocking-chair, and they made her comfortable with pillows. They all, I think, saw a strange beauty in her on this Christmas Day. The little silvery curls,--they always _would_ curl; the pale, wrinkled face; the faded eyes, with their youth and glory a thing of the past; the feeble, cracked voice; the trembling hands,--all beautiful in their sight. For the hands had toiled, the voice had comforted, the lips had kissed away pains and griefs. Every furrow in the face was sacred. What watching and anxiety and unfaltering labor they bespoke! Dot poured her a cup of tea: then she proceeded to cut the pie. "Dot, you are a royal cook!" exclaimed Joe. "We have discovered your special genius." It was very delightful. Granny had a little slice, and added her praises to the rest so lavishly bestowed. "There never was but one such Christmas. If I were a boy, I should pronounce it 'red-hot,'" laughed Joe. "I'm almost sorry to outgrow the boyish tricks and slang." "And you can't cool it," appended Kit, with a melancholy shake of the head. "If there was one face more," began Granny slowly. Yes, just one was needed to complete the group. The sun stole softly out of the window. The happy day was drawing to a close. Would life, too, draw to a close without her? "Hark!" exclaimed Dot. For the merry jingle of sleigh-bells ceased suddenly. Was it some unwelcome guest to break in upon the sanctity of their twilight hour? A knock at the door. Charlie, being the nearest, opened it. A lady dressed in deep mourning, and a tall, fine-looking gentleman. She certainly had never seen either of them before. The veil was raised. Oh, that face, with all its fairness and beauty; the golden hair, the lustrous eyes! They all knew then. "O Granny, Granny!" and Florence was kneeling at her grandmother's feet, kissing the wasted hands, her sad, pathetic voice broken with sobs. "I had to come: I couldn't stay away. I've been selfish and ungrateful, and God has punished me sorely. And, when I turned to him in my sorrow, he brought before me all my neglect, my pride, my cruelty. O Granny! can it be forgiven?" "There's nothing to forgive, child." She kissed the sweet, wet face. At that moment she forgot every thing save that this darling had come back. "Yes, there is so much, so much! You don't know. For, after I was married, I might have come. Edmund was tender and noble. This is my husband, Mr. Darol." She rose as she uttered this, and made a gesture with her outstretched hand. Mr. Darol bowed. "This is my dear grandmother Edmund; and these are my brothers and sisters. It is so long since I have seen any of you, that you seem strangers to me." There was a peculiar silence in the room. "Oh!" with a low, imploring cry,--"have you no welcome for me? Have I forfeited _all_ regard, all remembrance?" Hal came round to her side; but she was so stately and beautiful, that he felt almost awed. "It is Hal, I know. Oh! take me back in your midst: for only yesterday I buried my little baby; and I know now the sense of loss that I entailed upon you." They all crowded round her then. Not one had forgotten darling Flossy. Kisses and fond clasps. They were so glad to take her into their circle. "This is Joe," she said, "and Kit, and Dot. O Charlie! to see you all once more! and to have you all alive! For I have been haunted with a terrible fear lest some of you might have fallen out of the old home-chain. Not a break, thank God!" Then she brought them to her husband. Oh, how wild she had been when she fancied that she _might_ be ashamed of them!--this group of brave, loving faces, full of the essential elements of nobility. Ah, Florence, if you had known all their deeds of simple heroism! Charlie helped her take off her wrappings. She had not changed greatly, except to grow older and more womanly. "Granny has been ill!" she exclaimed in quick alarm. "Yes, nearly all winter. But she is better now. O Flossy, I am so glad you came to-day!" and Hal's soft eyes swam in tears. "It was Christmas. I could not help thinking of the dear old Christmas when we were all together. O Hal! if you could know all my shame and sorrow!" "Joe," said Granny feebly, "will you take me back to bed? I'm tired again. I'm a poor old body at the best. Then you can come and sit round me." "Shall I send the driver away?" asked Mr. Darol of Florence. "Yes: I can't leave them to-night. You will not mind?"-- She glanced around as she uttered this, as if apologizing for the poor accommodations. "No, I shall not mind," in a grave tone. Granny was carried to bed again. Hal shook up the pillow, and straightened the spreads. Joe laid her in tenderly, saying, as he kissed her,-- "You have us all home again in the old shoe!" The room was neat and orderly; poor, to be sure, but with a cheerful air. Hal brought in the flowers, and Kit some chairs, and they made quite a party. "But think of the dishes!" whispered housewifely Dot. "And not a clean one for morning, we've used so many. But, oh! wasn't it elegant? And Florence is a real lady!" "We had better slip out, and look after our household gods," Hal murmured in return. Before they were fairly in the business, Charlie joined them. "Let me help too," she said. "I don't hate to wash dishes quite as much as I used; and I am so happy to-night that I could do almost any thing!" They were a practical exemplification of the old adage. Many hands did make light work. In a little while they had their house in order. "But what a family!" exclaimed Dot. "Where are we to put them all?" "I've been thinking. Florence and her husband can have my room, and we will make a bed for Kit and Joe in the flower-room. They won't mind it, I guess." "Dot can sleep with Granny, and I can curl up in any corner for to-night," said Charlie. "Hal never had a wink of sleep last night. We talked and sang Christmas hymns, and Granny thought that she would not live." Charlie gave a sad sigh. "You are angels, both of you," she answered. "And when Mr. Darol comes,--oh! isn't it funny that Florence's husband should have the same name? I wonder"-- Charlie was off into a brown study. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "isn't it odd? Florence's name is Darol, and there is my Mr. Darol. Why, I do believe they look something alike,--Flossie's husband, I mean." To which rather incoherent statement no one was able to reply. "Perhaps we had better put my room in order," suggested Hal, returning to the prose of housekeeping. Dot found some clean sheets and pillow-cases. Charlie followed them, and assisted a little. The bed was freshly made, a clean napkin spread over the worn washstand, towels as white as snow, and every thing neat, if not elegant. "Though, of course, it will look very common to Flossy," said Dot with a sigh. "I feel almost afraid of her, she is so grand." "But she isn't a bit better than we are," returned Charlie stoutly. "I think Hal is really the noblest of the lot, and the most unfortunate. But I told Mr. Darol all about the green-house, Hal!" Hal colored. Charlie was a warm and courageous champion. Then they went down stairs. Florence still sat at the head of Granny's bed, and had been crying. Hal remembered his hard thoughts of Flossy the night before with a pang of regret; for, though they had been poor and burdened with cares, death had not come nigh _them_, but had taken Florence's first-born in the midst of her wealth and ease. Charlie went round to them. "Florence," she began a little timidly, "do you live in New York?" "Yes." "I've been there since the last of August." "You?" returned Florence in surprise. "What are you doing?" "Studying at the School of Design." "Why, Charlie! how could you get there?" "It was very strange. I almost wonder now if it really did happen to me. You see, I worked in the mill, and saved up some money; and then I went to New York. You remember Mrs. Wilcox, don't you? I've been boarding there. And, while I was trying to find out what I must do, I met a Mr. Paul Darol, who is a perfect prince"-- "O Florence! we have heard all this story," interrupted Mr. Darol. "It is the little girl for whom Uncle Paul sold the designs. She wanted some money to take home, you know. He never mentioned the name." "Then he is your uncle," said Charlie, quite overwhelmed at her success. "Yes; and you are a brave girl, a genius too. Florence, I'm proud enough of this little sister. Why didn't Uncle Paul think,--but you don't look a bit alike." And this was Charlie! Here were the brothers and sisters of whom she had felt secretly ashamed! Joe, the dear, noble fellow; Hal, tender and devoted; heroic Charlie; ambitious Kit; and fond little Dot. Oh! instead, _she_ was the one for whom they needed to blush,--her own selfish, unworthy soul, that had stood aloof the past year, when she might have come to their assistance. How it humbled her! She even shrank away from her husband's eyes. "I think Granny is growing weary," Hal said presently, glancing at the pallid cheek. "She has had a great deal of excitement to-day; and now, if you will come up stairs and look at my flowers, we can let her have a little rest." They all agreed to the proposal. So Hal gave her a composing draught; and, though Joe was fain to stay, Granny sent him away with the others. They had all been so good, that she, surely, must not be selfish; and, truth to tell, a little quiet would not come amiss. For, happy dream! she _had_ lived to see them all come back. What more could she ask? That she might recover her health, and feast on their smiles and joyousness; and she prayed humbly to God that it might be so, in his great mercy. CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN THE OLD SHOE BECOMES CROWDED. They trooped up the narrow stairs. Why, the old loom-room looked like a palace! Hal had made some very pretty brackets out of pine, and stained them; and they were ranged round the wall, upholding a pot of flowers or trailing vines, and two or three little plaster casts. Here were some bookshelves, the table surmounted by a very passable writing-desk, Hal's construction also. But the flowers were a marvel. "Hal's dream was a green-house," exclaimed Florence. "But I don't see how you found time for it all"-- "It has been profit as well as pleasure," said Hal with a little pride. "Last winter I sold a quantity of flowers, and, in the spring, bedding-plants and garden vegetables." "Oh!" returned Florence, choking back the sobs, "do you remember one summer day, long, long ago, when we all told over what we would like to have happen to us? And it has all come about." "Even to my fiddle," said Kit. "And my running away," appended Charlie with great satisfaction. Hal brought in some chairs. "We're going to sit in the corner on the floor," said Charlie; and the three younger ones ranged themselves in a small group. Florence and her husband walked round to view the flowers, guided by Joe. "You appear to have wonderful success," remarked Mr. Darol. "These tuberoses are very fine." "They were frosted about ten days ago, and have hardly recovered. That is, I lost most of my blossoms." "Oh, what a pity!" "And all our Christmas money," said Dot softly. "No matter," returned Charlie. "You can have all of mine. I meant every penny of it for Granny." "And now I want to hear what you have been doing all these years. I know it was my own act that shut me out of your joys and sorrows; but if you will take me back"--and the voice was choked with tears. Hal pressed the soft hand. "You will find Edmund a brother to you all," she went on. "It is my shame, that after my marriage, knowing that I could come any time, I hesitated to take the step." "It is a poor old house," exclaimed Hal tremulously. "But holds more love and heroism than many grander mansions," Mr. Darol said in his deep, manly tone. "Florence is right: I should like to be a brother to you all. I honored Charlie before I fancied that I should ever have a dearer claim." "And I've been a sort of black sheep," returned Charlie frankly. "Hal and Joe are the heroes in this family." "It is so wonderful to have Joe safe!" "And to think how sad we were last night," Dot began. "We did not expect any one to help us keep Christmas but Kit." "O Dot! tell me all about it," said Charlie eagerly. "I do like to hear it so. And how Joe came home." Dot was a little shy at first; but presently she commenced at Hal's losing the school, Granny's sickness, Joe's shipwreck, the trouble and sorrow that followed in succession, the misfortune of the flowers, and then she came to the night when Granny wanted to die and go to heaven. Only last night; but oh, how far off it appeared! She told it very simply, but with such unconscious pathos that they were all crying softly Florence leaned her head on her husband's shoulder, hiding her face. "And I never knew a word of it!" exclaimed Charlie with the quiver of tears in her voice. "I didn't want to tell you about my going, for fear you'd worry over me, or, if I should be disappointed, you would feel it all the more keenly. But I never thought any thing sad could happen to you." "I should like to hear the first part of Charlie's adventures," said Mr. Darol. "How did she come to know that she had a genius?" "She used to be punished enough in school for drawing comical faces," answered Joe. "Little did Mr. Fielder think that you would make an artist!" "But I planned then to run away and live in the woods. I believe I once took you off, Kit." "Yes; and we were threatened with the jail, weren't we, because we made a fire. But how you did talk, Charlie! You were always splendid on the fighting side." "I was made to go right straight ahead," said Charlie. "And, if I had been afraid, I should never have done any thing." "And we want to hear how you did it," pursued Mr. Darol. So Charlie related her trials and perplexities, her fruitless journeys, and her vain endeavors, until she met Mr. Paul Darol, who seemed to understand just what she wanted. "I don't see how you had the courage," Florence remarked. "And if I'd only known you were there, Charlie!" Charlie shrugged her shoulders. Now that the fight had been made, and terminated successfully, she was rather glad to have gone into it single-handed: not from any vanity, but a kind of sturdy independence that had always characterized Charlie Kenneth. And then they rambled farther back, to the time of Hal's sad accident. Perhaps the most truly noble thing about them was their fearlessness and honesty. They were not ashamed of the poverty and struggle: there was no petty deceit or small shams to cover the truth. Ah, what heroic lives they had all been, in a simple way! For it is not only in great matters that men and women must fight: it is the truth and endurance and perseverance which they bring into every-day events that moulds character. Not a poor, false, or useless soul among them, unless it was hers, Florence thought. Hal stole down a time or two to see Granny, who had fallen into a peaceful sleep. And presently the old clock struck ten. Dot and Kit were nodding. "I am going to put you in our old room," Hal said to Florence. "It is the best I can do." "No: let me sit up and watch with Granny." "That is not at all necessary. Last night she was nervous. I fancy she was haunted by a dim impression of impending change, and thought it must mean death. Instead, it was the dearest of joys." "O Hal! I don't feel worthy to come among you. Not simply because I chose to go away, to have luxury and ease and idleness, while you were in want and sorrow; for in those old days I thought only of myself. But, a few months after I was married, Mrs. Osgood died, and I was quite free to choose. Don't shrink away from me Hal, though the cowardice has in it so much of vile ingratitude. I had not the courage to be true to my secret longings. She had filled my weak soul with her beliefs; and I persuaded myself that my debt to her was greater than that to my own kindred." "O Florence, hush! let it all go, since you _have_ come back," pleaded unselfish Hal. "And then my precious baby came. Hardly four months ago. He had your tender eyes, Hal; and they used to reproach me daily. But I made a hundred excuses and delays. And then God took him, to let me feel what a wrench the soul endures when its cherished ones are removed. All these years I have been like one dead to you, without the sweet comfort of those who know their treasures are safe in heaven. When we came back from _his_ grave yesterday, I told Edmund my deeper shame and anguish, my disloyalty to those who had the first claim. And if any of you had been dead, if I could never have won Granny's forgiveness, ah, how heavy my burden would have proved!" "But we all consented to your going," Hal said, longing to comfort her. "Because you knew how weak and foolish I was, with my sinfully ambitious longings. And oh, if my husband had been less noble!" "You shall not so blame yourself on this blessed Christmas night. Is there not to be peace on earth, and tenderness and good will for all? And it seems as if you never could have come back at a more precious moment." Hal, foolish boy, cried a little in her arms. It was so sweet to have her here. After a while the children were all disposed of. Hal apologized to Joe for the rather close and fragrant quarters. "Don't worry, old comrade. When you've slept on a whale's backbone, or a couple of inches of tarred rope, you take any thing cheerfully, from a hammock to a bed of eider down." Kit cuddled in his arms. Dear old Joe was the best and bravest of heroes to him. Hal threw himself on the lounge, covered with shawls and overcoats, for the bedclothes were insufficient to go around. He laughed softly to himself. Such a houseful as this the "Old Shoe" had never known before. What was poverty and trouble now? A kind of ghostly phantom, that vanished when one came near it. Why, he had never felt so rich in all his life! Granny was none the worse the next morning for her excitement. Dot bathed her face, combed out the tiny silver curls, and put on a fresh wrapper. Charlie helped get breakfast, though she was not as deft-handed as Dot. The two tables were set again; and, when they brought Granny out, she was more than proud of her family. That seemed to be a gala-day for all Madison. When the news was once started, it spread like wild-fire. Joe Kenneth wasn't drowned after all, but had come back safe, a great, tall, handsome fellow. Florence had returned with her fine-looking husband; and wild, queer Charlie had actually been transformed into the family beauty. "There never was a finer set of children in Madison," said Mr. Terry, clearing his voice of a little huskiness. "And to think they're Joe Kenneth's poor orphans! I tell you what! Granny Kenneth has been one woman out of a thousand. Didn't everybody say she had better let the youngsters go to the poor-house. And now they're a credit to the town. Think of Joe being praised in the papers as he was! That went to my heart,--his giving up a chance for life to some one else. He's a brave fellow, and handsome as a picture. There isn't a girl but would jump at the chance of marrying him. He will be a captain before he is five years older, mark my words." Dr. Meade was brimful of joy also. He kissed Charlie, and laughed at her for running away, and was much astonished to find how fortunate she had been But Joe was everybody's idol. "I think some of you ought to be spared," exclaimed the good doctor. "I don't see where you were all stowed last night. I have two or three rooms at your service; and, indeed, am quite willing to take you all in. But, anyhow, Kit and Joe might come for lodgings." "We put them in the flower-room," said Charlie. "Which accounts for their blooming appearance, I suppose;" and the doctor pinched Charlie's ear. Between themselves, they had endless talks. It seemed as if all the stories would never get told. And, strangely enough, they came to pity poor Flossy, who, among them all, had the only lasting sorrow. Charlie took to Mr. Darol at once; and before the day ended they were all fast friends. "I think yours is a most remarkable family," he said to Florence. "There is not one of the children but what you might be proud of anywhere." "I am so glad you can love them!" and the grateful tears were in her eyes. "And, when we return home, it seems as if we ought to take Charlie. There she will have just the position she needs." "O Edmund! I don't deserve that you should be so good to me. I was longing to ask it. But I have been so weak and foolish!" "My darling, that is past. I will say now, that my only misgiving about you has been the apparent forgetfulness of old family ties. But I knew you were young when you left your home, and that Mrs. Osgood insisted upon this course; besides, I never could tell how worthy they were of fond remembrance." "And did not dream that I could be so basely ungrateful!" she answered in deepest shame. "I abhor myself: I have forfeited your respect." "Hush, dear! Let it all be buried in our child's grave. Perhaps his death was the one needful lesson. And now that we have found them all, we must try to make amends." Florence sobbed her deep regret, nestling closely to his heart. "Your brother Hal interests me so much! It seems that he will always feel the result of his accident in some degree, on account of a strained tendon. He has such a passionate love for flowers, and the utmost skill in their care and culture. But he ought to have a wider field for operations." "Oh!" she said, "if we could help him. Charlie has worked her way so energetically, that she only needs counsel and guidance. Kit and Dot are still so young!" "I don't wonder Uncle Paul was attracted. There is something very bright and winsome about Charlie. I had to laugh at her naïve confession of being a black sheep." "She used to be so boyish and boisterous! not half as gentle as dear Hal." "But it seems to be toned down to a very becoming piquancy;" and he smiled. "How very odd that she should have met your uncle!" Florence said musingly. "How surprised he will be!" Dr. Meade came over again that evening, and insisted upon the boys accepting his hospitality; so Joe and Kit were packed into the sleigh, and treated sumptuously. Granny continued to improve, and could sit up for quite a while. She enjoyed having them all around her so much! It was like the old time, when the gay voices made the house glad. And so the days passed, busy, and absolutely merry. Charlie and Florence helped cook, and Joe insisted upon showing how he could wash dishes. On Sunday they all went to church except Dot,--Granny would have it so. On Monday Mr. Darol came. Charlie had given him very explicit directions, but she was hardly expecting him so soon. Sitting by the window she saw him coming down the street in a thoughtful manner, as if he were noting the landmarks. "O Mr. Darol!" and she sprang to the door, nearly overturning Dot. "Yes: you see I have been as good as my word. How bright you look! So there was nothing amiss at home?" "Indeed there was! but, in spite of it, we have all been so happy! For everybody came home at Christmas, even Joe, whom they thought drowned. This is my little sister Dot. And oh, this is my brother Hal!" Mr. Darol clasped the hand of one, and gave the other a friendly pat on the soft golden hair. "I dare say Charlie has told you all about me: if she has not she is a naughty girl. Why"-- For in the adjoining room sat Florence, close to Granny's chair. No wonder he was amazed. "That's Florence, and you've seen her before. And Mr. Edmund Darol is here," went on Charlie in a graciously explanatory manner. "They are my brothers and sisters," said Florence with a scarlet flush. He looked at her in deep perplexity. "Mrs. Osgood adopted Florence," Charlie interposed again. "It was all her fault; for she would not allow the relation to be kept up, and"-- "This is your grandmother?" he interrupted almost sharply, feeling unconsciously bitter against Florence. "This is dear Granny." He took the wrinkled hand, not much larger than a child's, for all it had labored so long and faithfully. "Mrs. Kenneth," he said, "I am proud to make your acquaintance. One such child as Charlie would be glory enough." Charlie fairly danced with delight to see Granny so honored in her old days. And as for the poor woman, she was prouder than a queen. "You've been so good to _her_!" she murmured tremulously, nodding her head at Charlie. "She is a brave girl, even if she did run away. I have used my best efforts to make her sorry for it." "But oh! Mr. Darol, the work was all undone as soon as I came home. For when I found them sick, and full of trouble, it seemed so good to be able to take care of myself, that I think running away the most fortunate step of my whole life." "I am afraid that we shall never bring you to a proper state of penitence;" and he laughed. "You were so good to her!" said Granny again, as if she had nothing but gratitude in her soul. "It was a great pleasure to me. But I never dreamed that I had made the acquaintance of one of your family before." "He will never like me so well again," thought Florence; "but that is part of my punishment. I have been full of pride and cowardice." Mr. Darol made himself at home in a very few moments, for he was interested beyond measure. "It _is_ a poor place," ruminated Charlie, glancing round; "but we cannot help it, I'm sure. All of us have done our best." Then she dismissed the subject with her usual happy faculty, and became wonderfully entertaining; so much so, indeed, that, when Mr. Darol glanced at his watch, he said,-- "In about half an hour my train goes down to the city. I have not said half that I wanted to. I have not seen your brother Joe, nor the hot-house; and what am I to do?" "Stay," replied Charlie; and then she colored vividly. "Our house is so small that it will not hold any more; but Dr. Meade has already taken in Kit and Joe, and he is just splendid!" Mr. Darol laughed. "Are there any hotel accommodations?" "Oh, yes! at the station." "Then I think I will remain; for my visit isn't half finished, and I am not satisfied to end it here." Charlie was delighted. After that they went up to the flower-room. It seemed to improve every day, and was quite a nest of sweets. "So Miss Charlie hasn't all the family genius," said Mr. Darol. "It is not every one who can make flowers grow under difficulties." "They were nipped a little about the middle of the month. One night my fire went out." "And it blighted the flowers he meant to cut in a few days," explained Charlie, "so that at first there did not seem a prospect of a very merry Christmas." And Charlie slipped her hand within Mr. Darol's, continuing, in a whisper, "I can never tell you how glad I was to have the money. It was like the good fortune in a fairy story." He looked at the beaming, blushing face with its dewy eyes. Ah! he little guessed, the day he first inspected Charlie Kenneth's drawings, that all this pleasure was to arise from a deed of almost Quixotic kindness. Yet he wondered more than ever how she had dared to undertake such a quest. Strangely courageous, earnest, and simple-hearted, with the faith of a child, and the underlying strength of a woman,--it seemed as if there might be a brilliant and successful future before her. And this delicate brother with a shadow in his eyes like the drifts floating over an April sky,--he, too, needed a friend to give him a helping hand. Who could do it better than he, whose dearest ones were sleeping in quiet, far-off graves? CHAPTER XXI. HOW THE DREAMS CAME TRUE. Charlie insisted upon Mr. Darol remaining to supper; and he was nothing loth. "Dear me!" exclaimed Dot, "we shall have to echo the crow's suggestive query,-- 'The old one said unto his mate, "What shall we do for food to _ate_?"'" "Make some biscuit or a Johnny-cake," said Charlie, fertile in expedients. "Dot, I've just discovered the bent of your budding mind." "What?" asked the child, tying on a large apron. "Keeping a hotel. Why, it's been elegant for almost a week!--a perfect crowd, and not a silver fork or a goblet, or a bit of china; rag-carpet on the floor, and a bed in the best room. Nothing but happiness inside and out! Even the ravens haven't cried. You see, it isn't money, but a contented mind, a kitchen apron, a saucepan, and a genius for cooking." "But you must have something to cook," was Dot's sage comment. "True, my dear. Words of priceless wisdom fall from your young lips,--diamonds and pearls actually! Now, if you will tell me what to put in a cake"-- "A pinch of this, and a pinch of that," laughed Dot. "I am afraid to trust your unskilful hands; so you may wait upon me. Open the draught, and stir the fire: then you may bring me the soda and the sour milk, and beat the eggs--oh, there in the basket!" "Dot, my small darling, spare me! I am in a hopeless confusion. Your brain must be full of shelves and boxes where every article is labelled. One thing at a time." "The fire first, then." Dot sifted her flour, and went to work. Charlie sang a droll little song for her, and then set the table. Their supper was a decided success. Edmund came in, and was delighted to see his uncle. There was hero Joe, gay as a sky-full of larks. It didn't seem as if any of them had ever known trouble or sorrow. Even Granny gave her old chirruping laugh. The next day they had some serious talks. Hal and Mr. Darol slipped into a pleasant confidence. "I've been thinking over your affairs with a good deal of interest," he said. "It seems to me that you need a larger field for profitable operations. I should not think Madison quite the place for a brilliant success. You need to be in the vicinity of a large city. And, since three of the others will be in New York principally, it certainly would be better for you. Would your grandmother object to moving?" "I don't know," Hal answered thoughtfully. "Floriculture is becoming an excellent business. Since you have such a decided taste for it, you can hardly fail. I should recommend Brooklyn, Jersey City, or Harlem. Besides the flowers, there is a great demand for bedding-plants. You haven't any other fancy?" and he studied Hal's face intently. Hal's lip quivered a moment. "It was my first dream, and I guess the best thing that I can do. I could not endure hard study, or any thing like that. Yes, I have decided it." "I wish you would make me a visit very soon, and we could look around, and consider what step would be best. You must forgive me for taking a fatherly interest in you all. I love young people so much!" Hal's eyes sparkled with delight. He did not wonder that Charlie had told her story so fearlessly to him. "You are most kind. I don't know how to thank you." "You can do that when you are successful;" and he laughed cordially. They had all taken Flossy's husband into favor, and their regard was fully returned by him. Indeed, they appeared to him a most marvellous little flock. As for Florence, the awe and strangeness with which she had first impressed them was fast wearing off. As her better soul came to light, she seemed to grow nearer to them, as if the years of absence were being bridged over. Fastidious she would always be in some respects, but never weakly foolish again. She had come to understand a few of the nobler truths of life, learned through suffering,--that there was a higher enjoyment than that of the senses, or the mere outward uses of beauty. They all appreciated the manner in which she made herself at home. They gave her the best they had, to be sure; and she never pained them by any thoughtless allusion to her luxuries. She had not lost her old art with the needle, and Dot's dresses were renovated in such a manner that she hardly knew them. Granny would never allow her to regret her going with Mrs. Osgood. "It was all right," she would say cheerfully. "The good Lord knew what was best. I don't mind any of it now,--the losses and crosses, the sorrows and sicknesses, and all the hard work. Your poor father would be glad if he could see you, and I've kept my promise to him. So don't cry, dearie. If you hadn't gone away, I shouldn't 'a' known how sweet it was to have you come back." Florence and Mr. Darol made their preparations to return. They decided to take Charlie back with them, and install her in her new home; though Charlie did not exactly like the prospect of having her visit abridged. "I meant to stay all this week," she said decisively. "I cannot have another vacation until next summer." "But you will go back with me to my sad house, and help me to forget my baby's dead face," Florence returned beseechingly. "O Charlie! I do mean to be a true and fond sister to you if you will let me." So Charlie consented; though she would much rather have staid, and had a "good time" with Dot and Hal. "If Florence was not here, I should like to perch myself on a chair-back, and whistle 'Hail Columbia' to all the world. Dear old shoe! What sights of fun we have had in it! I am rather sorry that I'll soon be a woman. Oh, dear! You always _do_ have some trouble, don't you?" "Charlie, Charlie!" and Dot shook her small forefinger. Joe was going too. "But I shall be back in a few days," he said to Granny. "O Joe! if you wouldn't go to sea any more,--and when you've been a'most drowned"-- "O Granny! best mother in the world, do not feel troubled about me. We are a family of geniuses, and I am the duckling that can't stay brooded under mother-wings. It's my one love, and I should be a miserable fish if you kept me on dry land. I have been offered a nice position to go to Charleston; and as I am not rich, and have not the gout, I can't afford to retire on a crust. But you'll see me every little while; and you'll be proud enough of me when I get to be a captain." Granny felt that she could not be any prouder of him if he was a king. There was a great thinning-out again. Kit bemoaned the lonesomeness of the place; but Dot's housewifely soul was comforted with the hope of a good clearing-up time. In two days Joe returned. "Florence is as elegant as a queen," he reported; "not the grandest or richest, but every thing in lovely style. Charlie went wild over the pictures. And there are great mirrors, and marble statues, and carpets as soft as spring-hillsides. You never imagined, Granny, that one of us would attain to such magnificence, did you?" Granny listened in wide-eyed wonder, and bobbed her little curls. "And Darol's a splendid fellow! Flossy always did have the luck!" That night Hal and Joe slept in the old room, which Joe declared seemed good. "We had a long talk about you, Hal. Mr. Paul Darol is wonderfully interested in you. He is just as good and generous as he can be, and has two beautiful rooms at a hotel. You know, in the old dream, it was Flossy who was to meet with a benevolent old gentleman: instead, it has been Charlie, the queer little midget. What a youngster she has been!" "She is as good as gold." "Mr. Darol thinks her the eighth wonder of the world. But he wants you to have the green-house; and I said I intended to help you to it. When he found that we did not mean to take any thing as a gift, he offered to loan the whole amount, to be paid as you were prospered." "How very, very generous!" said Hal with a long breath. "It _was_ most kind; but you cannot do much here. I believe I like the Brooklyn project best." "I wonder if Granny would consent to leave Madison?" "I think she will. You see, I can spend a good deal of time with you then." Joe was to start again the middle of January. Granny fretted at first; but dear, merry Joe finally persuaded her that it was the best thing in the world. Hal could not help shedding a few quiet tears, but then they had a glowing letter from Charlie. She and Florence had actually been to call on Mrs. Wilcox in their own carriage. They had taken her and Mary Jane a pretty gift; and Mrs. Wilcox was, to use her own expression, "clear beat." And Charlie declared that she was living like a princess. She could come home, and spend almost any Sunday with them. While Hal was considering how best to inform Granny of the new project, circumstances opened the way. In the march of improvement at Madison, an old lane was to be widened, and straightened into a respectable street; and one end of it would run through the old Kenneth cottage. Poor old Shoe! Its days were numbered. But there were no more rollicking children to tumble in and out of windows, or transform the dusty garret into a bedlamic palace. And yet Granny could not be consoled, or even persuaded. "I never could take root anywhere else, Hal, dear," she said, shaking her head sadly. "But the old house has been patched and patched; it leaks everywhere; and a good, strong gust of wind might blow it over. We should not want to be in the ruins, I'm sure. Then, Granny, think of being so near all the children!" Granny was very grave for several days; but one evening she said with a tremor in her voice,-- "Hal dear, I am a poor old body, and I shall never be worth any thing again. I don't know as it makes much difference, after all, if you will only promise to bring me back, and lay me alongside of my dear Joe." Hal promised with a tender kiss. Dr. Meade used to bundle Granny up in shawls, and take her out in his old-fashioned gig; and, by the time Joe came back, he declared she was a good deal better than new, and the dearest grandmother in the world. I think she was, myself, even if she was little and old and wrinkled, and had a cracked voice. They formed a great conspiracy against her, and took her to New York. She never could see how they did it; and Joe insisted that it was "sleight-of-hand," he having learned magic in China. It was very odd and laughable to see her going round Florence's pretty home, leaning on Dot's shoulder, and listening, like a child, to the descriptions of the pictures and bronzes, and confusing the names of different things. But Dot declared that it was right next door to heaven; and, for sweet content, it might have been. Charlie almost went wild. It seemed, indeed, as if Florence could never do enough to make amends for her past neglect. Edmund Darol treated Granny with the utmost respect and tenderness. He never tired of hearing of their youthful frolics and fun; but Charlie's running away seemed the drollest of all. Mr. Paul Darol, or Uncle Paul as he had insisted upon being to all the children, took Hal under his especial protection. They visited green-houses, talked with florists, read books, and began to consider themselves quite wise. Then they looked around for some suitable places. At Jersey City they found the nucleus of a hot-house, and a very fair prospect; but, on the outskirts of Brooklyn, they found a pretty cottage and some vacant lots, that appeared quite as desirable. "Indeed, the neighborhood is much better," said Mr. Darol. "Green-houses could soon be put up, and by fall you might be started in business. I think the sooner the better." Hal's brown eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Yes," continued Mr. Darol, with an amused expression, "Joe and I have quite settled matters. He allows me _carte blanche_ for every thing; and, being arbitrary, I like to have my own way. When you decide upon a location, I will take care that it shall be placed within your power." "You are so good! but I couldn't, I wouldn't dare"--And somehow Hal could not keep the tears out of his eyes. "I think this Brooklyn place the most desirable. It is on a horse-car route, and near enough to Greenwood to attract purchasers thither. I'll buy the place, and turn it over to you with a twenty-years' mortgage, if you like. You see, I am not giving you any thing but a chance to do for yourself." Hal and Joe talked it over that evening. "How good everybody is to us!" said Hal. "There was Mrs. Howard, when I was so ill, and the Kinseys, while they were in Madison, and Dr. Meade, and"-- "Mrs. Van Wyck, who snubbed Flossy, and prophesied that I should come to the gallows. Hal, dear old chap, we have had ups and downs, and been poor as church-mice; but it is all coming around just right. And I'd take the place: I know you will succeed." "But eight thousand dollars; and the green-houses, and the plants afterward"-- "Why, I'd be responsible for the place myself. The property would be worth a fortune in twenty years or so. And, with Mr. Darol to hold it, there wouldn't be the slightest risk." "But if I should not live"-- "Nonsense! I'll come in and administer. I'll be thinking about your epitaph. Mine is already stored away for use:-- 'From which it is believed, The unfortunate bereaved Went to sea, and was promiscuously drownded.'" "Now, isn't that pathetic?" "O Joe! you are too bad!" "It's a sign of long life, my dear. I have had to be worse than usual, to balance your account." Everybody said Hal must have the place. Mr. Darol actually purchased it, and took Dot over to see the cottage. It was not very large, but sufficiently roomy for them, and had only been tenanted for a year; a pretty parlor and sitting-room, with a nice large kitchen, and abundance of closets. The chambers up stairs were very pleasant, and commanded a beautiful view. "Will it do for you, O morsel of womankind?" asked Mr. Darol. "I propose to buy you a dog, and call you Mother Hubbard." Dot laughed, and blushed, and expressed her satisfaction. Then Hal declared they must return to Madison, and he would consider what could be done. "You can count on me for three hundred a year," said Joe with his good-by. They wanted Granny to remain with Florence, but she would not: so they returned together. Oh, poor little cottage! The chimney over the "best room" had blown down in a March gale, and the roof leaked worse than ever. The street was surveyed, and staked out; and, oddest of all, Mr. Howard had received a call to Brooklyn. "I suppose we must go," said Granny. "Dot needs a pretty home, and this isn't"-- "The palaces have spoiled us," said Dot. "Think of having hot and cold water in your kitchen without a bit of fuss; and a bath-room, and the work so easy that it is just like playing at housekeeping. Why, Granny, you and I would have the nicest time in the world!" Mrs. Meade had cared for the flowers while Hal was away, though they missed his loving hand. But he decided that it would be best to sell them all out, and dispose of the place as soon as he could. The township offered him three hundred dollars for the ground they needed; and presently Hal found a purchaser for the remainder, at twelve hundred dollars. By the time of Joe's next return Hal was ready to take a fresh start. One thousand was paid down; and Joe promised three hundred of the interest every year, and as much more as he could do. Mr. Darol was to superintend the erection of the green-house,--two long rows, joined by a little square at the end, a kind of work-room, which could be opened or closed at pleasure. They were built on the back part of the two lots, and the space in front was to remain a summer-garden. The street had a lovely southern exposure, while a great elm-tree shaded the house. They all came back to the Old Shoe for a farewell visit. It was June, and they had supper out of doors; for, somehow, half the neighborhood had invited itself. Everybody was sorry to lose Hal and Granny; and everybody thought it wonderful that the Kenneths had prospered, and had such luck. Then Florence took Granny and Dot to a pretty seaside resort, where Charlie was to join them. Kit and Hal were to pack up whatever household treasures were worth saving, and afterward domesticate themselves with their brother-in-law. Good-by, Old Shoe! Tumble down at your will. There is no more laughing or crying or scolding or planning for you to hear,--no tender children's voices singing Sunday-evening hymns in the dusk, no little folded hands saying reverent prayers. O old house, brown and rusty and dilapidated! there has been much joy under your roof; many prayers answered, many sorrows, and some bitter tears, that God's hand wiped away. Every crumbling board has some tender memories. And, as Hal and Kit sit on the old stone step for the last time, their hands are clasped tightly, their eyes are full of tears, and neither can trust his voice to speak. Good-by! The birds said it, the wandering winds said it, the waving grasses, and the rustling trees. You have had your day, old house, and the night has come for you. CHAPTER XXII. CHRISTMASTIDE. Hal watched the hot-houses with strange delight. They seemed to him on a most magnificent scale. The boiler was put in, the pipes laid, the force-pump and coal-bins arranged; then the stands of steps, rising higher, the wide ledge by the window for small plants and slips, lattices for vines, hooks for hanging-baskets, and every thing in complete order. When Charlie rejoined Granny, Florence came back for a brief stay. She and Edmund went over to the cottage, and measured and consulted; and the result was, that one morning it looked wonderfully as if some one was moving in. Hal ran to inform them of their mistake. The carpet-men said they had their orders, and wouldn't budge an inch. Down went carpets and oil-cloths. Such a hammering, and knocking-about, and unrolling! Kit stood it as long as he could: then he went out of doors, perched himself on a pile of stone, and played on his beloved fiddle. The next day there was another raid. This time it was furniture. Florence and Edmund soon made their appearance. "Oh!" exclaimed Hal. "It is to be our gift," began Edmund. "Florence wished it so much! She feels that she took her pleasure when you were all toiling and suffering, and is better satisfied to make some amends. Besides, we have an interest in Dot and grandmother." "And I am only going to put in the principal things," explained Florence. "There are so many that you will prefer to select yourselves." The parlor and library, or sitting-room, were carpeted alike. The furniture was in green, with here and there a bright article to relieve it; a pretty book-case and writing-table, a _console_ for Dot's small traps, easy-chairs in abundance, and every thing as pretty as it could be. The dining-room and kitchen were plain, but home-like, with an old-fashioned Boston rocker for Granny. But the three sleeping-rooms up stairs were perfect little gems,--Hal's in black-walnut, Granny's in quaint chestnut, and Dot's in pale green with a pretty green and white carpet to match. "Why, I shall want them to come home right away!" exclaimed Hal. "O Flossy!" "Dear, brave Hal! God has been good to us all. Only love me a little in return." The last of August, Hal's household returned. He and Kit had provided for them a gorgeous supper, with the best china, and a bouquet at each plate. Granny could hardly believe her eyes or her senses. Dot and Charlie ran wild, and made themselves exclamation points in every doorway. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" "And the surprise!" "And so beautiful!" "That I should ever live to see it!" said Granny. They explored every nook and corner and closet. "I like it so much," said old-fashioned little Dot, "because it isn't too grand. For, after all, we are not rich. And it was so thoughtful of Florence to choose what was simply pretty instead of magnificent!" "Look at the goblets," said Charlie with a solemn shake of the head. "Dot, if any nice old gentleman comes along, be sure to give him a drink out of them, and put this K round where he can see it." "The whole eighteen, I suppose, one after another," returned Dot drolly. "I shall paint you some pictures," Charlie began presently; "and, Dot, when I get to earning money in good earnest, I'll buy a piano. I used to think I did not care much about it, and I never _could_ learn; but sometimes, when Florence sits and plays like an angel, I can't help crying softly to myself, though you wouldn't believe I was such a goose. And, if you learn to play, it will be a great comfort to Hal." "Yes," said Dot, crying out of pure sympathy. They commenced housekeeping at once. Charlie was to remain with them until the term commenced. "Isn't it a delight to have such splendid things to work with?" exclaimed Dot. "Why, Granny, don't you believe we have been spirited away to some enchanted castle?" Granny laughed, and surely thought they had. Hal, meanwhile, was stocking his green-houses. Loads of sand and loam had to be brought; piles of compost and rubble standing convenient; and the two boys worked like Trojans. And then the journeys to florists, that seemed to Hal like traversing realms of poesy and fragrance. Great geraniums that one could cut into slips, roses, heliotrope, heaths, violets, carnations, fuchsias; indeed, an endless mass of them. Hal's heart was in his throat half the time with a suffocating sense of beauty. It was such a pleasure to arrange them! He used to handle them as if they were the tenderest of babies. Watering and ventilation on so large a scale was quite new to him; and he went at his business with a little fear and trembling, and devoted every spare moment to study. Mr. Darol had paid the bills as they had been presented. One day Hal asked to see them. The request was evaded for a while; but one evening, when he was dining with Mr. Darol, he insisted upon it. "Very well," returned Mr. Darol smilingly. "Here they are: look them over and be satisfied. Very moderate, I think." The hot-house had cost thirteen hundred dollars; soil, and various incidentals, one hundred more; flowers, three hundred. "Seventeen hundred dollars," said Hal in a grave and rather tremulous tone. "And seven thousand on the house." "The mortgage is to remain any number of years, you know. Joe has arranged to pay part of the interest. And the conditions of these"--gathering them up, and turning toward Hal, who was leaning against the mantle, rather stupefied at such overwhelming indebtedness. "Well?" he said with a gasp that made his voice quiver. "This," and Mr. Darol laughed genially. Hal saw a blaze in the grate, and stood speechless. "It is my gift to you. Not a very large business capital, to be sure; but you can add to it from time to time." "O Mr. Darol!" "My dear Hal, if you knew the pleasure it has been to me! I don't know why I have taken such a fancy to you all, unless it is for the sake of the children I might have had; but that is an old dream, and the woman who might have been their mother is in her grave. You deserve all this, and more." The tears stood in Hal's eyes, and he could not trust his voice. How dark every thing had looked only a little year ago! _Could_ he ever be thankful enough? And that it should all come through such a ridiculous thing as Charlie's running away! "I am confident that you will prosper. And I expect you all to like me hugely, in return. When I take Dot and Charlie to operas, I shall look to you to provide the flowers." "A very small return," said Hal. But he went home as if he had been a tuft of thistle-down on a summer-breeze. Ferry-boat and horse-car were absolutely glorified. And when he reached the little cottage with lights in every window, and the dear ones awaiting him, he could only clasp his arms around them, and kiss them. But they knew the next morning what had flushed his face, and made his eyes so lustrous. "Ah, I told you he was a prince!" declared Charlie in triumph. And then Hal's work commenced in earnest. Every morning he spent in his green-house, and began experiments of propagating, that were so interesting to him. Kit assisted, and Dot ran in every hour or two, to see how they prospered. Kit had come across a German musician, hardly a square off, who was giving him lessons, and who used to wax very enthusiastic over him. There had been quite a discussion as to what should be done with him. "Why, he must go to school," declared brother Edmund. "He's a mere child yet; but he has a wonderful talent for music, it must be admitted." "He might become an organist," said Florence. "That gives a man a position." Somehow she did not take cordially to the violin. Kit consented to go to school. "But to give up my dear, darling old fiddle! It's mean, when the rest of you have had just what you wanted,--been adopted, and gone to sea, and had green-houses, and all that!" said Kit, half-crying, and jumbling his sentences all together. "You shall keep the fiddle," said Granny. "I like it." Florence also proposed that Granny should have a servant. At this Granny was dismayed. "A servant! Why, do you suppose I am going to set up for a queen, because Hal has his beautiful hot-house,--an old woman like me?" "But Dot ought to go to school, and then it would be too much for you." "I am going to study at home," returned Dot with much spirit. "I haven't any genius: so I shall keep house, and help Hal with his flowers. And the work isn't any thing. A woman comes in to do the washing and ironing." "And Hal is handy as a girl. No: I'd rather stay as we are," Granny said, with more determination than she had shown in her whole life. Florence had to leave them "as they were." The simple, homely duties of every-day life were not distasteful to them. If Granny could not have been useful, the charm would have gone out of life for her. Joe was delighted with every thing, and told Granny that if he wasn't so tall he should surely stand on his head, out of pure joy. He was to make his head-quarters with them when he was at home. Miss Charteris had been added to their circle of friends, and enjoyed the quaint household exceedingly. Hal was an especial favorite with her, and she took a warm interest in his flowers. In October, Hal began to have a little business. Baskets and stands were sent in to be arranged for winter; and now and then some one strayed in, and bought a pot of something in bloom. He began to feel quite like a business-man. His five hundred dollars had served to defray incidental expenses, and put in coal and provisions for the winter, leaving a little margin. If he could get his sales up to regular expenses, he thought he should be content for the present. He took a trip to Madison one day. The cottage was nothing but a heap of crumbling boards. Had they ever lived there, and been so happy? "It'll never be the same place again," said Granny, listening to the summer's improvements. "I am glad we came away. I couldn't have seen the old house torn down. Maybe it's the flowers here, and the children, that makes it seem like home to me; but most of all I think it must be you, dear Hal. And so I'm satisfied, as the good Lord knows." Her caps were a trifle more pretentious, and her gowns more in modern style; but she was Granny still, and not one of them would have had her changed. When she sat in her rocking-chair, with her hands crossed in her lap, Hal thought her the prettiest thing in the house. "Hooray!" exclaimed Kit, rushing home one evening out of breath, and covered with snow. "What _do_ you think? Granny, you could never guess!" "I never was good at guessing," returned Granny meekly. "Something wonderful! Oh, a new fiddle!" said Dot. "No: and Hal won't try. Well"--with a long breath--"I'm going--to play--at a concert!" "Oh!" the three exclaimed in a breath. "And it's the oddest thing," began Kit, full of excitement. "You see, there's to be a concert given in New York, to help raise funds to give the newsboys, and other homeless children, a great Christmas dinner. Mr. Kriessman has it in hand; and, because it's for boys, he wants me to play--all alone." "O Kit! you can't," said Hal. "When you faced the audience, it would seem so strange, and you would lose your courage." "No I wouldn't, either! I'd say to myself, 'Here's a dinner for a hungry boy,' and then I wouldn't mind the people. Mr. Kriessman is sure I can do it; and I've been practising all the evening. A real concert! Think of it. Oh, if Joe can only be here!" Dot put her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Hal winked his eyes hard, remembering the old dreams in the garret. He went to see Mr. Kriessman the next day. "The boy is a genius, I tell you, Mr. Kenneth," said the enthusiastic professor. "He will be a great man,--you see, you see! He has the soul, the eyes, the touch. He fail!" and an expression of lofty scorn crossed the fair, full face. "But he has had so little practice"-- "It will all be right. You see, you see! Just leave him to me. And he is so little!" Hal smiled. Kit did not bid fair to become the family giant, it was true. Not a moment did the child lose. Dot declared that he could hardly eat. Charlie was in high delight when she heard of it; for Mr. Darol was going to take her and Miss Charteris. Hal hardly knew whether he dared venture, or not. But Joe did come just in the nick of time, and insisted that everybody should go, ordering a carriage, and bundling Dot and Granny into it; poor Granny being so confused that she could hardly make beginning or end of it. And, when they were seated in the great hall that was as light as day, she glanced helplessly around to Joe. "Never you mind, Granny! I'm not a bit afraid," he whispered. "He will fiddle with the best of them." 'The wonderful boy violinist,' it said on the programme. "If he should not be so wonderful," thought Hal quietly, with a great fear in his soul. He could not tell what should make him so nervous. Mr. Darol came and spoke to them. "Isn't it odd?" he said with a laugh. "Why, I never dreamed of it until Charlie told me! I wouldn't have missed it for any thing." The concert began. There was an orchestral overture, then a fine quartet, a cornet solo, and so they went on. Hal followed the programme down. Then he drew a long breath, and looked neither to the right nor the left. That little chap perched up on the stage, Kit? making his bow, and adjusting his violin, and--hark! It was not the story of the child lost in the storm, but something equally pathetic. Mr. Kriessman had made a fortunate selection. Curiosity died out in the faces of the audience, and eagerness took its place. Ah, what soft, delicious strains! Was it the violin, or the soul of the player? Not a faltering note, not a sign of fear; and Hal laughed softly to himself. On and on, now like the voice of a bird, then the rustle of leaves, the tinkle of waters, fainter, fainter, a mere echo,--a bow, and he was gone. There was a rapturous round of applause. It nearly subsided once, then began so vehemently that it brought Kit out again. But this time he was the gayest little fiddler that ever played at an Irish fair. People nodded and smiled to each other, and felt as if they must dance a jig in another moment. Joe bent over to Granny. "Isn't that gay?" he asked. "Kit has beaten the lot of us. Granny, if you are not proud of him, I'll take you straight home, and keep you on bread and water for a month." Proud of him! Why, Granny sat there crying her old eyes out from pure joy. Her darling little Kit! "Dot," exclaimed Mr. Darol as they were going out, "we shall hear of you as an actress next. I never knew of such wonderful people in my life." "Oh, it was magnificent!" said Charlie. "And the applause!" "That I should have lived to see the day!" "Why, Granny, it would have been very unkind of you if you had not," declared Joe solemnly. How they all reached home, they never exactly knew. They laughed and cried, and it was almost morning before they thought of going to bed. But the notices next day were as good as a feast. There could be no doubt now. Hal understood that from henceforth Kit and his fiddle would be inseparable. It was "born in him," as Joe said. As for Kit, he hardly knew whether he were in the body, or out of the body. Hal and Dot set about making up accounts the day before Christmas. The three-months' proceeds had been two hundred and sixty dollars; pretty fair for a beginning, and a whole green-house full of flowers coming into bloom. He was on the high road to prosperity. So he fastened his glasses, put on his coal, and arranged his heat cut-offs for the night, and came into the house. There were Dot and Kit and Charlie, and the supper waiting. "And there is the six-months' interest," said Hal. "Next year we can let up a little on dear, generous Joe. And to-night is Christmas Eve." Joe rushed in. "What do you think, Granny? I've just come from Flossy's. They have a beautiful little boy named Hal Kenneth,--a real Christmas gift, and no mistake. Here's to your namesake, Hal; though, try his best, he can never be half as good as you." I do believe poor, foolish Hal had his eyes full of tears, thinking of Flossy's great joy. But Charlie and Kit cheered in a tremendous fashion. After the supper was cleared away, they sat in a little circle, and talked. There always was so much to say, and Joe liked nothing half so well as to hear of every event that had transpired in his absence. They all kept such a warm interest in each other! Somehow they strayed back to the last Christmas, and the "songs in the night." "Sing again," besought Granny. Dot's birdlike voice was first to raise its clear notes. One hymn was dearer than all the rest. The music quivered a little when they came to this verse, as if tears and heart-throbs were not far off:-- "Wonderful night! Sweet be thy rest to the weary! Making the dull heart and dreary Laugh with a dream of delight. Wonderful, wonderful night!" And then a tender silence fell over them. They clasped each other's hands softly, and the breaths had a strangled sound. Granny alive, Joe raised from the dead, Kit some day to be a famous musician! Joe crept up to Granny, and kissed her wrinkled face. Somehow it seemed as if the furrows began to fill out. "Oh," he said huskily, "there's nothing in the world so wonderful, nor so sweet, nor so precious as 'The Old Woman who lived in a Shoe!' When I think of her love, her patient toil, her many cares, and the untiring devotion with which she has labored for us all, I feel that we can never, never repay her. O Granny!" "I've been glad to have you all, God knows. There wasn't one too many." Not one of the loving arms that encircled her could have been spared. There she sat enthroned, a prouder woman to-night, poor old Granny Kenneth, than many a duchess in a blaze of diamonds. Fair Florence; laughing Joe, with his great, warm heart; sweet, tender Hal; racketing Charlie; Kit, with his scalp-lock waving in the breeze; and dear little Dot,--jewels enough for any woman, surely! Ah, children! love her with the best there is in your fresh young souls. Make the paths smooth for her weary feet, remembering the years she has trudged on the thorny highway of life for your sakes. When the eyes grow dim, bring the brightest in your lives to glorify her way. Cling to her, kiss warmth into the pale lips; for when she has gone to heaven it will seem all too little at the best. True, she will reap her reward there; but it is sweet to have a foretaste of it in your smiles, as well. Dear Granny, who has made toil heroic, and old age lovely, and out of whose simple, every-day existence have blossomed the roses that still render this old world bright and glorious,--Love, Labor, Faith! THE DOUGLAS NOVELS. BY MISS AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. _Uniform Volumes. Price $1.50 Each._ FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR. "Fascinating throughout, and worthy of the reputation of the author."--_Philadelphia Methodist._ WHOM KATHIE MARRIED. Kathie was the heroine of the popular series of Kathie Stories for young people, the readers of which were very anxious to know with whom Kathie settled down in life. Hence this story, charmingly written. LOST IN A GREAT CITY. "There is the power of delineation and robustness of expression that would credit a masculine hand in the present volume, and the reader will at no stage of the reading regret having commenced its perusal. In some parts it is pathetic, even to eloquence."--_San Francisco Post._ THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE. "The romances of Miss Douglas's creation are all thrillingly interesting."--_Cambridge Tribune._ HOPE MILLS; or, Between Friend and Sweetheart. "Amanda Douglas is one of the favorite authors of American novel-readers."--_Manchester Mirror._ FROM HAND TO MOUTH. "There is real satisfaction in reading this book, from the fact that we can so readily 'take it home' to ourselves."--_Portland Argus._ NELLY KINNARD'S KINGDOM. "The Hartford Religious Herald" says, "This story is so fascinating, that one can hardly lay it down after taking it up." IN TRUST; or, Dr. Bertrand's Household. "She writes in a free, fresh, and natural way; and her characters are never overdrawn."--_Manchester Mirror._ CLAUDIA. "The plot is very dramatic, and the _dénoûment_ startling. Claudia, the heroine, is one of those self-sacrificing characters which it is the glory of the female sex to produce."--_Boston Journal._ STEPHEN DANE. "This is one of this author's happiest and most successful attempts at novel-writing, for which a grateful public will applaud her."--_Herald._ HOME NOOK; or, the Crown of Duty. "An interesting story of home-life, not wanting in incident, and written in forcible and attractive style."--_New-York Graphic._ SYDNIE ADRIANCE; or, Trying the World. "The works of Miss Douglas have stood the test of popular judgment, and become the fashion. They are true, natural in delineation, pure and elevating in their tone."--_Express, Easton, Penn._ SEVEN DAUGHTERS. The charm of the story is the perfectly natural and home-like air which pervades it. _Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston. SOPHIE MAY'S "GROWN-UP" BOOKS. _Uniform Binding. All Handsomely Illustrated. $1.50._ JANET, A POOR HEIRESS. "The heroine of this story is a true girl. An imperious, fault-finding, unappreciative father alienates her love, and nearly ruins her temper. The mother knows the father is at fault, but does not dare to say so. Then comes a discovery, that she is only an adopted daughter; a forsaking of the old home; a life of strange vicissitudes; a return; a marriage under difficulties; and a discovery, that, after all, she is an heiress. The story is certainly a very attractive one."--_Chicago Interior._ THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. "Sophie May, author of the renowned Prudy and Dotty books, has achieved another triumph in the new book with this title just issued. She has taken 'a new departure' this time, and written a new story for grown-up folks. If we are not much mistaken, the young folks will want to read it, as much as the old folks want to read the books written for the young ones. It is a splendid story for all ages."--_Lynn Semi-Weekly Recorder._ THE ASBURY TWINS. "The announcement of another work by this charming and popular writer will be heartily welcomed by the public. And in this sensible, fascinating story of the twin-sisters, 'Vic' and 'Van,' they have before them a genuine treat. Vic writes her story in one chapter, and Van in the next, and so on through the book. Van is frank, honest, and practical; Vic wild, venturesome, and witty; and both of them natural and winning. At home or abroad, they are true to their individuality, and see things with their own eyes. It is a fresh, delightful volume, well worthy of its gifted author."--_Boston Contributor._ OUR HELEN. "'Our Helen' is Sophie May's latest creation; and she is a bright, brave girl, that the young people will all like. We are pleased to meet with some old friends in the book. It is a good companion-book for the 'Doctor's Daughter,' and the two should go together. Queer old Mrs. O'Neil still lives, to indulge in the reminiscences of the young men of Machias; and other Quinnebasset people with familiar names occasionally appear, along with new ones who are worth knowing. 'Our Helen' is a noble and unselfish girl, but with a mind and will of her own; and the contrast between her and pretty, fascinating, selfish little Sharley, is very finely drawn. Lee & Shepard publish it."--_Holyoke Transcript._ QUINNEBASSET GIRLS. "The story is a very attractive one, as free from the sensational and impossible as could be desired, and at the same time full of interest, and pervaded by the same bright, cheery sunshine that we find in the author's earlier books. She is to be congratulated on the success of her essay in a new field of literature, to which she will be warmly welcomed by those who know and admire her 'Prudy Hooks.'" _Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston. * * * * * * Trancriber's note: Some missing punctuation has been inserted. The oe-ligature has been expanded to "oe." Page 12 The repeated word "the" has been deleted Page 12 honsysuckle is now honeysuckle Page 33 onimous is now ominous Page 141 retty is now pretty Page 156 slighest is now slightest Page 283 "I b-b-leive is now lieve Page 340 weren't me is now weren't we